Life's Little Pleasantries - short story
The inspiration for this came after I read some articles of people literally losing everything because of the economic crisis, so I wrote a tale about ambition of going back up from my perspective. I hope you enjoy.
Feedback appreciated!
*** A couple of years later
“The end justifies the means.”
I disagree. Here I sit, perched over with my elbows on a dark red plastic table in the small garden of my house thinking what went wrong. Well, many things went wrong but how I ended up like this is more than a mystery for me. I see nothing beside me. I see many things, but at the same time I see nothing. Void, zilch, empty, zero. A book rests idly beside my elbow, its pages folded at the places where I marked the one I have read. Testament to my willingness to persevere and pursue my dream, I guess. A strong gust of wind brushed the book pages creating the illusion of a paper fan opening by itself in front of my eyes. Bursting the bubble of my thoughts are dogs barking in the distance, and all I can do is frown. Lately everything displeased me and this was more or less my revolt against the unjust nature of the world. Like it cares, I think as I let out an unnatural laugh that scared the poor kitten sleeping on the chair beside me. I am not that demonic, far from being a Hannibal Lecter, but the great expectations placed on me do not seem to add up. In fact, it is a turned up version of the novel, taken by the legs and then placed upside down with the expectation of me getting back there only by catching the thread from the trousers. Hold them tightly, or else you might lose the last chance. Do I even have a last chance? I lost everything, and yet I gained everything.
Ridiculous. Hand me a mirror and look at me. Yes, look at me, do not let me look at myself. I can picture a young adult unshaven for the past five days with only a glint in his eyes that drowns the whole redness caused by countless flows of tears and sorrow accumulated over the past days. I did not need a mirror to tell me that, I knew it already. All I have now is my computer and my brains. And nothing else. Why am I even writing this is another mystery, too many to even count. Scooby Doo, where are you? Poor Scooby cannot even fathom the clouds in my mind, or to put it in a nicer way, the confusion that reigns over me like an emperor over a subjugated kingdom. Even that is a horrible comparison. Underlines the futility that overwhelmed me.
I sit up and look around. Pretty pink flowers glinting in the sun, green bushes, the cat still sleeping, a cute blond dog looking at me with its black eyes and the spotless windows of the house. A step forward, and then another, and another, and I advance. As I walk on the cold stone floor in my loafers, reminiscent of those wonderful times, I keep thinking what could I do to go back there. This is not your typical rags to riches that tabloids seem to adore, this is the opposite. Riches to rags and on top of that, grief and annoyance. But most of all, determination. I was left with nothing. The situation destroyed everything, and I was now all on my own. All on my own, all on my own... I refused to take it in. But eventually, by now, it sank in and I replaced it with something else. The word gradually formed in my mind, and the more I thought about it, the more it seemed plausible to me. I was never like that. Never ever. But events and the experience you gather eventually shape your character and define those attributes and virtues you never thought would be extolled when it came to your own persona. An egotistical maniac like me, who would have thought.
Ambition. And by now I really need a mirror. But on a second thought, don't. I want to recognise myself, not be some sort of alien with his teeth gritted like he came out of the film Braveheart. All I need now is a sword in hand, some woad on my face and then I'm set to go. Irony aside, I walk again and turn the corner of the house. In front of my very own eyes I see a long lane leading up to the gate of the garden, the gate to the rest of the world. You can see through it, but the old gate built from scrap metal in the 1950s remind me of the Communist times I never saw myself. How could I be reminded of something I have never seen? You feel it. You go up and down through life and see the current times with only the socialist revolutionaries protesting on the streets, as always. They serve a reminder that you are not the only one in the dust heap with not much hope left. I look right, back to the table I sat over a couple of minutes ago. I look left, only to see a wooden wall tracing the exact line between my house and my neighbour's. I look in front of me, and I see hope. Fuelled by ambition.
I walk, and I think. I note down every possible thought that races in my head. Notepad...in my mind. I look at my hands and I only see the veins sticking out, the very same that I got after working out in the gym to bulk up to impress the ladies more than anything else. There is no notepad in my hand, it only exists in my mind. Everything around me is noted down. The gray walls, the brown wood, the damaged pavement in the garden and the beautiful turf that I am walking on. Green tittles now adorn my ankles, and now I suddenly realise that I did not cut the grass for a long time. I laugh. The least of my worries right now. Trivial, meaningless activities that filled by days for the past year, over and over again in a never ending routine. Yet, the laugh I gave out came back in my mind as a haunting ghost, realising that it seemed as something forced. The more I look at the grass, the more I think about my writing career, the books that I have written, strategically stored in the space underneath my bed. The advance, the royalties, the cobwebs forming around my sight, and my dreams...Pah, I even dared to think about it. But I did not. At that time it was tangible, almost palpable. It sticked in my dreams, it sticked in every action that I made, it sticked to my food, to my face, to my hands, to my friends... It looked as if somebody had used super glue and stamped it directly on my brain. It became an obsession, but a healthy one. I was not plagued by one of those mad artists that had to create, create, create over and over again. I just loved to craft intriguing stories, shaped by the people acting in my head. I acted them on my own, springing them to life in a dance of the Gods themselves. Life has given me lemons, I wanted to give back oranges. Was it too much to desire? Why could I not give that and return to the old times?
I crouched, elbows on my thighs, fingers connected and my bearded chin resting on them. I have been brutally left out, and the only comfort was that I was not the only one. Some of the people I knew literally received a heavy and heaving punch in the groin, so I am fortunate in this case. But really? I deserve the kick. That was my ultimate, heart-wrenching and world-arranging conclusion. I dreamt of all of the favourable reviews and the book-signings. I forgot one thing what my history teacher had taught me. He always used to say the effort does not always mean a good grade, it is the quality. Setbacks over setbacks, I kept at it, I worked it and I reworked it. But I did not try. Afraid? Yes, Sir, I am.
“Who am I even talking to? Is anyone listening to me?”
La Vita e Bella, and sometimes you do not feel sleepy, so every stain on the ceiling becomes an ocean of thought which you can use to advance. I have to clear up my thoughts. It is the dream that haunts me. The loneliness helps. Silence overwhelms. Particularly when you live in a quiet neighbourhood where the occasional death of a neighbour because of old age fuels the gossip for the entire year. I roll over on the ground like a happy dog and look towards the cloudless sky of the summer afternoon. A pleasant breeze swept over me, filling me with some considerable delight in the meantime. From where I was to where I ended up, in some obscure place. Luckily I had it. Or else I would have been living like a nomad, from place to place, another sorry victim adding up to the statistics. I roll on my stomach and stand up, brushing the dirt on my white tee. I sighed audibly drawing funny looks from the little dog that came beside me.
Hard and harsh is an understatement when relating to these times. My blank face stares down the garden over the street at my neighbour's house. He was doing perfect. I was not. He had no ambition, I had it. He had nothing else to live for, I had. These young hands. I hold the key now, the key to my destiny. I have one chance. Do I take it, or do I leave it? How cheesy it all sounds. And yet, these are the moments from the underside of your psychological mind that drive you forwards, that keep you on track. The train of dreams charges down the rail of neurons. This was the time to jump on the bandwagon and achieve.
I trip on the edge of the pavement that ended the turf strip, coming back to the grim reality. I nearly broke my neck in the meantime, but whatever now. I was satisfied. I knew what I had to do.
“Domnu', Domnu', da-ne mingea te rugam!”
An intriguing sound. Domnu. Wow, am I that old? Domnu' is the slang word for Sir in Romanian. A child, no more than ten years of age, shouted at me from the street. The kids asked for the ball which ended up in the garden right at my feet. I look down at it and I see it is not very different from the one which I played with in the school backyard ten, twelve years ago. Some time ago, I used to play with Jabulanis used at the World Cup itself. Now all I have is an old Nike that I practised with when I was a child. Times have changed. Life's a b***h and then you die. But before that, you make your mark. I wanted to make my mark writing, and living out of it. Back to the old ways was my dream, but right now I had nothing else apart from ambition and determination.
“I have to return this ball.”
The kids are looking at me in complete expectation. I look up and glance at the child who shouted at me. In him I see the reflection of myself without the extra ten years of age and without the worries that accompanies it. I want to give him back the ball. But something is holding me back. Something tells me something, as strange and senseless as it seems. A sixth sense that cannot be sensed, felt, smelt, seen or anything else possible. It hovered in my brain, it hovered in my sight. It circled me like one of the cameras on the big stadiums taking shots through every angle of the live action. Tension. And once more, expectation.
“Domnu'!”
Releasing the ball in the year, I kick it with all of my power towards the skies, a worthy imitation of Julio Cesar's goalkicks for Brazil. The ball was my dream, the ball was my ambition. The dream to write, the ambition to tell an amazing story that could be read by anyone. To be up, and to stay there. I did not look for it as it came down. I only saw it up, peaking. Forever.
Prologue
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Originally Posted by edyzmedieval
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