Nothing right

I said I had lots of ideas for these kind of short pieces. Well here is another one.

Comments are welcome.:bow:


Again, as many other times, nothing is the way it should be. I couldn’t sleep and sat waiting for the morning to arrive, moaning a tortured song with a voice I barely recognised as mine.

But in the morning nothing was right either.

I sat and I smoked on an empty stomach, and drank on top of my hangover. That didn’t help. I was convinced it wouldn’t, so I left the house and headed to the village. It was small and decayed. It had a tavern and a church, all surrounded by fields. There was only one road coming into the place and it was deserted.

In the tavern I ordered beer. It was strong, and the wooden tables were clean and dark with age. It was paradise for the poor, the buffoons, and the desperate, but I felt like a jailed animal. I left the tavern too.

The church was dark, with the light coming through the coloured glass, illuminating the smoke and the empty rows. The smell of incense, sweat and wet old stone and wood was heavy in the air.

No. The church wasn’t right either.

I went through the fields, along the river. It was bright out there. Too bright. I though about God, but didn’t see him. There were a few blue flowers in the field, and the muddy road to town.

I followed the road. For miles there was nothing but woods, the kind you imagine with witches. And at the end of the road there was an execution place. I big piece of wood rusty with old blood and an axe thrown nearby.

Then I heard horses somewhere and I saw them few minutes later, moving in a smooth and lazy way, dancing around the hill. Along the road nothing was right either.

Nothing was sacred anymore. Not the church, not the tavern, not the execution place with grass grown all over and around it.

No, my friends, nothing is right. Nothing is as it should be. Not this time, not any o times past, not for many times to come, nothing is right.

And I feel productive so there might be another one coming shortly.

I am not quite sure what to make of it. The story lacks a purpose. You end with the message that nothing is sacred, but this is pretty much what you started with (nothing was right), so nothing changes.

The description is a bit unbalanced as well: you switch from objective ("so I left the house and headed to the village. It was small and decayed. It had a tavern and a church, all surrounded by fields. There was only one road coming into the place and it was deserted.") to subjective ("It was bright out there. Too bright. (...) For miles there was nothing but woods, the kind you imagine with witches."), again, with apparent purpose. So I am left wondering: what were you trying to do?

(My apologies for the terrible delay. I have been very busy lately and this one just slipped through.)

It didn't actually have much purpose and was inspired in part by a gipsy song (the part with witches is an example).... And now that I re-read it after some time the style is far from stunning too...