I watched you grow up, you know that right? Even as you were starting to crawl, I was there on the floor with you. We’ve shared a bed, shared drinks, shared our lives. For me to feel this right now is incredible. And all the pride that this moment is giving me is barely being overshadowed by the abject terror my future without you evokes. Because when I look back, you are all I know.
Your friends never became my friends, and while I did spend some time with your sister that year you felt you had outgrown me, it never was real. We all knew it. And the time you spent thinking about me during that time indicates that back then, you had not moved on. Or at least you realized that while you had grown up, you still needed me, but in a different fashion.
And so I came back, a semi-permanent fixture in your life. And the young girl that was afraid of the dark changed a lot in that year. You became braver, bolder, you became a little woman. The teenage years were not easy on you. I remember holding you as you cried because some boy had said some horrible things about you. Who could hate you? Who could be mean to you?
I was there when you took your first steps, remember? I could not walk by myself, but when we were holding hands, we both managed to move in a new fashion. Not quite family, not quite a sister, not quite a friend, we were both something unique and indefinable to each other. And when you started going to school, and we had to be apart, it was horrible. But we still had evenings and weekends.
I was with you during slumber parties, and I patiently waited for you to share with me the details of your first dance with a boy. And I remember practicing kissing with you. And then I remember you telling me how different it was in reality. I should have let you know that I was already aware. When you share more than what we have, it’s always special.
I saw you laugh, I saw you cry, and I saw you grow. Grow up and grow distant. Again I felt that I would be separated from you. Again I felt that I would end up in some dark space, hidden in the furthest regions of your mind. But it was not the case. You grew up, and went to college. And you brought me with you in that box that was not quite full. I was sitting there on a shelf, a stuffed reminder of your childhood as you became a woman.
I saw the many apartments, the many bedrooms. I saw you make mistakes, make bad choices, and make the right ones. I never judged you. And I saw your first house, with the man you married. And now, I know that you are away, in that place called a hospital. And I know that you are about to give birth to your daughter. I know all that because you told me as you had me re-stuffed, cleaned and repaired so that I could become an important part of your daughter’s life.
I am afraid that without me you will forget how to walk, when I’m without you I cannot. But I will take care of your child, just like I have taken care of you, and of your mother. I may only have my original button eyes left, but I have watched over your family for years.
[Had to end it there, the only sentence that came to mind was: And I'll remember you as I violently kill your daughter. I spend way too much time writing horror/plot twist short stories...]
Showing posts with label Love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Love. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Trouble Part 1
As she walked in the door, I knew she was trouble. Or at least, I knew that was what I was expected to think. Horrible stories written by authors who don’t know a thing about the job always started the same way. The woman walks in, and says something along the lines of: “You have to help me, my husband is in danger.” But they always end up coming too late, and then they fall in love with the gruff detective. The truth is: most women who walk in here are not “trouble,” they are trying to get as far away as possible from trouble. And they never fall in love with the detective, especially after they receive the bill. So this woman walks in, she looks as if she’s been crying a lot. The box of tissue on my desk is there for a reason. No one walks in my office with a smile. She’s about five foot six, brown hair, green eyes. She’s wearing jeans, and an old shirt with a university name on it, but the shoes don’t match. They are the expensive kind, and her purse, while old, was a very popular and expensive brand a couple of years back. When you see a lot of women walk in, you know what to look for. She’s rich, but she doesn’t want me to know. She’s also here anonymously, since I can see sunglasses poking out of her leather purse. It’s raining today.
Her husband must be cheating on her, or something. They usually come for this. She doesn’t look familiar, so this means that she is not a celebrity, at least as far as I know. She’s been here for 10 seconds, and already I know that her husband is cheating on her, she has that look in her eyes, and I also know that she wants some proof of said cheating, probably for her divorce. The world has changed a lot since the days of my father, and his business, our business, is changing. We don’t investigate that many disappearances and we don’t help the police force quite as often. In fact, it has become a hassle for me to carry a firearm. Nowadays, it’s mostly cheating spouses, Internet research, and electronic surveillance. She looks still ready to burst into tears. With the calmness that accompanies motions often repeated, I grab the box of tissues and hand it to her. I look at her with a comforting smile and say: “It’s alright, take your time. When you feel ready, you can start talking.” I return to my thrilling game of solitaire. Another thing about the private investigator business: it is slowly dying. Been doing this for as long as I can remember, the better part of the last decade without my father who decided that sunny beaches would be a much better place to hang around, and business is dying down. Who needs a P.I. when they can install webcams, and other surveillance equipment? The cheaters have also gotten quite sloppy. I usually find out more than I need simply looking at emails.
Something in her breathing has changed. She’s about to start talking. I open a document, and I’m getting ready to type everything. She takes a deep breath, and says: “My husband is cheating on me.” I try to feint surprise, she feints believing me. “He’s been seen by my friends in restaurants with strange women, and I want to have definitive proof. I heard you were the best in town.” I was also the last one in town but I won’t correct her. She gives me the usual, her name, it sounds familiar but in my business you hear a lot of names, his name, doesn’t ring a bell, the name and phone number of the friend who saw him with his mistress. She lives in a nice neighbourhood. I know the place, been there often. The richer the houses, the darker the secrets. Because they can afford secrets. She also makes the unusual request of wanting to know all of his assets. Smart girl. She doesn’t just want proof of his infidelity, but she wants to take his money as well. This means that I can also charge her a bit more. I start telling her my price, but she stops me. She doesn’t care about money; she has more than enough as it is to pay me. She wants to know everything. I still make her sign the form that says she was informed about my pricing. Saves me a hell of a lot of trouble when they no longer are in a vengeful mood. I ask her about his job; he’s involved in companies, owns a lot of stocks everywhere. He’s a rich guy, but she does not know how rich. He may also have been lying about a lot of stuff; she mentions that early on in their marriage, he was already distant and seemingly obsessed by work. However, he was seen sharing an apparent intimate moment when he was supposed to be at a meeting. She can’t trust a thing he’s said. Poor girl. We make some arrangements, she gives me her cell phone number, and she leaves. As I usually do, I start my investigation on the Internet. His name doesn’t get me any good results. When I look her up however, I realize why her name was familiar. I turn around and look at my collection of books. In the novels I read in moments of boredom I see her name.
She writes these horrible P.I. Walker books I read to laugh at all the misconceptions. I already like her a lot more.
[Well, this one is a lot more interesting than I expected, which is why I am not gonna call it "over". I couldn't do it anyway, the story is just starting. Dunno when I'll work on part 2, but so far I like it more than my other attempt at making a longer narrative. Hopefully my 3 or 4 readers will agree.]
Her husband must be cheating on her, or something. They usually come for this. She doesn’t look familiar, so this means that she is not a celebrity, at least as far as I know. She’s been here for 10 seconds, and already I know that her husband is cheating on her, she has that look in her eyes, and I also know that she wants some proof of said cheating, probably for her divorce. The world has changed a lot since the days of my father, and his business, our business, is changing. We don’t investigate that many disappearances and we don’t help the police force quite as often. In fact, it has become a hassle for me to carry a firearm. Nowadays, it’s mostly cheating spouses, Internet research, and electronic surveillance. She looks still ready to burst into tears. With the calmness that accompanies motions often repeated, I grab the box of tissues and hand it to her. I look at her with a comforting smile and say: “It’s alright, take your time. When you feel ready, you can start talking.” I return to my thrilling game of solitaire. Another thing about the private investigator business: it is slowly dying. Been doing this for as long as I can remember, the better part of the last decade without my father who decided that sunny beaches would be a much better place to hang around, and business is dying down. Who needs a P.I. when they can install webcams, and other surveillance equipment? The cheaters have also gotten quite sloppy. I usually find out more than I need simply looking at emails.
Something in her breathing has changed. She’s about to start talking. I open a document, and I’m getting ready to type everything. She takes a deep breath, and says: “My husband is cheating on me.” I try to feint surprise, she feints believing me. “He’s been seen by my friends in restaurants with strange women, and I want to have definitive proof. I heard you were the best in town.” I was also the last one in town but I won’t correct her. She gives me the usual, her name, it sounds familiar but in my business you hear a lot of names, his name, doesn’t ring a bell, the name and phone number of the friend who saw him with his mistress. She lives in a nice neighbourhood. I know the place, been there often. The richer the houses, the darker the secrets. Because they can afford secrets. She also makes the unusual request of wanting to know all of his assets. Smart girl. She doesn’t just want proof of his infidelity, but she wants to take his money as well. This means that I can also charge her a bit more. I start telling her my price, but she stops me. She doesn’t care about money; she has more than enough as it is to pay me. She wants to know everything. I still make her sign the form that says she was informed about my pricing. Saves me a hell of a lot of trouble when they no longer are in a vengeful mood. I ask her about his job; he’s involved in companies, owns a lot of stocks everywhere. He’s a rich guy, but she does not know how rich. He may also have been lying about a lot of stuff; she mentions that early on in their marriage, he was already distant and seemingly obsessed by work. However, he was seen sharing an apparent intimate moment when he was supposed to be at a meeting. She can’t trust a thing he’s said. Poor girl. We make some arrangements, she gives me her cell phone number, and she leaves. As I usually do, I start my investigation on the Internet. His name doesn’t get me any good results. When I look her up however, I realize why her name was familiar. I turn around and look at my collection of books. In the novels I read in moments of boredom I see her name.
She writes these horrible P.I. Walker books I read to laugh at all the misconceptions. I already like her a lot more.
[Well, this one is a lot more interesting than I expected, which is why I am not gonna call it "over". I couldn't do it anyway, the story is just starting. Dunno when I'll work on part 2, but so far I like it more than my other attempt at making a longer narrative. Hopefully my 3 or 4 readers will agree.]
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Monday Morning
Monday morning. Wake up at 6:30, get up at 7. The sun is still hidden behind the trees next door. The morning is cold, I feel tired. After an unsatisfactory breakfast, I walk to the bathroom. I undress, and after taking a piss, I shower. The water is cold, again. After a yawn that seems to never want to end, I leave the shower, freeze myself while I dry off, and try not to butcher my face as I shave. I start getting dressed soon after. I start the car remotely, finish putting clothes on, grab some food in the fridge, and then I leave. There’s no snow on the car, it’s a blessing. I get in, it’s still cold but I’ll have to endure. I back out of the driveway, and slowly make my way to work. After stops and traffic lights, I make it to the parking lot. I park in a space I have been using for about three months now. It is not reserved, but the routine makes it mine. I go in, punch in, go up, boot up, doze off. The next four hours are filled with nothing, a big empty coma filled with moments of fading happiness as I talk with a co-worker. I eat lunch, and pretend to be alive and care for the next few hours. I leave, go back to my car, and head to the grocery store. I need food to live. I drive back home, make myself something to eat, turn on the TV, wrap up the leftovers, sit down, and lose myself in brain-dead hobbies. Then I go to bed. I pretend for a moment that I am alive, and then I sleep.
Tuesday morning. Wake up at 6:40, get up at 7:05. The sun is hidden behind clouds and branches. The morning is cold, I don’t want to be up. The food I eat is bland. The bathroom is still cold. I still need to undress and empty my bladder. I still need to clean myself. This time the water is warm enough, but all it achieves is making the end of the shower more miserable. I get out of the shower, dry up, skip shaving and go into my bedroom. I ran out of underwear. I walk to the dryer, grab some, get dressed, start the car, grab some food, and head out. I remove snow from the car, shovel the snow bank left by the city trucks, get in, the car is a bit warmer, and drive to work. The same stops. The same traffic lights. The same parking space. The same punch clock, the same stairs. My computer again. Different work, the same pointlessness. The same co-worker. Always the same. Always wonderful to talk to. Lunch time, the same food as last night, but better company. Then another bland afternoon doing things for people I no longer care about in a company that does not care about me. The day is over, I wish I knew the right words to say to chase that loneliness, but I head home alone, as always. I eat. I need food to stay alive. The TV is on, new news but the same stories. Always the same stories, they just have different names. I make myself some leftovers, sit down, shut down my brain and wait for time to pass. Then I go to bed. I pretend for a moment that I am not alone, and then I sleep.
Wednesday morning. Wake up at 6:00, mentally complain about the neighbours until 7:00, then get up. The sun is a distant memory. It no longer exists on this plane. The morning is cold, or is it me that can’t feel warmth anymore? The food is the same I always liked, why doesn’t it bring joy anymore? Head in the bathroom, and take a long shower after showering the toilet rim by accident with the wastes a wasted life accumulates. I step out of the shower, and I shave. I head to the bedroom, head back to the dryer, and then back to the bedroom. I dress. I start the car, grab some food, head out and drive to work. The same stops and traffic lights. The same cars surround me. I make it to work, park in the same spot as usual. I punch in, do the happy employee dance to convince my boss that I still think what we do has a meaning. My co-worker is late this morning. I don’t worry, but I miss her smile. She’s finally here. We talk. I forget for just a second where I am and why I am there. For one second, I am happy. Then I start working again. I eat lunch again. I work again. I leave work alone again. I still wish that somehow, I had something more in my life. I get home, make myself some food, and some leftovers for the next day. Same stories, different channel on TV. I yawn. I sleep awake, so it makes sense that I feel awake when I sleep. I go to bed. I pretend for a moment that I am happy, and then I sleep.
Thursday morning. Wake up a 7:00, get up at 7:15. The sun is dead. The morning cold. The food moves fast. I piss, then take a shower, then grab the last pair of boxers from the dryer. I get dressed, get in the car and drive to work. The same road, only 10 kilometres per hour faster. Work. The same parking spot. Punch in, on time. Pretend to work. Pretend to care about anything other than the co-worker who cannot know that she is the only reason I still get up in the morning. I eat lunch. I still work, I still go home. I still wish she was with me. The same news, I make myself something to eat. I wash some clothes. Don’t really care about folding them. The same nothing. The same bed. I pretend for a moment that I am real, and then I sleep.
Friday morning. Wake up at 6:30. Turn off the alarm. Get up at 6:45. The sun is still missing, a corpse hidden behind the funeral veil of clouds. The food is somewhat better, probably because it’s Friday. Head into the bathroom, and since I feel so god damned important this morning, I won’t wait until I’m at work to take a dump. I get in the shower. Cold this morning. I get out, shave, and get dressed. Start the car, get out, get in the car and drive to work. I park in the same spot, punch at the same clock, go up the same stairs, and then I decide to be extra lazy today, they won’t notice, I’m ahead of my schedule by at least a week. The co-worker comes in. Who needs the sun when I have her. We may be just office friends, but she is the best thing in my life right now. And that is depressing. My brain shuts down, I work for a couple of hours. Then I say something, put on my coat, wait for my co-worker to put on hers. We head out and drive to a fast food joint. For the next 30 minutes, we sit and eat together. This makes the day much better. We then go back to work, and we both lose a lot of productivity. We head out at the same time, exchange a few words, and then we say goodbye. I won’t see her until Monday. I go back home, stopping to buy fast food, I go back home, turn off my brain. Later I will fall asleep again. But now, I eat alone, I can’t help but wish I was back at the restaurant. These moments, they made this almost seem worth it.
[I wish this was purely an invention. I really do.]
Tuesday morning. Wake up at 6:40, get up at 7:05. The sun is hidden behind clouds and branches. The morning is cold, I don’t want to be up. The food I eat is bland. The bathroom is still cold. I still need to undress and empty my bladder. I still need to clean myself. This time the water is warm enough, but all it achieves is making the end of the shower more miserable. I get out of the shower, dry up, skip shaving and go into my bedroom. I ran out of underwear. I walk to the dryer, grab some, get dressed, start the car, grab some food, and head out. I remove snow from the car, shovel the snow bank left by the city trucks, get in, the car is a bit warmer, and drive to work. The same stops. The same traffic lights. The same parking space. The same punch clock, the same stairs. My computer again. Different work, the same pointlessness. The same co-worker. Always the same. Always wonderful to talk to. Lunch time, the same food as last night, but better company. Then another bland afternoon doing things for people I no longer care about in a company that does not care about me. The day is over, I wish I knew the right words to say to chase that loneliness, but I head home alone, as always. I eat. I need food to stay alive. The TV is on, new news but the same stories. Always the same stories, they just have different names. I make myself some leftovers, sit down, shut down my brain and wait for time to pass. Then I go to bed. I pretend for a moment that I am not alone, and then I sleep.
Wednesday morning. Wake up at 6:00, mentally complain about the neighbours until 7:00, then get up. The sun is a distant memory. It no longer exists on this plane. The morning is cold, or is it me that can’t feel warmth anymore? The food is the same I always liked, why doesn’t it bring joy anymore? Head in the bathroom, and take a long shower after showering the toilet rim by accident with the wastes a wasted life accumulates. I step out of the shower, and I shave. I head to the bedroom, head back to the dryer, and then back to the bedroom. I dress. I start the car, grab some food, head out and drive to work. The same stops and traffic lights. The same cars surround me. I make it to work, park in the same spot as usual. I punch in, do the happy employee dance to convince my boss that I still think what we do has a meaning. My co-worker is late this morning. I don’t worry, but I miss her smile. She’s finally here. We talk. I forget for just a second where I am and why I am there. For one second, I am happy. Then I start working again. I eat lunch again. I work again. I leave work alone again. I still wish that somehow, I had something more in my life. I get home, make myself some food, and some leftovers for the next day. Same stories, different channel on TV. I yawn. I sleep awake, so it makes sense that I feel awake when I sleep. I go to bed. I pretend for a moment that I am happy, and then I sleep.
Thursday morning. Wake up a 7:00, get up at 7:15. The sun is dead. The morning cold. The food moves fast. I piss, then take a shower, then grab the last pair of boxers from the dryer. I get dressed, get in the car and drive to work. The same road, only 10 kilometres per hour faster. Work. The same parking spot. Punch in, on time. Pretend to work. Pretend to care about anything other than the co-worker who cannot know that she is the only reason I still get up in the morning. I eat lunch. I still work, I still go home. I still wish she was with me. The same news, I make myself something to eat. I wash some clothes. Don’t really care about folding them. The same nothing. The same bed. I pretend for a moment that I am real, and then I sleep.
Friday morning. Wake up at 6:30. Turn off the alarm. Get up at 6:45. The sun is still missing, a corpse hidden behind the funeral veil of clouds. The food is somewhat better, probably because it’s Friday. Head into the bathroom, and since I feel so god damned important this morning, I won’t wait until I’m at work to take a dump. I get in the shower. Cold this morning. I get out, shave, and get dressed. Start the car, get out, get in the car and drive to work. I park in the same spot, punch at the same clock, go up the same stairs, and then I decide to be extra lazy today, they won’t notice, I’m ahead of my schedule by at least a week. The co-worker comes in. Who needs the sun when I have her. We may be just office friends, but she is the best thing in my life right now. And that is depressing. My brain shuts down, I work for a couple of hours. Then I say something, put on my coat, wait for my co-worker to put on hers. We head out and drive to a fast food joint. For the next 30 minutes, we sit and eat together. This makes the day much better. We then go back to work, and we both lose a lot of productivity. We head out at the same time, exchange a few words, and then we say goodbye. I won’t see her until Monday. I go back home, stopping to buy fast food, I go back home, turn off my brain. Later I will fall asleep again. But now, I eat alone, I can’t help but wish I was back at the restaurant. These moments, they made this almost seem worth it.
[I wish this was purely an invention. I really do.]
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Waiting
I remember, not so long ago, your presence between these walls. Smiling as you prepared breakfast, handing me some food from your plate to change from my routine. We lived together but we were not the same. You were always sitting, reading, thinking, while all I wanted to do was go outside and burn up my energy. But you’re not here anymore, and now I sit on the couch, half asleep, replacing your warmth by the rays of the sun that poke through the window. The television is turned off, but even if it was on, it would hold no meaning for me. The only reason I ever watched it was because you were there, with me, watching and reacting to these fast moving images and words that always sounded empty.
You left without warning really. I should have been used to watching you walk through that door, but I could never be used to not being with you. Your smile, your laugh, your friendly words, all of these things were starting to slip away from the grasp of my memory. And I am here, on the couch, half asleep, picturing you coming back, walking up the stairs to the door. In my sleepy stupor I walk to the door, looking, hoping, wishing that it would open up and that I would be greeted by your smile, your voice, your smell.
This house is empty without you. I cannot deal with the silence. I make noise of my own. A primitive calling, something that I wish you could hear. Where are you? Too long as passed since I last saw you. I eat without any enthusiasm. I’m about to run out of food, when you were there that never happened. I go down to the basement, hoping that somehow these empty rooms could fill the void you left when you walked out that door. I find more of the same loneliness downstairs. I decide to nap a little more in the downstairs living room. The sun is not quite as present here, and so I will not feel like I am slowly burning as on the upstairs’ couch.
Time passes. I wake up. I hear a noise. Is that your? I run upstairs as fast as I can, to go to the door. No one. I see out of the window that it was just the mailman. To my shock, and possibly to his, I let out a sound of protest. How dare he come here, make this noise, and not be you? Why couldn’t it have been you? I am stuck here waiting for your presence, but I now fear that I will never see you again. And so I replace the protest by a complaint. Where are you? Why are you no longer here, with me? So little time as elapsed since you left, but it could very well have been an eternity. Where are you? I need you, I want you. I am starting to forget things about you. Why did you leave? Did I do something wrong?
I go to the bedroom we so often shared, and I see some of your clothes that have been left behind. I cannot resist the temptation of burying my nose in them to fill my lungs with you sweet scent. It’s invigorating. I go back to the living room, I won’t turn on the television, but I will sit, looking outside, my hopes returned by the articles of clothing still baring parts of your essence. Cars go by, none are yours. Do you even remember me? I don’t know where you are, you never told me where you were going. You probably did, but I was too entranced by the sound of your voice to try to give meaning to these words. And so you left, without a word of warning. How long as it been? Can I even define the time that has elapsed? I can only count the things I did in your absence, and not the time I used to do these. Time without you does not matter.
So I doze off again on the couch. Sleep makes time go by faster, maybe you will return. Maybe it will be you who wakes me up from that sleep. A noise again. I pay closer attention. Someone is coming. I hear the door being unlocked. I run to the door, I want to be sure it is you; I can’t believe you’ve returned. The door opens, and you stand there, with a beautiful smile. I can see you, hear you and smell you. You are back. You smile when you see me, and then you speak: “I hope you haven’t missed me too much boy.” I bark my excitement. “Wow, have you been waiting for me here all day long? Why don’t you go outside for a while…”
The door closes. I take care of natural needs. I then look at the door. How long has it been closed? Why have you locked me out of your life...
[Something simple, I seem to do those a lot right now... Oh well, I cant write revolutionary stuff every time. Hope you enjoyed it.]
You left without warning really. I should have been used to watching you walk through that door, but I could never be used to not being with you. Your smile, your laugh, your friendly words, all of these things were starting to slip away from the grasp of my memory. And I am here, on the couch, half asleep, picturing you coming back, walking up the stairs to the door. In my sleepy stupor I walk to the door, looking, hoping, wishing that it would open up and that I would be greeted by your smile, your voice, your smell.
This house is empty without you. I cannot deal with the silence. I make noise of my own. A primitive calling, something that I wish you could hear. Where are you? Too long as passed since I last saw you. I eat without any enthusiasm. I’m about to run out of food, when you were there that never happened. I go down to the basement, hoping that somehow these empty rooms could fill the void you left when you walked out that door. I find more of the same loneliness downstairs. I decide to nap a little more in the downstairs living room. The sun is not quite as present here, and so I will not feel like I am slowly burning as on the upstairs’ couch.
Time passes. I wake up. I hear a noise. Is that your? I run upstairs as fast as I can, to go to the door. No one. I see out of the window that it was just the mailman. To my shock, and possibly to his, I let out a sound of protest. How dare he come here, make this noise, and not be you? Why couldn’t it have been you? I am stuck here waiting for your presence, but I now fear that I will never see you again. And so I replace the protest by a complaint. Where are you? Why are you no longer here, with me? So little time as elapsed since you left, but it could very well have been an eternity. Where are you? I need you, I want you. I am starting to forget things about you. Why did you leave? Did I do something wrong?
I go to the bedroom we so often shared, and I see some of your clothes that have been left behind. I cannot resist the temptation of burying my nose in them to fill my lungs with you sweet scent. It’s invigorating. I go back to the living room, I won’t turn on the television, but I will sit, looking outside, my hopes returned by the articles of clothing still baring parts of your essence. Cars go by, none are yours. Do you even remember me? I don’t know where you are, you never told me where you were going. You probably did, but I was too entranced by the sound of your voice to try to give meaning to these words. And so you left, without a word of warning. How long as it been? Can I even define the time that has elapsed? I can only count the things I did in your absence, and not the time I used to do these. Time without you does not matter.
So I doze off again on the couch. Sleep makes time go by faster, maybe you will return. Maybe it will be you who wakes me up from that sleep. A noise again. I pay closer attention. Someone is coming. I hear the door being unlocked. I run to the door, I want to be sure it is you; I can’t believe you’ve returned. The door opens, and you stand there, with a beautiful smile. I can see you, hear you and smell you. You are back. You smile when you see me, and then you speak: “I hope you haven’t missed me too much boy.” I bark my excitement. “Wow, have you been waiting for me here all day long? Why don’t you go outside for a while…”
The door closes. I take care of natural needs. I then look at the door. How long has it been closed? Why have you locked me out of your life...
[Something simple, I seem to do those a lot right now... Oh well, I cant write revolutionary stuff every time. Hope you enjoyed it.]
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
The Refuge
First I see stars shining through your bright eyes.
They guide me on the dark sea of my life,
Piercing through the dense fog of all the lies
I feed myself like a cold friendly knife.
I see, like a sunrise, your bright smile.
The wall of frost I hid behind now flows,
Becoming a stream washing the bile,
So that pure bliss my heart finally knows.
And held by your warm benevolent arm,
After all my worries, I know true rest.
And for my luck your love is the best charm
At last, in your heart I can build my nest.
Please stranger do not blush, yours is my heart
Overcome by the touch of Cupid’s dart
[I was challenged to write a sonnet. This is what I got. It took about as long as a story, and I revised it a lot more. Overall, what I like the most is the fact that I had to pay a lot more attention to individual words than I usually do. With a few more like these I might get the reflex to do that naturally.]
[I actually revised it once more because it was pointed out that I made some mistakes...]
They guide me on the dark sea of my life,
Piercing through the dense fog of all the lies
I feed myself like a cold friendly knife.
I see, like a sunrise, your bright smile.
The wall of frost I hid behind now flows,
Becoming a stream washing the bile,
So that pure bliss my heart finally knows.
And held by your warm benevolent arm,
After all my worries, I know true rest.
And for my luck your love is the best charm
At last, in your heart I can build my nest.
Please stranger do not blush, yours is my heart
Overcome by the touch of Cupid’s dart
[I was challenged to write a sonnet. This is what I got. It took about as long as a story, and I revised it a lot more. Overall, what I like the most is the fact that I had to pay a lot more attention to individual words than I usually do. With a few more like these I might get the reflex to do that naturally.]
[I actually revised it once more because it was pointed out that I made some mistakes...]
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Heartbeat
Snow was slowly falling on the sleeping city. All was quiet. Windows everywhere let out beams of light, colouring the white snow with the yellow embrace of technology. It contrasted with the blue colour that filled the sky under the full moon. All was quiet except for the sounds of passing buses. Downtown, they motion was constant, and the noise was the heartbeat of the city. They started from this central point, and distributed people along arteries to the extremities of the isolated community. In this valley, there were fields, and the city. All was quiet, with the exception of the buses, and of the trendy bars that grew along the main streets. With their rhythmic thumping, and tribal sounds, to a casual observer, some primitive ritual might have been going on between the walls. In a sense, the mating habits of mankind were both ritualistic and primitive.
Snow was slowly falling on the sleeping city. All was quiet. Above this quiet noise, there was a window revealing a silhouette in the light. Looking down upon all the people celebrating life, the girl was looking down. Tonight, they all were happy in that bar downstairs. But the noise only stirred a sad melancholy from the moment it started. All was quiet in the city, but a storm had risen in her heart. He was somewhere down there, she could feel it. Ever since that moment when she felt his soul enter her, she could always tell where he was. They had met about this time last year. A chance encounter, they were both waiting for the same bus. He had missed the previous one, she felt like being early. And as they waited, they started talking. A few days later, they realized that their lives orbited around one another, but that they had never crossed paths. Like the moon and the earth, they were part of the same system, but until that one morning, they had not collided.
Snow was falling on a city that only deceptively looked like it was sleeping. The buses were carting people around town, running like a clock, never stopping to ponder about each motion. And in the bars along the main streets there was a man. His mind was focussed, he was thinking about his own heart beating along side another person. He did not care who, so this club was the perfect place. Days ago, he would have thought this was a mistake, but now he no longer had any responsibility. What happened wasn’t his fault. He was sure of that. And so tonight, he was looking at the girls around. Some of them were not worth the attention, but some were well worth him buying them drinks. He was free. If she had not decided to visit him out of the blue, things would have been different. She could have missed that bus, but the driver apparently waited for her. An hour, what a difference it would have made. When she walked into his bedroom, an hour would have changed the world. She could believe he was taking a nap up until she saw he was not alone in bed. If she would have missed her bus, he would not be free, and she would not be betrayed. But that didn’t matter. With the purchase of a drink, one or two niceties exchanged over the loud music, and the promise of a good time, he would not sleep alone tonight. Why was he still thinking about her, everything was her fault anyway? She should have called, she should have missed her bus, the driver should not have waited. He was still talking about her when he was making empty promises to that girl with no name that would have to walk out of his life as soon as she had served her purpose.
Snow was no longer falling on the city that was falling asleep. All was quiet. Light filtered out of some windows. Like a starry sky filled with bricks. He was coming out of the club, with this fake blond girl hanging on to his arm, because the world was spinning too fast, because she spun too slowly. He was walking with her along known streets. In the last year he had walked these streets with someone else on his arm. Now everything seemed different. But he forced himself to think everything stayed the same. So he walked these street he had learned on different times. Why did he have to park his car where he used to. If that car had not been broken, a year ago, everything would be much simpler. He would not have this oppressing feeling in his stomach, he would not feel like throwing up just remembering that moment when she walked in his room where her heart was shattered. It was her fault. The nuisance hanging on his arm made a noise, and then a motion. She was pointing to a window that lacked any significance for her, but had one time meant the world for him. Why did he have to park within sight of her window? The fake blond insisted. He raised his eyes to the window he had shut out of his heart, only to see the silhouette of his former angel flying, her feet no longer touching the ground. Suspended in midair not by the wings she deserved, but by a noose around her neck.
[Valentine's Day special... or not. I was lacking ideas tonight, so I went for a "comfort zone." While I am happy with the result, it almost feels like a step back. But then again, who am I to judge the stories I write? Oh, and please don't try to find deeper meaning, this is just a story.]
Snow was slowly falling on the sleeping city. All was quiet. Above this quiet noise, there was a window revealing a silhouette in the light. Looking down upon all the people celebrating life, the girl was looking down. Tonight, they all were happy in that bar downstairs. But the noise only stirred a sad melancholy from the moment it started. All was quiet in the city, but a storm had risen in her heart. He was somewhere down there, she could feel it. Ever since that moment when she felt his soul enter her, she could always tell where he was. They had met about this time last year. A chance encounter, they were both waiting for the same bus. He had missed the previous one, she felt like being early. And as they waited, they started talking. A few days later, they realized that their lives orbited around one another, but that they had never crossed paths. Like the moon and the earth, they were part of the same system, but until that one morning, they had not collided.
Snow was falling on a city that only deceptively looked like it was sleeping. The buses were carting people around town, running like a clock, never stopping to ponder about each motion. And in the bars along the main streets there was a man. His mind was focussed, he was thinking about his own heart beating along side another person. He did not care who, so this club was the perfect place. Days ago, he would have thought this was a mistake, but now he no longer had any responsibility. What happened wasn’t his fault. He was sure of that. And so tonight, he was looking at the girls around. Some of them were not worth the attention, but some were well worth him buying them drinks. He was free. If she had not decided to visit him out of the blue, things would have been different. She could have missed that bus, but the driver apparently waited for her. An hour, what a difference it would have made. When she walked into his bedroom, an hour would have changed the world. She could believe he was taking a nap up until she saw he was not alone in bed. If she would have missed her bus, he would not be free, and she would not be betrayed. But that didn’t matter. With the purchase of a drink, one or two niceties exchanged over the loud music, and the promise of a good time, he would not sleep alone tonight. Why was he still thinking about her, everything was her fault anyway? She should have called, she should have missed her bus, the driver should not have waited. He was still talking about her when he was making empty promises to that girl with no name that would have to walk out of his life as soon as she had served her purpose.
Snow was no longer falling on the city that was falling asleep. All was quiet. Light filtered out of some windows. Like a starry sky filled with bricks. He was coming out of the club, with this fake blond girl hanging on to his arm, because the world was spinning too fast, because she spun too slowly. He was walking with her along known streets. In the last year he had walked these streets with someone else on his arm. Now everything seemed different. But he forced himself to think everything stayed the same. So he walked these street he had learned on different times. Why did he have to park his car where he used to. If that car had not been broken, a year ago, everything would be much simpler. He would not have this oppressing feeling in his stomach, he would not feel like throwing up just remembering that moment when she walked in his room where her heart was shattered. It was her fault. The nuisance hanging on his arm made a noise, and then a motion. She was pointing to a window that lacked any significance for her, but had one time meant the world for him. Why did he have to park within sight of her window? The fake blond insisted. He raised his eyes to the window he had shut out of his heart, only to see the silhouette of his former angel flying, her feet no longer touching the ground. Suspended in midair not by the wings she deserved, but by a noose around her neck.
[Valentine's Day special... or not. I was lacking ideas tonight, so I went for a "comfort zone." While I am happy with the result, it almost feels like a step back. But then again, who am I to judge the stories I write? Oh, and please don't try to find deeper meaning, this is just a story.]
Saturday, January 31, 2009
The Moment
“There comes a moment in a man’s life where he must have some balls,” he thought, “that’s what my father always said. Come to think of it, if I just talked to him right now, he would probably say the same thing.” He was looking at himself in the mirror. His stomach was tied in a knot, his ears were ringing, and he felt sweaty. He seemingly could not find the courage to leave the washroom and change his life forever. If he closed his eyes for a second, he could almost hear the wedding bells ringing. Destiny is funny like that. He felt he was a few steps away from the altar. He could see it. The priest clearing his throat, getting ready for a ceremony he had done hundreds of time. His family smiling at the fact that he would finally settle down; his mother already mentally naming the grandchildren. And on the other side of the church, the father-in-law who accepted him reluctantly at first, but got over it after he helped with the renovations in the living room. The brother-in-law who looked at him as a big brother, poor kid, he was a lot younger than his sister, and he had been surrounded by girls all his life.
A year before that, he got on his knees after a romantic evening, surrounded by rose petals in their tiny apartment bedroom. That day could be one of the happiest of his life. Living together was a wonderful thing; they had ups and downs, like any other couple. They had more ups though. Even bad days were happy, such as when the dishwasher spat out a wave of bubbles. Cleaning up after that was more fun than work. There were stressful moments too, such as when he lost his job and had to find a new one during a recession. When he would be in front of the priest, he would look back at these moments and smile, because even if during the happy times they lived their love, it is during the hardships that they truly became united. And when he would take his vows, he would know he would mean them. Looking back, the first apartment may have been crummy, and the second one a slight improvement, but they were improving. The place they would live in after the wedding, they would enter as husband and wife. That is all that would matter once he would be in front of the priest.
Even the near break-up they had before moving in together would seem distant and meaningless once at the altar. Long distances are hard on relationships, and she was not quite out of school when he got his first job. Six long months of not being able to be together had made the relationship seemingly weaker. And when her best friend decided to come clean with his feelings, it almost broke them up. But he would be behind him, as his best friend, three years later at the wedding. Life can be strange like that. Back then, he could have punched him in the face, but now, at the altar, he would have given him a kidney. To get everything in the open was quite liberating. And now, as he was getting married, he could look at the man that almost broke them up and see only a true friend. What he had said was right too, he was not there often enough for her, he did not see her as the treasure she was. They would see each other on the week-ends, and they would rarely come out of the bedroom, but they were not in a good relationship. And so her best friend had tried to make her happy as much as possible, but it was unfair to him as well. Those 6 months were hard on everyone involved, but now her best friend was his best man, and he was happily dating one of the bridesmaids.
Before he moved for his job, the dating and early relationship was much easier. It was really all “sunshine and lollipops.” They would catch movies together, and spend evenings with friends, or just with each other. Once in a while, they would simply stay at his place for the entire week-end, since she still lived with her parents. He was in school, living off of loans, and her parents paid for her tuition and food, so they had all the time they wanted to spend together. And they made sure they would be together as much as possible. From that first date to see that action movie to the moment he graduated, they were happy together. So much it should have been illegal. That idea would make him smile once he would be in front of the altar, ready to say yes. But his stomach was still twisted, he was not there yet. What mattered in his mind now was the first time they spoke. They were in that bar where everyone hung out. He saw her, and knew he wanted to be with her. He saw where she was sitting, away from the dance floor. This is what made it much easier to talk to her, no need to compete with loud music.
In his mind, wedding bells were intertwined with his father’s only words of advice. But he was getting ahead of himself; he was not yet in front of the priest. He was not even in church yet. He splashed some water on his face, trying to wash away the worries. Music filled his ears. He was still ahead of himself; he never moved in with her, he’d never dated her. In fact, he did not even know her name; he was still in the bar. He had noticed her sitting in a quiet corner, she was seemingly not interested by dancing, now would be the best time for him to approach her. “There comes a moment in a man’s life where he must have some balls.”
[I was told I should try my hand at a love story. This is my attempt. I think it went well, don't you? I think that love is a much harder emotion to convey than anything else. Not everyone sees love the same way, however I like the result I got here, and it's a good way to cleanse the palate after the Lunarity fiasco.]
A year before that, he got on his knees after a romantic evening, surrounded by rose petals in their tiny apartment bedroom. That day could be one of the happiest of his life. Living together was a wonderful thing; they had ups and downs, like any other couple. They had more ups though. Even bad days were happy, such as when the dishwasher spat out a wave of bubbles. Cleaning up after that was more fun than work. There were stressful moments too, such as when he lost his job and had to find a new one during a recession. When he would be in front of the priest, he would look back at these moments and smile, because even if during the happy times they lived their love, it is during the hardships that they truly became united. And when he would take his vows, he would know he would mean them. Looking back, the first apartment may have been crummy, and the second one a slight improvement, but they were improving. The place they would live in after the wedding, they would enter as husband and wife. That is all that would matter once he would be in front of the priest.
Even the near break-up they had before moving in together would seem distant and meaningless once at the altar. Long distances are hard on relationships, and she was not quite out of school when he got his first job. Six long months of not being able to be together had made the relationship seemingly weaker. And when her best friend decided to come clean with his feelings, it almost broke them up. But he would be behind him, as his best friend, three years later at the wedding. Life can be strange like that. Back then, he could have punched him in the face, but now, at the altar, he would have given him a kidney. To get everything in the open was quite liberating. And now, as he was getting married, he could look at the man that almost broke them up and see only a true friend. What he had said was right too, he was not there often enough for her, he did not see her as the treasure she was. They would see each other on the week-ends, and they would rarely come out of the bedroom, but they were not in a good relationship. And so her best friend had tried to make her happy as much as possible, but it was unfair to him as well. Those 6 months were hard on everyone involved, but now her best friend was his best man, and he was happily dating one of the bridesmaids.
Before he moved for his job, the dating and early relationship was much easier. It was really all “sunshine and lollipops.” They would catch movies together, and spend evenings with friends, or just with each other. Once in a while, they would simply stay at his place for the entire week-end, since she still lived with her parents. He was in school, living off of loans, and her parents paid for her tuition and food, so they had all the time they wanted to spend together. And they made sure they would be together as much as possible. From that first date to see that action movie to the moment he graduated, they were happy together. So much it should have been illegal. That idea would make him smile once he would be in front of the altar, ready to say yes. But his stomach was still twisted, he was not there yet. What mattered in his mind now was the first time they spoke. They were in that bar where everyone hung out. He saw her, and knew he wanted to be with her. He saw where she was sitting, away from the dance floor. This is what made it much easier to talk to her, no need to compete with loud music.
In his mind, wedding bells were intertwined with his father’s only words of advice. But he was getting ahead of himself; he was not yet in front of the priest. He was not even in church yet. He splashed some water on his face, trying to wash away the worries. Music filled his ears. He was still ahead of himself; he never moved in with her, he’d never dated her. In fact, he did not even know her name; he was still in the bar. He had noticed her sitting in a quiet corner, she was seemingly not interested by dancing, now would be the best time for him to approach her. “There comes a moment in a man’s life where he must have some balls.”
[I was told I should try my hand at a love story. This is my attempt. I think it went well, don't you? I think that love is a much harder emotion to convey than anything else. Not everyone sees love the same way, however I like the result I got here, and it's a good way to cleanse the palate after the Lunarity fiasco.]
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