Short Story

Tagore’s ‘Short Story’ Redefined


Tiny calibre, petty agony, a few words of grief,
Elegant and lucid indeed,
Myriad of oblivious parts floating away on a daily basis,
A few fragments of those are in need.

 

Neither the vivid touch nor the opulence of incidents,
Devoid of data as well as precept,
Soul, left with unquenchable thirst, hitherto yearns to conclude,
Seems finished, not so entirely yet!

 

Short story is not, in essence, miniature,
  Alive with the titanic yarn of human nature.

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Sheram

Sheram

Marvin stood at the corner, beneath the stoplight, and awed at the simplicity surrounding him. This quaint little town he found himself in was charming, but stuck in a totally different time. Sheram was its name. Spanning only four miles in a straight line, the cluster of homes and few small businesses had only maintained independence and separation due to its distance from any other cities of note.

While the streets were clean and its buildings well-kept, the people came off as unfriendly and defiant. Marvin had only been in town for the past hour, and everyone he spoke to either ignored him or shooed him away. A group of jovial older women refused to respond to or even make eye contact with him when spoken to on the street. After entering the local grocery store and seeking out the manager, Marvin was told to be on his way, and to not return without making some kind of purchase. He had only come with a few questions. He was a reporter after all, and a considerably respected one at that.

There had been certain rumors the previous year. Officials in Hartwell, a modest city north of Sheram, had started to notice that their city’s criminal drug trade, which had been thriving well out of the police department’s control, was beginning to recede on its own. They attempted to investigate the cause, but never found anything besides former hot spots that had been totally cleaned out, wiped of everything and in some cases even burned to the ground. Locals rejoiced, but the circumstances surrounding these events alarmed everyone in charge, and they brought the issue to any set of eyes that they could. After several months of painstaking investigation, a group of private eyes working cooperatively managed to piece together a trail indicating that many of the more notable dealers in the city had transferred their operations to Sheram, of all places. Worse still, there was also a substantial amount of evidence suggesting that these formerly warring partnerships were now working in tandem.

That was what had brought Marvin here. He was an out-of-townee, here to use this pale little backwash settlement like a whore and leave after he’d found what he was looking for. The populous didn’t seem to appreciate that. He couldn’t imagine why. It was publicity! They would be seen by people nationwide!

The signal turned, and Marvin strode across the cracking pavement, unsure of where to head next. No one had been responsive so far. He couldn’t interview anyone too young, or someone would start an uproar and brand him a creep. There was this constant tension between him and anyone that he would pass on the sidewalk. It was as if this entire town were against him. He knew that some people may know his face and respond negatively to his presence, but this seemed almost… Uniform.

There was an odd sort of solidarity to things here. Every aspect of the town seemed to comply to it. The streets were universally quiet. Marvin couldn’t remember any instances of loud music from any houses, garages or cars. No yelling, for the most part. No dogs. A bird here or there. Other than the lazy swish of the occasional passing car, the air remained totally still, as if it were frozen in time.

Passing by what was likely to be the only gas station in town, Marvin decided to get himself a cup of coffee. He wanted to observe the people who worked there, without raising questions or making himself conspicuous. He was pleasantly surprised at the tidy upkeep of the grounds it lay on, and entered quietly, giving a polite nod to the young, bespectacled teenager behind the counter. Moving casually to the coffeemaker, he looked around the tiled storeroom and saw only one customer besides himself: an elderly man who wore a billed winter hat despite the warmth of the day. He gave him a polite nod as well, but was only greeted with a cold stare in return. Taking the hint, he added a quick blast of sugar to his coffee and moved towards the register. Placing it on the counter top, he reached for his wallet and greeted the young man. The boy said nothing. He wasted no time ringing up his total, and snatched the money from Marvin’s hands, shoving the change back into them just as quickly before slamming the register drawer shut. He then turned and made his way towards the back of the shop, disappearing through a door bearing a large employees only sign, leaving Marvin to sip at his coffee while the old man with the brimmed hat muttered to himself under his breath.

After leaving the gas station and tossing away the remainder of his coffee, Marvin made his way through a string of old, wooden farmhouses, coming to stop at the entrance of the town’s church. It was a pristine little building, made out of pale-colored bricks with high and narrow stained-glass windows. Not being a particularly religious man, Marvin was unsure of whether or not to enter the holy building. But, men of the cloth may be the most understanding men there are. Perhaps they would at least entertain the thought of conversation with an outsider. He laid his palms upon the large wooden doors and pressed his weight against them.

Inside, Marvin found a lavish entryway lit with only a meager half-dozen candles. It was broad and welcoming, and adorned with many decorative relics, most of which shone brilliantly in the candlelight. He stood in the center and admired the room, before passing into the church’s dome. From within, the vaulted ceilings beneath the center of the church appeared much more towering. The entire building somehow seemed larger than it had ever appeared from the exterior. Likely due to this dim lighting. Nothing but candles on stilts, every eight feet or so, as if electricity weren’t an option for the righteous.

Making his way deeper into the church, Marvin was able to see the visage of a man through the obscuring dark. He sat on the furthest pew, with his head down, seemingly deep in prayer. As he ventured further, he could just make out a thin, white collar around the man’s neck. A priest. And surely, a priest would hear his tale, would he not? It is his purpose to hear the pleas of the people who worship alongside him! Excited by this prospect, Marvin paused to call out to the priest, but felt compelled not to disturb the silence of the church, and continued walking.

His steps became more plodding as he moved. It was like the dust-laden air was pulling on him. Puling him down. He examined his surroundings, trying to reacquaint himself with reality. The stained-glass windows he had seen from outside were oddly bright and vibrant. They even appeared wider than before. Maybe somebody’s headlights shining in from the street. Marvin continued to make his way down the decorated carpeting that lead to the podium. The entire room had a certain clarity to it now. He could make out the far walls, most of which were layered with religious artwork. There were detailed statues placed on stands at every height, and colored glass bled between each one.

As he approached, the walls took on a more decrepit appearance. The perfectly-sculpted statues gradually corroded into sneering mockeries of what they once had been. Paint dripped down every canvas, while glass chipped and flaked on to the floor, collecting in massive piles of multicolored dust. Marvin began to flail, his eyes grown wide and bulging. He felt a vicious burning in his throat. Through his blurring vision, he saw that the priest remained motionless on his pew. He fell to the floor, seizing, choking on the dry thickness of the air.

The heavy pull was stronger now. The hemorrhaging walls began to collapse, revealing the flesh of some ghastly, pulsating form. Tears poured down his cheeks as he tried to call out, but Marvin found his voice absent. He was losing sight of himself as he watched the quivering, pinkened hide of the creature beyond the wall ripple with every undulation that it made. It seemed to fill the entire room with a strange, unearthly noise; its volume totally unclear to Marvin, who felt it more than heard it while he suffered.

He began to see wisps of stark black flickering in and out of view. He was fading. In his last few moments of awareness, Marvin lifted his head and gazed upward. The priest had risen, and stood over him, wearing an expression of the deepest concern. Marvin took comfort in this, and allowed his eyes to close. A deep wave of euphoria sprang from his throat and ran awash over the rest of his body. He fell limp, and his eyes eased open as his neck relaxed.

The priest remained over him; his concerned grimace contorting into a leering grin, while a single drop of blood ran from his nose to his lip.

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Singing Bum

Singing Bum

“Leremy rings the bell!”

He calls the dinner in! He calls… to all his kin!”

Ohh, Leremy riiings the bells… for we!”

The bum sang, off-tune and with a slur, and joyfully swung his bagged bottle to and fro as he did. He filled the chilly night air in front of him with a putrid white cloud that smelled of liquor and found food. His wide grin showed few teeth left, and his face was dirty and blemished by both age and the road he traveled on. He frequented this area, beneath an old gaslight, one of the few left in the entire city. It sat on a small, tight corner, which itself housed a quaint little bar with an apartment set above it. Few people passed through at the hour, but whomever had, would be accosted and politely, amusingly harassed by the always-singing-hobo. He would never lay hands upon anyone, nor threaten nor insult. He would simply pause in the midst of a song, blurt out an affectionate introductory nickname and begin asking for change. This would continue, regardless of the person’s answer, until they had left his corner.

“And you and I climb over the sea… to the valley,

And you and I reached out for reasons to… ” He stopped suddenly, spotting an older gentlemen with graying hair and a thick, layered jacket. He stepped forward and bent forward slightly, eyes downcast and shaggy bangs dangling in front of his eyes. He wrung his hands in front of his chest nervously.

“My good friend, my comrade… May you, or could you, and will you… Spare a few cents this way? For me? I… I’m very thirsty.” The bum admitted, not daring to make eye contact with the man. He fiddled with the fabric of his gloves, aggravating the already frayed bits of thread. The man approached and stopped just in front of the bum, looking down at him; his stern expression did not change when he spoke,

“We are not friends, nor do we share anything beyond this one moment, where you are soliciting me for change. As for your request, I must say that I believe you must earn your wages just like anyone else, don’t you think?” He asked, with strange sincerity in his voice. The bum looked up at him and said nothing, unsure of how to proceed. Most people either said yes or no, and then moved on quickly. He shrugged.

“Well, what are your capabilities? What you can do. Do you have any skills that you could utilize, right this very second, to earn this meager handful of coin that I have in my right pocket?” He continued. His curiosity seemed genuine, and he waited patiently for the bum to respond. The bum considered this, and squinted to himself. He came to realize that he only really knew how to do one thing besides begging, drinking and scavenging - so he started to sing.

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The Truth

The back end of the tavern was pretty crowded that night, which meant that the bartender was being extra particular about who he gave his attention to. I’d been standing on the far corner towards the stage - the only part of the entire stretch that wasn’t mobbed by people - and waited patiently for an opening to flag down a drink. We were in between sets, and some other local act was currently assembling themselves beneath the shoddy spotlights. Their setup was as elaborate any other, with broad panels of wood adorned with as many as a dozen different guitar pedals placed firmly in front of their feet.

At a quick glance, I raised a finger to the passing bartender and ordered a cheap draft and a shot of whiskey. As he departed, a young guy stumbled toward the bar and threw his weight against it, sprawling forward with his arms draped over the back of the counter. He steadied himself and straightened, coming to relax on his elbows and placing himself on the stool to his right, as if he’d been sitting that way along. I couldn’t help but chuckle, and struggled to do so under my breath. He had long, ratty dreadlocks that held a color somewhere between brown and black. Everything about him looked sort of dirty and sketchy, but his grin also made it clear that he was having a blissfully good time.

He seemed like he was contemplating ordering a drink, but couldn’t quite get himself to move forward and do so. I sat there watching him absently, waiting on my own drinks to arrive. He turned towards me, his head bobbing, and he spoke to me as if he knew me. He had a name for me and everything.

“Tom! Tom… Sorry, I didn’t notice you there for a second.” He said, lucidly, his eyes opening and closing. He turned his stool towards me and placed one hand on his leg, leaning forward and looking at me very intently.

“Do you wanna know what I’ve noticed, Tom? Everybody here… Around here, I mean… Keeps talking about, like, what’s right; what the right thing to do is. And… They all have different ideas… About what it is, you know? What the right answer is. For everything.” He spoke soberly, despite his dazed expression and half-lit eyes. He turned to his right and slapped the counter top repeatedly,

“Drink, barkeep! Drink! Please, a drink! A Budweiser! Please!” He shouted. His voice cut through the noisy chatter surrounding us, and several people fell silent and stared at him. He paid no one any mind, least of all me, or “Tom”, and continued his diatribe with renewed vigor:

“It fucking… It blows my mind! How can everyone think that they’re right, and EVERYBODY ELSE IS WRONG? … How … I mean, really, man… Where did all of their mirrors go? Right?” His eyes widened as he spoke. To our mutual surprise, the bartender rose above the counter and brought down a Budweiser hard onto the counter top. The noise stirred the young man forward and he brought up the bottle for a quick swig, his wide grin returning as he swallowed. He stared at the floor momentarily, took another drink, and placed it back on the bar. His look of fierce concentration returned.

“I’m not gonna sit here, and… You know, tell YOU that I know everything there is to know. I’m not stupid, like that, you know? I’m not. But THESE fucking people, right? Just… All of these fucking jokers that… That wanna be on top so bad, making all of the rules… And, like… Deciding what’s MORAL and shit. What’s THAT? We’re just supposed to… ” He pauses momentarily, and then raises the bottle to his lips once before going on:

“We’re supposed to let them dictate whatever they want? Try to set their… Their bull shit in stone so that the rest of the world’s more like THEM?”

He slammed his bottle back down onto the bar. His face fell, and he drooped his head forward, looking exasperated and tired. I waited for another escalation, but he at last seemed content with being quiet. My drinks had long since been sat in front of me, and I took hold of the whiskey and downed it quickly, chasing it with a small sip of my own beer. Young dreadlocks sat motionless, looking tragic and downcast. I couldn’t help but feel for him, despite his strangeness and obvious intoxication. Why not engage an interesting stranger?

“I don’t really think there’s much to worry about. Don’t you think that enough people out there do know what’s right?” I asked him, wondering if my voice might make him aware of the fact that I am not Tom.

He turned and raised his head level with mine, all of the vacancy leaving his face, and he spoke with a sad, but deliberate tone:

“I do think that… But, I … I don’t think they’re ever going to be loud enough to stand out. You know, Tom? Like… They’ll always be there… They’ll always be shouting too, but… They’ll never drown out the people who, just… THINK they’re right.”

And with that, he took his beer, turned away from me and walked, on unstable footing toward the surging crowd, disappearing between the many dancing bodies.

Part of me wanted to laugh, and I did, a little bit. I took another short, meaningless little drink of my cheap, bitter, sour-as-shit draft beer and stared across the way at all of the lights, all of the glittering glass, all of the reaching arms and trickling liquids across the length of the bar. Feeling sobered and unhappy, I stared at nothing, hoping to catch no eyes, no attention.

I took another drink; longer this time. More to be had. It was starting to get a little warm, but still, it was refreshing. Another one, and make it good.

Once more. And at this point, we might as well finish the job.

What’s there to do now but go into the crowd as well.

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Therapy

THERAPIST - We're going to be meeting everyday of the week.
So as you sit in that seat,
Don't be afraid to speak.
And tell me what is going on in your life.
And I'm going to try to figure out,
What is wrong,
And what is right.

DREW- Well you want to know how my life is,
It's dull and lifeless.
These cuts on my arms show you where the knife is.
Or should I say where the knives been.
And the nights been,
So dark and I'm just trying to figure out
Where the light is.
It's so much darkness in the world,
I'm starting to think that it's light less.
Because the only time I see it is,
When I'm looking at lightning.
And at home
I'm so alone besides my baby sister,
But she's always frighten,
Because my parents are fighting.
And I never go into their room,
Because that's where they fight in.
And I'm not a stranger to the hospital,
Because that's where the fights end.
So sometimes I go to friend house to have a smoke,
We just pass it around and say light this.
Yeah I know it seems dumb,
But it's fun getting drunk,
The next day not knowing what was the outcome,
Of the booze and the rum.
Because it's a great escape,
If you don't have a place to hind or run.
My dad has a box of cigarettes but I only light one.

THERAPIST - What about the girls at school.

Drew- Man I only like one.
But the problem is,
Where ever she's at,
You can expect,
That is where the drama is.
Baby mama,
Got a kid,
Don't know where the father is,
You can say he's fatherless.
And I know exactly how that be,
I know I got a dad but it doesn't count,
If he's a dead beat.
And if he heard me said that I'd probably,
Be dead meat.
Cause he beats us and mistreats us,
My mom, my sister and me.

THERAPIST - So why don't you all pack up your bags,
And leave.

DREW - Because it's not as easy as it seems,
He pays for everything,
Our clothes, our bills,
Even the ingredients that my mom takes to make meals.

THERAPIST - Well why don't you ask for help.

DREW - Well that's why I came to you.

THERAPIST - I can see what I can do.
But I'm going to need more proof.
And it all starts with you.
I need you to write what's going on,
In your home.
In a notebook when you're alone.
It's just between you and me.
And I'll see you tomorrow after school at three.

DREW - HERE"S YOUR PROOF.
IS THIS GOOD ENOUGH DOC.
THIS THE RESULT OF MY DAD GOING TO THE CLUB
AND TAKING A FEW FUN SHOTS.
AND WHEN HE CAME BACK I HEARD A FEW GUN SHOTS.
I was in my room I paused,
I stopped,
My sister,
Dolls,
Dropped.
She was shocked.
Then she ran under the bed to hide.
I told her stay inside,
When I checked on what we thought was a drive-by.
But when I opened the door,
The only thing that was driving,
Was that bullet to my eye.
And the worse part about it is that,
I didn't even know why.
But that's why you didn't see me at all last week.
I was in a hospital bed not able to see,
Or speak,
Or do anything.
Cause I was in a coma for the last several nights.
And my parents last several fights,
Ended up like this,
Somebody getting hurt,
Mentally,
Physically,
Or emotionally.
And that really takes a toll an me.
It's suppose to be summer,
But it feels so cold to me.
And I don't know what to do.
My life is like a situation,
In which I automatically lose.
It's filled with so many choices
That I don't even get to chose.
And the worse part about it is that,
I always get abused.

THERAPIST- Well you must be confused,
With your old life.
Because I'm going to make sure all that change.
I can get a professional lawyer
If I just pull some strings.
So you don't have to worry about a thing.
I'm going to make sure he goes to jail,
With no bail.
We're going to see how he like life,
Behind a cell.
So don't worry because this plan can't fail.
Everything will go well.
You don't even have to yell or tell.
You'll be protected like a snail,
Under his hard cover shell.

DREW - Are you sure.

THERAPIST - I'm a sure as I can be.
Because if anybody wants to get to you,
They'll have to get through me.
But that's not something you should be,
Worrying about.
Just go to your house.
And go to sleep through the night,
You'll see the light,
When you wake up,
And everything will be alright.

COURT DAY

Lawyer 1 - Sir, I can guarantee you that my client didn't do it.

Lawyer 2 - But your honor we got video tapes to prove it.
If you watch them you can clearly see the bruises,
On the ones that he abuses.
This man has a temper and he will quickly lose it.

DREW - How does he chooses.

MOM - He takes the information he got and fuse it.
And I think he's about to say his conclusion.
So act like it is music,
And just listen to it.

JUDGE - Listen up everybody I have decided,
Being reminded of the violence,
Shown on the tape.
I find the defendant guilty,
He will serve years in jail,
About 5 to 8.

LAST MEETING

MOM - I just want to thank you for everything you did.
For me and my kid.
I don't know happened to our relationship.
It just deflated,
And faded,
And I hated,
Being degraded.
And I always stated,
To my kids that we're going to make it,
Out of this bad situation.
And get into a equation,
That equaled happiness and we waited with patience.
And now that we have it, we aint going to waste it.
And for you to watch the abuse and tape it,
Was brilliant it should be A graded.
And right now I should get the thanking,
You for all your help.

THERAPIST - Don't worry about it,
I love putting people first before myself.
And if I can do anything at all
For y'all,
Just call.

MOM - Will do,
And Drew,
If you have anything else to say,
You should say it now because today will be our last day.

DREW- I just want to let you know that you changed my life in many ways,
I got a thank you list on my myspace,
And you're on the front page.
Because you been there for me through every single phase,
And stage,
That I been through,
And if we do,
Move,
You'll be the first person that I send to.

Therapist - If you need any advise just ask,
Because whatever you go through,
I probably went through in the past.
And I will lend you,
Anything you need just ask.

Drew - You've already helped me a=in and out of class.
What more could I ask for.

Therapist - maybe some advise so you won't go backwards.

Drew - You don't have to worry because forward will be my only movement.

Therapist - Well talk is cheap son,
I'm going to need you to prove it.

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An Excerpt - From a Short Story

“Now this, my lovely young lady, is but one of many examples of our shop’s flawless craftsmanship. Made with layered steel and coated with pure, gleaming silver; this candelabrum will not only allow you to bring light in to whatever sanctuary you choose; it will also make you the envy of all friends, neighbors and chapel-going patrons who may lay eyes upon your purchase!” With this last word, Nevony lifted his arm in a grand gesture to all of the closest passers-by in the marketplace, some of which glared at him warily.

Shel giggled with one hand held to her lips. She then placed one finger on her chin and showed the boy a playful, speculative tilt of the head.

“Ah, I see, I see! But how can I be sure that this candelabrum will stand the trials of the day-to-day? How can I even be sure it will survive the carry home!” She said, with a bright smile that displayed her perfect, white teeth.

Nevony shared in her smile and looked down at the candelabrum, which he continued to absentmindedly polish. He then held it high towards the sun, allowing it to dazzle the young priestess as it fully captured the shimmer of the morning, which was slowly creeping towards the afternoon as they spoke.

What’s a boy to do? He not only wanted to impress the beautiful young woman that had come admiring his wares; he also wanted to prove that he and his master crafted the finest metal in all the local posts. With a sudden realization, Nevony seized the candelabrum by the base and slammed it on to its side with a booming thud. Shel flinched at the sound and then watched, unsure of what to make of the boy’s sudden burst of enthusiasm. He reached beneath the center of the wooden counter top and, after a moment of blind searching, heaved a heavy metalsmith’s hammer by the hilt in his dirty, bared hand. Without word or remark, he unceremoniously raised the hammer as youthful slyness returned to his face. Understanding dawned abruptly on the poor girl, and she attempted to dissuade him in futility: Nevony’s hammer fell in an immediate blur, and her voice was drowned in the immense clatter of shattering silver plating and rigid, sculpted steel. Reacting quickly, the young priestess threw her face to the left as a wide cloud of glinting shards and dust engulfed her from the waist up.

The market was still. One could hear the faint howling of the light breeze, as all eyes turned to stare at the two in silence. Shel lowered her arms and looked at the young lad: his one hand still firmly grasping the hilt of the hammer, sunk as it was through the very surface of the counter below. Its head was buried several inches out of sight, surrounded by ruin. Nevony’s face was covered in a thick layer of sawdust dotted with shimmering silver flakes. The candelabrum lay strewn about the counter, the floor and even hung in the drapes in pieces of every conceivable size, with two major parts having been thrown on opposite sides of the workshop. The boy’s face was resolute, yet absolutely vacant. He stared, unblinking, at the crushed and broken space where the candelabrum had once laid on its perfectly-grafted side. Sweat began to gather on his brow, which quickly dripped down into the corners of his eyes. The sudden and salty burn shook him from his stupor, and he turned to face the rabble that had come to surround him.

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Orion

1977—The Department of Energy becomes a new cabinet post;

2027—
This little lighta mine…

At 9:07pm, EST, a distant silver bubble skimmed the top of Orion’s belt. In the city it could be seen only by looking straight up so that the towers didn’t impede the view. No one, except the agent, looked. Four street lights on First Avenue hummed on. A chorus of reverent chanting arose almost simultaneously. Agent Hatt, gazing skyward as he walked towards home, did not smile. Any pride in his achievement was canceled out not only by the necessity to deny his part in it, but also by the hollow, haunted voices singing praises to The Power that Be.
* * *
Before Agent Hatt was an agent and far before he had to change his name to Hatt, OPEC had used its dying words to demonize its foe, the Department of Energy. Pumps had been dry for months, with people growing increasingly rabid for gas and kerosene and power for televisions. On the evening news, if you could get it, they invariably charged the DOE with “burning the last billion barrels of oil” to crush such honest American endeavors as oil and coal and nuclear power. And although the DOE remained alive in theory, it was starved of funding until only a handful of followers—a few idealistic scientists who changed their names to Hatt and Vest and Shue—trudged on within its skeletal remains in the hope of relighting the city.
* * *

I’m gonna let it shine…
* * *

But there was still power, mostly thanks to Hatt’s jet stream turbines. (Vest and Shue had relocated to the abandoned land ringing the city to capture solar power and siphon it covertly back to the people.) A trickle like a choking stream dripped through what was left of the grid, jumping around the way electricity does, and random lights winked throughout the city at any given time. In fact, a whole religion crawled out into the flickering lights. Its Savior: The Power that Be. Its Satan: the DOE, who had undone all the progress of power and industry. Hatt assumed that these followers still thanked OPEC when the lights flickered, as if the Spirit of Oil was still alive within the grid. The tics—fanatics—sent up amens and hallelujahs when nearby street lamps wavered to life, and any on the street would run into a shop if the power happened to come on, sending up hymns of praise to the images illuminated inside. This superstitious fanaticism birthed, or at least reincarnated, humanity’s tendency to create imaginary evils. Those archaic avatars of ancient times rose like steam from under the jagged urban towers. People began again in the night to see filmy floating specters, heard the wailing lamentations of la Llorna, and found rumbling ravenous demons in alleyways once reserved for tomcats and bag ladies.
* * *
At home, they ate on the floor, cross-legged, amid dozens of overpriced Yankee candles that made the food taste sweet and smoky and waxy. It’s schizophrenia, Dee—he called her Dee honestly, lovingly, as if it were her real name—but you’ve got to wonder, if everyone’s got it, is it insanity or just reality? She loved him not because he was a scientist or even a good man, but because he was a poet. And a prophet. He whispered, The grid is dead. It’s rotting and no one even smells it; they enshrine outlets with wreaths and incense and candles until all you can smell is their decomposing idolatry. Whispering had become, to him as to most, the standard mode of speaking. Its tone and flavor fitted instinctively inside the darkness. The tics had never adopted whispering, but screamed into the empty streets and took the echoes as proof of disciples. She hardly noticed the whispering anymore, except when she thought of the tics, screaming prayers to the street lamps, and how his voice challenged them not by its volume but its reason.
They would go outside after they ate, before la Llorna began to pace, and search for Orion’s belt. You can’t take light away from people, he said to the stars. And when the faraway turbine passed across his eyes, his face, illuminated, became one as a martyr’s.
Let it shine, let it shine.
Let it shine.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

short story contest 2011

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The Young Man and Death

For the entirety of his young life, he felt a cold approaching him from all directions. It was his cold, that no one else could understand. Nobody could really feel it, nor could he in the traditional sense; but it forced his thoughts to scatter and his panic to slowly come into mental acuity. In his dreams, in his waking life and in the very itch of his subconscious at the back of his mind, he felt an ominous presence. And he knew what it had meant to have: his life.

Questions of Death's actual being or even intelligence aside, this young man could feel it near, and his constant awareness was what kept Death at bay. The young man bore no illnesses or conditions, and was living a good life that he was content with. Death had simply decided to take him, as Death some times does, for no reason at all.

But it couldn't. With every attempt to slide along the arch of the young man's spine or to wind beneath him and rise to meet his eyes, Death would suddenly feel at a loss for purpose, and would fall still. It felt as if the boy had eyes that could see anywhere, at any time; always staring and challenging, with a maddened glint that danced like a tiny flame. Death felt frightened of such eyes - such accusing eyes. No one had ever seen Death stalking before, no one had ever even glanced in its direction... But this young man could. This young man could see, and even further, he could watch.

So away from the boy Death would stay, simply waiting for another time when he wasn't so... Observant. There were others to attend to, whose times HAD come, but it knew that its infrequent wanderings would lead it here again in due time.

Maybe then things might even be easy.

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The days grew warmer.

Our young man has felt himself grow lighter and less weary. The strange cloud that constantly swirled just beyond him seemed a distant and vague memory, and at last, he felt himself able to relax completely. He enjoyed everything more than he felt he ever had in his life. He shined in such a way that others began to notice, and soon enough, he felt for the right hand, and found it.

The young woman he had found was beautiful, and captivated him such a way that he had felt almost drunk from their first kiss. They spent time together and shared themselves wholly, as one only can with someone that they truly love. Time seemed to lapse constantly around them, and as the months began to grow colder and colder, they only held each other tighter all the while.

On a peculiar night, the air livid with moisture and electricity from the coming storm, the young man had started to seem somewhat distant. They sat closely together, fingers interlaced, and he began to look away from her frequently. Their conversations held, and his voice never quivered or shook, but his attention seemed like it was being torn away each and every moment. She felt his love, but she also felt a tiny rippled of fear from him as well. She spoke to him; asked him if he was all right. He stated that he was fine, and his expression was that of the genuinely confused. Still, he suddenly gazed into a corner, and then returned his eyes to her.

The young man felt a strange and familiar sensation, a very cold sensation; only it seemed somehow closer to him than before. It gathered at his neck and began to creep along his scalp, just barely fluttering against his hair as it went. He began to feel tired and unhappy. He had felt his perceptions sharpen and the old panic spark, but only faintly. Now they were gone as well, and his eyes began to droop. His posture was loosening. He wanted to lay down.

His young woman stared at him: at his hairs that were suddenly turning gray, at his eyes that were so far away, at his mouth that lay open, exhaling deeply but producing no wind. She was terrified. She placed her hands on his face, tried to get him to look her in the eye; tried to get him to say ANYTHING, ANYTHING at all! But he wouldn't. He stared past her, at nothing. She saw that he was dying.

She brought him to her and embraced him. She was weeping freely, and her mind was screaming in a thousand different voices that only fumbled over one another. She was feeling his body slacken, his last few gulps of air slowly draining from his torso. She told him that she loved him, over and over, until she finally looked up. For one brief moment through her tears, she saw a vast, smoking shadow just above her lover's hunched back, with one wispy tendril leading from it to his neck. She couldn't place its eyes in that moment, but she felt its chilling gaze meet hers.

And in that same instant, it was gone; as if it had blinked out of existence itself. The air suddenly seemed thinner, but all at once, the room filled with an echoing thud and the young woman was thrown into a coughing fit. As she was, she felt the young man's body jerk, and he suddenly sat bolt upright, gasping for breath.

Their eyes met once they had calmed their fits, and in an instant she was on him, still in tears, screaming half-hysterically. All the while the young man stared off into the distance, glad, yet afraid as well. Nothing is all right now, he thought to himself.

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The young woman warned him of the shadow that had placed its grip upon his shoulder, and he began to wonder. He feared Death more than anything else, and somehow he had forgotten about it entirely. He looked to his love, and felt that familiar glow radiate from her direction. Everything seemed all right with her, no matter where they were or what had decided to pursue them.

Suddenly he knew, and his heart fell to his stomach, and shattered there.

In time he was gone, and she had known why all along. She watched as he left her, and felt her own heart fall to pieces. He refused to turn to her again and choked down the mess of insanity that was rapidly ascending into his throat. He wanted to scream and wail; wanted to call Death to this very spot and challenge him to a simple duel or a fair fight. But he simply walked in silence, eyes shut tight, teeth grinding against gum.

She waved to his back, and slid down to her knees. She wanted him to live, and felt that any desire to have him stay would be selfish and terrible. The salt from her eyes lay on her cheeks, and she stared at the ground.

And in time, Death had them both.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Inspired by me shrooming my balls off.

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My First Love...

He once thought I was in love with him. I did too. I believed if the person said those three words to you, you had to repeat them back. So I did, and it got me no where. Instead it left me even more confused. I'd walk halls and ponder the meaning of our relationship. Repeating over and over to myself how much I really did not love him. Would I ever get the courage to say it to his face? Maybe not.

 

So I continued to play the game, and let him enter me. Thrusting, as if only reaching for his own orgasm. I'd lay and think about how much I really did not want this. I still remember the pain I felt when he first forced himself into me, making me lose my virginity. I couldn't understand what was wrong with me. How come I did not love him? Didn't he mean it, when he said he loved me?

 

After we ended I was in pure agony. My heart felt like it had been ripped out of my chest and torn into pieces. I could still feel his every touch, when I lay in bed alone. Attempting to drown myself in my tears, I cried for my loss. I remembered how he'd lay next to me, and I could curl up into the crevice of his body. I ignored the fact that I always doubted my feelings for him. Forgot about how he was hardly there for me, and could never understand me at all. I only thought of how I no longer had anyone I could say "I love you" to. I wanted that someone in my life, and I thought he was it. I didn't believe that he had left me for someone else, especially "her".

 

I walked down the hall, purposely, in front of him one day. Wondering if he could see the knife he twisted into my back. I could feel once again the thrust of that cold steel, ripping at my spine, dancing with the tangles of my heart. Why did I torture myself so much, make myself depressed? Over a guy, who never really loved me? To this day, I still don't know. I just hope that at some point in time I do find the one that I’m meant to be with. 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Written in 2002

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