I write when I'm sad. So what.
Please do not feel obligated to read this, I know it's rather long.
I will put my short story behind a cut so as not to clog your friend's page. However, if you do read it, I would definitely appreciate some feedback.
The little broken man lay at the bottom of a previously grand oak. It had since been broken as well. As a matter of fact, everything around the little broken man was just as broken as he. He could barely move, and it took what seemed like hours for him just to turn his head so he could shield himself from the harsh rays of the sun. He'd been laying underneath the skeleton of the grand broken oak for days. No buildings around him were standing, and people just like him were crushed, dead or dying everywhere. There were no birds chirping, only the shrieks and wails of broken people. Gray hands reached to the sky through rubble, their nails blue, their skin tainted with old cuts and bruises. Children lay staring into space, their bodies stiff and rigid. Even the scavengers had let this town be, deciding the people weren't good enough.
The little broken man could remember when this town was alive. He closed his eyes and pictured the busy night streets, people rushing to the theatre and the restaurants. He saw couples kissing under the streetlights, and children running and laughing toward the taxis. Everyone was smiling.
Then he saw daytime, when the kids would play hopscotch and jump rope and tag in the park. When the adults would sit and read the paper, sipping on iced beverages and mumbling about the economy. Even still, they were all smiling.
The little broken man never smiled. He just watched them alone from his apartment on the third floor, safely away from their daily mutterings and troubles. No, he was safe in his own little world, filled with an outdated shag carpet and overstuffed furniture. He kept it tidy, because he liked orderliness. He would sit by the window and read foreign literature while smoking a neverending string of cigarettes. He'd sip on hot tea and just read. He didn't even notice that he was wasting away (his fridge was always bare), he didn't even care.
As long as he had his books, tea, and cigarettes, nothing else mattered. Except those people on the streets.
He would put his book down and stare for hours, wondering what it would be like to have a wife of his own, kids, a family that remembered his existance. He'd been disowned for wanting to be an author, a profession his family found unsuitible for such a talented and bright young man. So he lived alone. He blamed humanity for his aloneness, thinking someone ought to really try and get to know him. He wasn't a bad guy after all.
Just a little on the scrawny side. Scrawny and a bit antisocial. But nothing that couldn't be worked through.
After all, he wasn't about to make the first move toward any sort of friendship. No. He was much more comfortable with the idea that someone would come to him and befriend him instead.
And one day someone did. Another little antisocial man bumped into him while he was regretfully out on his monthly trip for cigarettes, hot tea and foreign literature. The little broken man had dropped all of his materials, and so did the other little man. They looked down and saw a pile of cigarettes (the little broken man smoked Marlboros, the little antisocial man smoked Camels), hot tea packages (the little broken man drank green tea, the little antisocial man drank earl grey tea), and foreign literature (the little broken man had chosen Kafka, the little antisocial man was to read some Camus). They both sighed softly as they separated their purchases and introduced themselves.
"I am Mortimer," said the little broken man.
"I am Archibald," said the little antisocial man.
Mortimer and Archibald made plans for the following night to go to the theatre and critique the local humorous play. They were to meet at noon underneath the old grand oak on the corner by the park.
Mortimer woke with a start, thinking he heard a siren. He shook his head, reached to his bedside table for his glasses and put them on. The table by the window was calling him, so he walked toward it, gently cradling his package of cigarettes in his hand. Watching the people on the street, he pulled one out, lit it and inhaled deeply. The feeling of smoke swirls in his lungs tickled them til he coughed a little. Only a little. He exhaled and watched the smoke stretch out and cover his window until it found a little crack in the top and was sucked out with much force.
The top of the dresser already held his outfit for the day, a pair of brown corderoy trousers and a white button-up shirt. He rolled the sleeves up to his elbows and reached for a pair of shoes. Thinking he might be out the entire day, Mortimer grabbed another pack of cigarettes, stuffed them into his pocket, and walked out the door, not even bothering to lock it. There was nothing to be stolen from his apartment anyway. Nothing of value at least. Except his foreign literature and cigarettes. Those had value.
So Mortimer had begun walking down the street with the sun beating heavily on his forehead. He squinted and groaned as little children raced around his legs, making him stumble. In sight was the grand oak that Mortimer and Archibald had planned on meeting under for the afternoon. He walked briskly and with purpose now, the kids didn't dare interfere with someone as such. He reached the tree and wiped the sweat beading up on his forehead, sitting at its base. His watch read 11 50. So he was a little anxious ... he lit up another cigarette and watched the people.
The people were boring him today. They were monotonous. They all wore bland clothing, and were wearing fake smiles. Nobody was saying a word. Nobody but the children, and their incessant laughter was definitely beginning to annoy Mortimer.
The sound of an airplane broke the consistancy and he was greatful for such a change. He leaned back and looked up to see a series of planes flying high overhead. He cocked his head to one side and squinted, trying to figure out why commercial planes would be flying in such a triangular formation so close together.
There was a bright flash, and the loudest noise Mortimer'd ever heard. After that, Mortimer saw nothing. Mortimer heard nothing. And because Mortimer heard nothing, he was pretty sure he could speak nothing as well. Actually, Mortimer was pretty sure he was dead. He couldn't feel his body. He assumed that this nothingness was death, and he was going to accept it. He missed having the people to look at through his window, though. And his hot tea. And his cigarettes and foreign literature.
After a while, a sort of reddish colour began to appear before him. The reddish colour lightened and lightened until he could just make out the shapes of a jagged landscape through a creme-like fog. He still couldn't feel his body, so he assumed this was heaven or hell. And he was going to accept it. He still missed having the people to look at through his window. And his hot tea. And his foreign literature. There was enough thick smoke in the air that he didn't miss his cigarettes anymore.
He had slept now. And woken a day later to find that his landscape was neither heaven or hell, it was his city. Crumbled to the ground, but his city none the less. He recognized the dark red brick (covered with a film of light gray soot, of course) of the city hall, the big off-white stones of the courthouse ... he recognized Archibald. Laying not more than a hundred feet to his left. He looked like he couldn't feel his body either. Actually, he looked like he couldn't feel anything. He looked dead. Mortimer wondered if Archibald was in black nothingness missing people to watch, his hot tea, cigarettes and foreign literature. In wondering such things, Mortimer realized he now only missed his hot tea and foreign literature. He had people to look at. They didn't move much, they only cried. He wondered when they would shut up and accept that they were half buried and dying.
Mortimer hadn't even noticed that his glasses were cracked, but when he finally did, the large white line through his world irritated him to no end. As irritated as he was, he could not remove them, for he couldn't move his arms. He sighed and turned his head. The sunlight was getting to him, plus he desparately wanted a change of scenery. When he turned his head the opposite direction, he saw lifeless children and lifeless parents, and a few seizing individuals who were violently throwing up and wailing. He asked out loud when they were going to shut up and accept that they were half buried and dying.
He didn't get an answer. Just more sounds of vomit and wailing.
And then he saw the courthouse sign laying on its side, its writing pointed toward him. He read the sign over and over again, until he had it memorized. Even though not foreign literature, reading that sign stimulated his brain and kept him content. Now he only missed his hot tea, and he was pretty damned sure he wouldn't be getting any of that before he died. Mortimer wondered when he was going to die. He hadn't eaten for weeks pre-devastation, he hadn't had anything to drink (let alone his hot tea) for hours, and he was pretty sure he was bleeding internally. Not that he could feel it. He just figured he would be.
It started to darken, and the wailing gradually diminished to a few stifled sobs every few feet. Mortimer fell into a slumber and dreamed of a living city.
When he woke, he was staring up at a broken, previously grand oak. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned his head slowly to see a soldier shaking him. "You okay, sir? You're awfully cold. Let me get you in to the doctor .."
He sighed, "Why didn't you just let me die? I've nothing to live for."
I will put my short story behind a cut so as not to clog your friend's page. However, if you do read it, I would definitely appreciate some feedback.
The little broken man lay at the bottom of a previously grand oak. It had since been broken as well. As a matter of fact, everything around the little broken man was just as broken as he. He could barely move, and it took what seemed like hours for him just to turn his head so he could shield himself from the harsh rays of the sun. He'd been laying underneath the skeleton of the grand broken oak for days. No buildings around him were standing, and people just like him were crushed, dead or dying everywhere. There were no birds chirping, only the shrieks and wails of broken people. Gray hands reached to the sky through rubble, their nails blue, their skin tainted with old cuts and bruises. Children lay staring into space, their bodies stiff and rigid. Even the scavengers had let this town be, deciding the people weren't good enough.
The little broken man could remember when this town was alive. He closed his eyes and pictured the busy night streets, people rushing to the theatre and the restaurants. He saw couples kissing under the streetlights, and children running and laughing toward the taxis. Everyone was smiling.
Then he saw daytime, when the kids would play hopscotch and jump rope and tag in the park. When the adults would sit and read the paper, sipping on iced beverages and mumbling about the economy. Even still, they were all smiling.
The little broken man never smiled. He just watched them alone from his apartment on the third floor, safely away from their daily mutterings and troubles. No, he was safe in his own little world, filled with an outdated shag carpet and overstuffed furniture. He kept it tidy, because he liked orderliness. He would sit by the window and read foreign literature while smoking a neverending string of cigarettes. He'd sip on hot tea and just read. He didn't even notice that he was wasting away (his fridge was always bare), he didn't even care.
As long as he had his books, tea, and cigarettes, nothing else mattered. Except those people on the streets.
He would put his book down and stare for hours, wondering what it would be like to have a wife of his own, kids, a family that remembered his existance. He'd been disowned for wanting to be an author, a profession his family found unsuitible for such a talented and bright young man. So he lived alone. He blamed humanity for his aloneness, thinking someone ought to really try and get to know him. He wasn't a bad guy after all.
Just a little on the scrawny side. Scrawny and a bit antisocial. But nothing that couldn't be worked through.
After all, he wasn't about to make the first move toward any sort of friendship. No. He was much more comfortable with the idea that someone would come to him and befriend him instead.
And one day someone did. Another little antisocial man bumped into him while he was regretfully out on his monthly trip for cigarettes, hot tea and foreign literature. The little broken man had dropped all of his materials, and so did the other little man. They looked down and saw a pile of cigarettes (the little broken man smoked Marlboros, the little antisocial man smoked Camels), hot tea packages (the little broken man drank green tea, the little antisocial man drank earl grey tea), and foreign literature (the little broken man had chosen Kafka, the little antisocial man was to read some Camus). They both sighed softly as they separated their purchases and introduced themselves.
"I am Mortimer," said the little broken man.
"I am Archibald," said the little antisocial man.
Mortimer and Archibald made plans for the following night to go to the theatre and critique the local humorous play. They were to meet at noon underneath the old grand oak on the corner by the park.
Mortimer woke with a start, thinking he heard a siren. He shook his head, reached to his bedside table for his glasses and put them on. The table by the window was calling him, so he walked toward it, gently cradling his package of cigarettes in his hand. Watching the people on the street, he pulled one out, lit it and inhaled deeply. The feeling of smoke swirls in his lungs tickled them til he coughed a little. Only a little. He exhaled and watched the smoke stretch out and cover his window until it found a little crack in the top and was sucked out with much force.
The top of the dresser already held his outfit for the day, a pair of brown corderoy trousers and a white button-up shirt. He rolled the sleeves up to his elbows and reached for a pair of shoes. Thinking he might be out the entire day, Mortimer grabbed another pack of cigarettes, stuffed them into his pocket, and walked out the door, not even bothering to lock it. There was nothing to be stolen from his apartment anyway. Nothing of value at least. Except his foreign literature and cigarettes. Those had value.
So Mortimer had begun walking down the street with the sun beating heavily on his forehead. He squinted and groaned as little children raced around his legs, making him stumble. In sight was the grand oak that Mortimer and Archibald had planned on meeting under for the afternoon. He walked briskly and with purpose now, the kids didn't dare interfere with someone as such. He reached the tree and wiped the sweat beading up on his forehead, sitting at its base. His watch read 11 50. So he was a little anxious ... he lit up another cigarette and watched the people.
The people were boring him today. They were monotonous. They all wore bland clothing, and were wearing fake smiles. Nobody was saying a word. Nobody but the children, and their incessant laughter was definitely beginning to annoy Mortimer.
The sound of an airplane broke the consistancy and he was greatful for such a change. He leaned back and looked up to see a series of planes flying high overhead. He cocked his head to one side and squinted, trying to figure out why commercial planes would be flying in such a triangular formation so close together.
There was a bright flash, and the loudest noise Mortimer'd ever heard. After that, Mortimer saw nothing. Mortimer heard nothing. And because Mortimer heard nothing, he was pretty sure he could speak nothing as well. Actually, Mortimer was pretty sure he was dead. He couldn't feel his body. He assumed that this nothingness was death, and he was going to accept it. He missed having the people to look at through his window, though. And his hot tea. And his cigarettes and foreign literature.
After a while, a sort of reddish colour began to appear before him. The reddish colour lightened and lightened until he could just make out the shapes of a jagged landscape through a creme-like fog. He still couldn't feel his body, so he assumed this was heaven or hell. And he was going to accept it. He still missed having the people to look at through his window. And his hot tea. And his foreign literature. There was enough thick smoke in the air that he didn't miss his cigarettes anymore.
He had slept now. And woken a day later to find that his landscape was neither heaven or hell, it was his city. Crumbled to the ground, but his city none the less. He recognized the dark red brick (covered with a film of light gray soot, of course) of the city hall, the big off-white stones of the courthouse ... he recognized Archibald. Laying not more than a hundred feet to his left. He looked like he couldn't feel his body either. Actually, he looked like he couldn't feel anything. He looked dead. Mortimer wondered if Archibald was in black nothingness missing people to watch, his hot tea, cigarettes and foreign literature. In wondering such things, Mortimer realized he now only missed his hot tea and foreign literature. He had people to look at. They didn't move much, they only cried. He wondered when they would shut up and accept that they were half buried and dying.
Mortimer hadn't even noticed that his glasses were cracked, but when he finally did, the large white line through his world irritated him to no end. As irritated as he was, he could not remove them, for he couldn't move his arms. He sighed and turned his head. The sunlight was getting to him, plus he desparately wanted a change of scenery. When he turned his head the opposite direction, he saw lifeless children and lifeless parents, and a few seizing individuals who were violently throwing up and wailing. He asked out loud when they were going to shut up and accept that they were half buried and dying.
He didn't get an answer. Just more sounds of vomit and wailing.
And then he saw the courthouse sign laying on its side, its writing pointed toward him. He read the sign over and over again, until he had it memorized. Even though not foreign literature, reading that sign stimulated his brain and kept him content. Now he only missed his hot tea, and he was pretty damned sure he wouldn't be getting any of that before he died. Mortimer wondered when he was going to die. He hadn't eaten for weeks pre-devastation, he hadn't had anything to drink (let alone his hot tea) for hours, and he was pretty sure he was bleeding internally. Not that he could feel it. He just figured he would be.
It started to darken, and the wailing gradually diminished to a few stifled sobs every few feet. Mortimer fell into a slumber and dreamed of a living city.
When he woke, he was staring up at a broken, previously grand oak. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned his head slowly to see a soldier shaking him. "You okay, sir? You're awfully cold. Let me get you in to the doctor .."
He sighed, "Why didn't you just let me die? I've nothing to live for."