short story...maybe it just sucks and I got way with it because my prof was lazy...don't read it.
-His Name was Simon-
They say Take-Offs and landings are the worst parts flying. They forgot to mention the waiting, the discomfort, and the unease of knowing that yours could be the plane that never makes it home. Home was this blister of a town about a couple dozen miles east of Bordeaux. It was a crummy little settlement with nothing to give, or to take for that matter. The local tavern would be where most of the goat herders and mountain bikers would be if the sun was up or the constellations were out. Damn those shining, mocking stars. Of course, there were enough stars being seen from inside the bar. That was if in fact if the beer hadn't run out before the delivery truck made its weekly drop off. But the wine was good. Simon hated wine.
The plane shudders at the mercy of the turbulence. The stewardess stumbles over to the intercom to notify that the pilot has turned on the fasten seatbelt sign. By this time it had seemed a little redundant. Thank you, Captain obvious. Simon hated flying. It wasn’t always this way. There was a time when all Simon could do or think about was becoming a fighter pilot; running around the house with his cereal box helmet and using fingers pointed with such determination that with every gunshot sound his mouth spat out you would believe he was firing genuine bullets from his fingernails. But as Simon says: times change, and time changes people.
Simon used to say a lot of things. Not all the time out loud as he was a predominantly quiet kid growing up, but he was a writer. He had a way with words that used to make everything mean nothing, in a wistful kind of way. He’d been keeping a journal of things he had seen, places he has been, places he hasn’t been, and things you cannot see. Which is no wonder how Simon found a calling as a writer. Mostly emphasizing his cause towards short stories, poems, and random columns in underground newsletters, Simon was by no means a successful writer but a decisively productive one.
The passengers take seat as this flying boat plunges into the clouds. For a second there is nothing but sound. You wait; clutching your arm rests hoping that the pilot has some way of seeing through this blanket of white. You hear the distant voices on the intercom followed by a whirring from underneath you. You hold your breath. All you can do is wait.
By the time your eyes open, you are being nudged by passengers trying to shimmy their way through the aisles. Apparently the worst was over without you knowing. Simon would be laughing, but Simon hasn’t laughed in years. Simon was one of those kids who would find no shame in talking to oneself in the third person. A peculiar kid, indeed.
The cab ride was silent. Simon reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handful of stale Animal Crackers. The monotonous munching was a good change from the bobbing of the cab driver’s head to the muffled music coming from inside his ears. The smell of Nag Chumba incense filled the already stagnant air, which turned out to be a viable explanation for the previously inexplicable braking and swerving. The smell clashed with the putrid odor of the cabby’s dreadlocks as his shoulder swings made them dance closer and further from the passenger area. Simon hated reggae. Probably for the same reason Simon hated most music. It changes people: namely youngsters. It could change a youth hitting puberty from an oboe playing Conrad reader to a head banging, weed toking, threat to humanity. That is to say if a youth hitting puberty could understand what the hell Conrad was saying in his excessive passages of seemingly random adjectives and apostrophes. It's called a period (the English call it a full stop). Use it once in a while, Jo. Simon continued to munch at his animal crackers, often peering into the rear view mirror in hopes of a glimpse of something a little more exciting than his current activity.
The animal crackers were a constant passenger with Simon: just one of the four things he believed was all he’d ever need. Simon hated most food due a growth in his tongue he had removed as a child. After that, food just tasted all the same. A speech impediment soon ensued which discouraged Simon from speaking altogether. A notepad would be his communication outlet. A toothbrush would find itself in his left pocket when not fulfilling its rightful duties. Dreams of teeth falling out had been a usual occurrence, so the proper tools had been acquired to take precaution. Though habitually a night visitor, a bottle of Nyquil would be a welcomed companion when the time for a stubborn slumber would find it difficult to occur. Sleep disorders have always been his champion. Finding a comfortable sleep spot would require Simon to find an armchair, position himself to rotate and doze off with his feet dangling over the headrest and his head cheek-down on the footrest. There is only so much Nyquil can do for a man like Simon.
The cab stops in front of the Café Rue D’Eclus. Back when it was in business they used to serve the best steak and fries in town. But as Simon still says: times change, and time changes things. Home was right around the corner. It was a modest apartment overlooking the neighbor’s weed garden with a gorgeous view of a billboard advertising use of motor oil. The living room is empty, save for an armchair, a Television set, and a wall mounted mirror from which Simon’s reflection rested immobile, for no reason of movement. Then from the reflection one could see a rickety hand reach inside a coat pocket and pull out a loyal notepad and begins to write. Any viewer other than Simon would only see scribbles. And indeed, they were scribbles. The pen had run out of ink, apparently. Shaking the device furiously, Simon makes one last attempt to empty the ink on paper. For as much endeavor as been put into writing such a story not worth telling, the last two words would be painstakingly missed, as the story would not feel complete. One could feel Simon’s frustration as he looked at himself straight in the eye and whispered “The End”. For a story that began in a plane crash, sang of memories through another’s eyes, and ended without an ending, would never be told.
They say Take-Offs and landings are the worst parts flying. They forgot to mention the waiting, the discomfort, and the unease of knowing that yours could be the plane that never makes it home. Home was this blister of a town about a couple dozen miles east of Bordeaux. It was a crummy little settlement with nothing to give, or to take for that matter. The local tavern would be where most of the goat herders and mountain bikers would be if the sun was up or the constellations were out. Damn those shining, mocking stars. Of course, there were enough stars being seen from inside the bar. That was if in fact if the beer hadn't run out before the delivery truck made its weekly drop off. But the wine was good. Simon hated wine.
The plane shudders at the mercy of the turbulence. The stewardess stumbles over to the intercom to notify that the pilot has turned on the fasten seatbelt sign. By this time it had seemed a little redundant. Thank you, Captain obvious. Simon hated flying. It wasn’t always this way. There was a time when all Simon could do or think about was becoming a fighter pilot; running around the house with his cereal box helmet and using fingers pointed with such determination that with every gunshot sound his mouth spat out you would believe he was firing genuine bullets from his fingernails. But as Simon says: times change, and time changes people.
Simon used to say a lot of things. Not all the time out loud as he was a predominantly quiet kid growing up, but he was a writer. He had a way with words that used to make everything mean nothing, in a wistful kind of way. He’d been keeping a journal of things he had seen, places he has been, places he hasn’t been, and things you cannot see. Which is no wonder how Simon found a calling as a writer. Mostly emphasizing his cause towards short stories, poems, and random columns in underground newsletters, Simon was by no means a successful writer but a decisively productive one.
The passengers take seat as this flying boat plunges into the clouds. For a second there is nothing but sound. You wait; clutching your arm rests hoping that the pilot has some way of seeing through this blanket of white. You hear the distant voices on the intercom followed by a whirring from underneath you. You hold your breath. All you can do is wait.
By the time your eyes open, you are being nudged by passengers trying to shimmy their way through the aisles. Apparently the worst was over without you knowing. Simon would be laughing, but Simon hasn’t laughed in years. Simon was one of those kids who would find no shame in talking to oneself in the third person. A peculiar kid, indeed.
The cab ride was silent. Simon reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handful of stale Animal Crackers. The monotonous munching was a good change from the bobbing of the cab driver’s head to the muffled music coming from inside his ears. The smell of Nag Chumba incense filled the already stagnant air, which turned out to be a viable explanation for the previously inexplicable braking and swerving. The smell clashed with the putrid odor of the cabby’s dreadlocks as his shoulder swings made them dance closer and further from the passenger area. Simon hated reggae. Probably for the same reason Simon hated most music. It changes people: namely youngsters. It could change a youth hitting puberty from an oboe playing Conrad reader to a head banging, weed toking, threat to humanity. That is to say if a youth hitting puberty could understand what the hell Conrad was saying in his excessive passages of seemingly random adjectives and apostrophes. It's called a period (the English call it a full stop). Use it once in a while, Jo. Simon continued to munch at his animal crackers, often peering into the rear view mirror in hopes of a glimpse of something a little more exciting than his current activity.
The animal crackers were a constant passenger with Simon: just one of the four things he believed was all he’d ever need. Simon hated most food due a growth in his tongue he had removed as a child. After that, food just tasted all the same. A speech impediment soon ensued which discouraged Simon from speaking altogether. A notepad would be his communication outlet. A toothbrush would find itself in his left pocket when not fulfilling its rightful duties. Dreams of teeth falling out had been a usual occurrence, so the proper tools had been acquired to take precaution. Though habitually a night visitor, a bottle of Nyquil would be a welcomed companion when the time for a stubborn slumber would find it difficult to occur. Sleep disorders have always been his champion. Finding a comfortable sleep spot would require Simon to find an armchair, position himself to rotate and doze off with his feet dangling over the headrest and his head cheek-down on the footrest. There is only so much Nyquil can do for a man like Simon.
The cab stops in front of the Café Rue D’Eclus. Back when it was in business they used to serve the best steak and fries in town. But as Simon still says: times change, and time changes things. Home was right around the corner. It was a modest apartment overlooking the neighbor’s weed garden with a gorgeous view of a billboard advertising use of motor oil. The living room is empty, save for an armchair, a Television set, and a wall mounted mirror from which Simon’s reflection rested immobile, for no reason of movement. Then from the reflection one could see a rickety hand reach inside a coat pocket and pull out a loyal notepad and begins to write. Any viewer other than Simon would only see scribbles. And indeed, they were scribbles. The pen had run out of ink, apparently. Shaking the device furiously, Simon makes one last attempt to empty the ink on paper. For as much endeavor as been put into writing such a story not worth telling, the last two words would be painstakingly missed, as the story would not feel complete. One could feel Simon’s frustration as he looked at himself straight in the eye and whispered “The End”. For a story that began in a plane crash, sang of memories through another’s eyes, and ended without an ending, would never be told.