Here is a short story I wrote as a submission to a surreal on-line short story site. They didn’t want it so I am posting it here. Something different. No tongue-in-cheek humor this time, but rather a poignant view of a man and his quiet life. Give me a comment!
Citizen
He walked slowly down the endless street, his hand clutched tight on the curved snakehead of stiff cane that bit into his hand with every step, fangs flashing like the screaming lights of the faceless police whose car had pulsed authoritatively by moments ago. The old man ignored the biting as best he could, knowing that the suffered venom would ease the greater wound gashed into his leg a lifetime ago that was still shooting bullets of wartime memory into his every step. He had been quite young and idealistically envisioned, the day it had happened, ready to set forth upon the morrow to a first battle and glory in the name of the King, smiting enemies and cursing their blasphemous philosophies. He was standing near a street, full of energy and righteousness, when an importantly chauffeured vehicle carrying an Officer of Consequence to a social luncheon, sped around the corner and angrily kicked him into the edge of a nearby brick wall, which in turn savagely lashed out at his leg, breaking the bone and opening a wide gash with its masonaried claws. He lay there on his back, looking up in surprised pain as people scurried over to give conflicting advice, seeing the unblinking, deep eye-blue sky staring down at his shock whitened face while his blood cried out in deep, patriotic red. He had subsequently been situated in a nearby healer’s institution, the back and forth business of succor and death moving all around him with occasional attentive blessings from Angelic Beings who nursed him away from the Dark Gates of Oblivion and otherwise left him on his own. A full frontal charge from a Ranking Officer was held in ceremonial dignity and pomp, with a stiff, “Tough luck, kid,” offered as gruff obligatory fulfillment of responsibility, followed by a quick retreat. It was never made clear if this Officer was the same whose vehicle had taken such a spontaneous dislike to the man, or if it was a randomly performed mission, met and checked off a list of many such actions, by whoever had had such duty at that time.
He was sent home, discharged with a ‘Job Well Done’ citation and a token monthly stipend, then otherwise forgotten by his country. He convalesced and lived with his mother in the house where he had been raised, in a neighborhood just outside the moving streets and towering aisles of The City. His father had died years ago in an industrial accident at the factory where he worked, sacrificed to the Gods of Progress on the Altar of Efficiency, revered as an Example of Safety Reform Implementation by his co-workers and enshrined as a bland statistic in a corporate filing cabinet. A representative of The Company had come by the house soon after the accident, said that her husband had been a good worker and had not complained, proffered deep and sincerely memorized scripted sympathies, handed her an envelope with some money in it collected by his co-workers and left. Since then she had reverted to Nature to support her small needs by growing flowers in the back yard and selling them to nearby restaurants and stores.
The man stayed with his mother, offered sacrifice of his time and labors to the same local factory to which his father had been obligated, and had given his life. Although his wounded leg would occasionally cry out for mercy and distract him he was able to fulfill his Duties as Citizen and was thus ignored by the Powers that Be. He took care of his mother when she became too old and frail to sell her flowers, giving the Authorities no reason to take notice, and after she died he lived alone in the house. He worked at the factory for many more years until, as the times changed and the needs of society focused on new diversions, the factory closed and he was let go. His leg had begun to complain to him more often and so he wasn’t terribly disappointed. He had saved a little money and he still received his monthly stipend from the government, and so, since his needs were few, he was able to keep the house and continue with his life.
Over time, the neighborhood had gradually changed and evolved as The City had grown, spreading like a concrete, steel and glass garden without a conscientious gardener to guide, cultivate or weed, until the towering, lifeless plants and shrubs of urbania engulfed his neighborhood with progress and development. Most of the other houses in the area, yielding to the needs of the moment, were torn down and replaced by high rise buildings, shops and parking lots. The scenes of the comfortably familiar city became less comforting and less familiar as he grew older, became more and more a place of confusion, motion and noise that scared and intimidated the man. The people he once knew passed on and disappeared, and the people that now surrounded him, that flowed and passed by him like water around a protruding rock in a cold stream, were ever changing yet always the same, strangers who would look at him with suspicion or contempt if they noticed him at all.
And now, decades later, he was an old man walking down the endless street that stretched from the past into the future, coming home to the house which was momentarily held in the stasis between stability and progress, familiarity and change, where he had a last bastion against the encroachment of civilization’s impetus. He had been to the park a few blocks away where his parents had taken him as a small child to run and play in the wide open-spaced sunshine. The park was now trimmed, folded and tucked neatly into a small triangle between busy streets and haughty buildings, but the afternoon sunshine still found its way to gaze upon the small patch of grass, trees and lone bench where the man would sit, soaking in the bright, comforting warmth. And when the sun would all too quickly move on to its business further west, the man slowly, painfully walked back home, hobbling slow and steady, with his stiffened serpent in his hand, biting and gnawing yet giving support against his shrieking leg. He paid little heed to the city around him, the children who made fun of him, the prostitute who laughed at him, the others who, for their own reasons, ignored him in reflected self-absorption. Night was coming and they all would be lost to inconsequential significance in the encompassing darkness.
The man came to his house, walked up the front steps, fished in his pocket for his key, fumbled a moment with the lock, turned the handle, opened, stepped inside and closed the door behind.
The door looked out at the endless street, snarled once and was quiet.
Showing posts with label short story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label short story. Show all posts
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Sunday, May 3, 2009
All in the Mind
All in the Mind
Two hermit monks were each meditating on adjacent mountain tops. Neither acknowledged the other as they sat for many years. Then suddenly, on a warm, sunny afternoon, one called out to the other, “Are you a product of my imagination or am I a product of yours?”
The second monk called right back, “Neither, we are each the product of our own imagination.”
And so they sat and meditated in silence while the years slipped by, neither realizing that as soon as I stop writing about them, your imagination will soon move on and they will be gone.
Written by Michael Steven Platt Posted 5-03-09
Two hermit monks were each meditating on adjacent mountain tops. Neither acknowledged the other as they sat for many years. Then suddenly, on a warm, sunny afternoon, one called out to the other, “Are you a product of my imagination or am I a product of yours?”
The second monk called right back, “Neither, we are each the product of our own imagination.”
And so they sat and meditated in silence while the years slipped by, neither realizing that as soon as I stop writing about them, your imagination will soon move on and they will be gone.
Written by Michael Steven Platt Posted 5-03-09
Friday, April 17, 2009
The Loney Puddle
Here's a story I 'borrowed' from my book Endless Shifting Sand.
The Lonely Puddle
Arnold the puddle was lonely. There were no other puddles nearby to give him company and no other friendly creatures around, either. There was only a rock, just at his moist fringes, but, being a rock, he was quite taciturn.
“Hello!” said Arnold, trying to strike up conversation.
“Hmph,” grunted the rock, stonily.
“It certainly is a nice day today!” responded Arnold at this notice the rock bestowed upon him.
“Hmph,” repeated the rock.
“Maybe it’ll rain,” quipped Arnold hopefully, wanting to keep this friendly chat rolling along.
“Go jump inna lake,” grumbled the rock.
“Thank you!” sloshed Arnold, taking great pleasure in this compliment and getting so excited that he began seeping out, touching the rock.
“Hey!” exclaimed the rock, “Whaddaya doin’?”
“I’m spreading my happiness at finding a friend to talk to,” said Arnold.
“Aww… yer all wet,” glummed the rock.
“Oh, you sure have a nice way with words, Mr. Rock …I like you, too!”
“Dry up, will ya?”
“Oh … dear,” said Arnold, and he thought that perhaps he had somehow offended his new friend. He became so worried that he pulled away from the rock and tried to think of something cheery to say, in hopes of making amends. Putting his best reflection up, he said, “It sure does look like rain.”
“Dry up!” repeated the rock, gruffly.
Arnold was so hurt by this insult that he forgot his manners and, without thinking, blurted out, “Oh, you hard guy!”
The rock replied in surprise, “Why … thank you…” but Arnold only sniffed wetly to himself, feeling very lonely as the first few drops of rain began to fall.
Written by Michael Steven Platt years ago, but posted 4-17-09
The Lonely Puddle
Arnold the puddle was lonely. There were no other puddles nearby to give him company and no other friendly creatures around, either. There was only a rock, just at his moist fringes, but, being a rock, he was quite taciturn.
“Hello!” said Arnold, trying to strike up conversation.
“Hmph,” grunted the rock, stonily.
“It certainly is a nice day today!” responded Arnold at this notice the rock bestowed upon him.
“Hmph,” repeated the rock.
“Maybe it’ll rain,” quipped Arnold hopefully, wanting to keep this friendly chat rolling along.
“Go jump inna lake,” grumbled the rock.
“Thank you!” sloshed Arnold, taking great pleasure in this compliment and getting so excited that he began seeping out, touching the rock.
“Hey!” exclaimed the rock, “Whaddaya doin’?”
“I’m spreading my happiness at finding a friend to talk to,” said Arnold.
“Aww… yer all wet,” glummed the rock.
“Oh, you sure have a nice way with words, Mr. Rock …I like you, too!”
“Dry up, will ya?”
“Oh … dear,” said Arnold, and he thought that perhaps he had somehow offended his new friend. He became so worried that he pulled away from the rock and tried to think of something cheery to say, in hopes of making amends. Putting his best reflection up, he said, “It sure does look like rain.”
“Dry up!” repeated the rock, gruffly.
Arnold was so hurt by this insult that he forgot his manners and, without thinking, blurted out, “Oh, you hard guy!”
The rock replied in surprise, “Why … thank you…” but Arnold only sniffed wetly to himself, feeling very lonely as the first few drops of rain began to fall.
Written by Michael Steven Platt years ago, but posted 4-17-09
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
I Wish to Dust Off and Offer an Old Story
The crash alarms suddenly shriek bright panic, lights blare loud and sharp, the air explodes with smoke and chaos as the very words you are reading shake your mind like a Molotov cocktail on the rocks of tomorrow where the future spins out of control and burns in the wishes of today’s forgotten dreams. I frantically sit at the keyboard, fighting sudden panic as I quickly jump into the endless space of my imagination, rummage in the cardboard box on the floor of the closet in the back of my mind to try and find a catchy lead in to my latest story, but all the noise and commotion is rather distracting, so I get up, walk over and turn the television off, sit back down and read what I’ve written thus far. Hmmm... could be a bit confusing, but if I can somehow transition from the abrupt and violent first sentence into the second sentence, where I give an offhand explanation that not only explains and removes the violence but puts me at the keyboard typing, I think I can bring it all together in a summarizing third sentence and wind up the paragraph with little harm done.
As I type my away at my story, trying to somehow come up with an original, exciting and eye-catching opening, my mind races ahead to the second paragraph where I will segue from the introductory segment into an oblique reference to the main story by way of a clever and moderately humorous secondary tale that actually appears first and thus takes the reader by surprise. I sit back to mull this thought over, and, as I do, I look around at my work area noticing that it is somewhat unkempt and messy. I pull my attentions away from my writing and take a closer look, running my hand lightly across the top of my desk to see faint lines appear, trailing my touch like finger paints, and I realize that the desk is dusty. Gracious! I know that my concentration maintains acute, directed focus toward my work (as I write this, I pause with the thought that I could order a pizza for dinner, get up out of my chair, walk over and look around on the door of the refrigerator for the magnet that has the delivery number on it. I have to hunt rather carefully among the dozens of delightfully designed art magnets that decorate with such bright and snappy flair, stopping to look at a few and remembering when I created the drawings from which they were made, then see my two elongated oblong magnets are stuck there also. So I pull them off, place them in my right hand far enough apart that they don’t snap onto each other, and then toss them up into the air. They come together with a resounding clack and vibrant buzz as their hard attraction joins them in a series of miniscule bounces which sounds like some kind of outer space ray gun: Z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z! Cool! I do this a few more time before dropping them and then having to get down on my hands and knees to reach under the refrigerator ...sheesh, doesn’t anybody dust under here? As I grab my errant toys, I suddenly recall my dusty desk, quickly stand up, intending to get right back to the matter at hand, and handily slap the magnets back onto the fridge. But in doing so, knock off some papers stuck up there under some of the other magnets, dropping them to the floor. I bend to pick these up and see that one is a note for me to call my brother to ask if I can stay with him when I am in town for a volleyball tournament next month. I decide that this is important enough to warrant special attention, so I stick it back on the door, but use the two oblong magnets instead of a flat one. There! Much more noticeable! Satisfied by a responsibility well handled, I return to my desk, sit down and get back to typing. ...ummm, where was I? oh yes: ) and does not easily yield to distractions (I suddenly look up, remember the pizza, push out of my chair, rush to the fridge, find the number, make the call {deep dish, mushroom and onions}
I sit and sputter, knee deep in fresh dust, swirls and clouds of the stuff settling all around, and I hear a voice call out from somewhere, “Be careful what you wish for.” I silently acknowledge this sage advice and, since I can’t see my keyboard to continue on for the moment, offer you this story for today’s entertainment. Take it in stride.
Master Bishu and the Genie
Bishu was out walking along the beach in Tibet one fine summer day when he noticed something unusual sticking out of the sand. He walked over to it, saw that it was some kind of handle, reached down and pulled it out to find it was an old, tarnished oil lamp.
“Hmmm...” he mused, “this looks interesting.”
He rubbed the sand off of it and, as he did, it suddenly grew warm and began to shake. Smoke started coming out of the spout, growing thick very fast and billowing up in the air.
“My goodness,” Bishu said, raising his eyebrows in surprise.
The dark smoke coalesced to become a cloud above him, gradually solidifying, colors and patterns appearing within the forming shapes until he could see a humanoid figure rising, stretching, reaching two large and powerful looking arms to the sky.
“Well, well,” murmured Bishu, quite fascinated by all this.
The lower part of the figure was still smoke and cloud, but up from there it had transformed into bright purple pantaloons, a red vest over its bare, blue-skinned, muscular chest, a thickly muscled neck holding a large oval head, pointed ears decorated with golden rings, and above it all, a sparkling yellow turban. A fiercely scowling face bared knife-like teeth below the two steaming nostril slits as its single flaming eye looked down upon the small figure of Bishu, still standing holding the lamp in his hands. The two tree sized arms slowly lowered until the gnarled hands with razor-nailed fingers were poised on either side of Bishu, like living, malevolent walls.
With a further cloud of noxious steam emanating from its mouth, the creature spoke in a thunderous voice, “I AM THE GENIE OF THE LAMP.”
“How do you do?” said Bishu right away, “ I’m Bishu.”
The Genie looked taken aback for a moment, then again spoke, “I HAVE SPENT TEN THOUSAND YEARS IMPRISONED IN THE LAMP. YOU HAVE RELEASED ME BY RUBBING IT. I WOULD SQUASH YOU LIKE A BUG, BUT I AM PLEASED TO BE SET FREE, SO I WILL GRANT YOU THREE WISHES AND SPARE YOUR PUNY LIFE.”
Bishu looked up at the Genie, looked down at the lamp in his hands, looked back up at the Genie and said, “How’s that again?”
The Genie scowled even deeper and his eye burned bright.
“I WILL SPARE YOUR LIFE AND GRANT YOU THREE WISHES BEFORE I LEAVE TO WREAK HAVOC ON THIS MISERABLE WORLD. WHAT ARE YOUR WISHES?”
Bishu looked up to the Genie,
“Wow. Three wishes, huh?”
“THREE!”
“Well, how ‘bout that,” Bishu mused, holding onto the lamp with one hand while scratching the back of his head with the other.
“MAKE YOUR WISHES NOW! OR DO YOU WISH TO DIE INSTEAD?” bellowed the Genie
“No, no,” laughed Bishu, “all in good time for that, I’m sure,”
He looked up at the Genie and said, “Y’know, you seem to be quite a nice fellow, but you have some anger issues that could be resolved.”
“WISH!” thundered the Genie.
Bishu raised his eyebrows and said, “Gee, I wish you had a more pleasant disposition. You’d make a lot more friends that way, you know.”
The Genie looked startled for a moment, then said, “OH. I’M SORRY. I DIDN’T MEAN TO GET ANGRY. IT’S JUST THAT BEING COOPED UP IN THAT LAMP FOR SO LONG HAD MADE ME A BIT GRUMPY. PLEASE FORGIVE ME.”
Bishu nodded understandingly and replied, “Of course, no offense taken!” then smiled and said, “I wish you enjoyed being cooped up in this lamp,” waving the thing up at the Genie, “so that you wouldn’t get so cranky when you come out. Don’t you think life would be better that way?”
The Genie again looked startled, and then somewhat anxious, saying, “UM, EXCUSE ME, MISTER BISHU, SIR, BUT COULD YOU PLEASE HURRY UP WITH YOUR THIRD WISH. I’D LIKE TO GET BACK INTO MY LAMP AS QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE.”
Bishu bowed to the toweringly timid Genie and said, “Of course! I apologize. If that’s what you truly want, why then I wish for it as well!”
And with that there was a sucking rush of air pulling the cloud formed Genie back into the lamp, its face showing a delightedly relieved smile.
All alone again on the beach, Bishu shrugged, tossed the lamp over his shoulder and continued on his walk, mumbling to himself, “I wonder if there are any seashells around here...”
Okay, I’ve dug myself (and my keyboard) out of the dust and am able to type again. The room still needs a bit of cleanup, but I’m sure that with a swipe or two of a damp cloth, things will be good as new. I hope you didn’t get caught in the fallout of my ill-conceived wish, but if so I apologize. In the future I will try to remember to follow the offered advice and be most careful what I wish for. In light of this thought I immediately set it to the test and wish you a most pleasant day!
Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-08-09
As I type my away at my story, trying to somehow come up with an original, exciting and eye-catching opening, my mind races ahead to the second paragraph where I will segue from the introductory segment into an oblique reference to the main story by way of a clever and moderately humorous secondary tale that actually appears first and thus takes the reader by surprise. I sit back to mull this thought over, and, as I do, I look around at my work area noticing that it is somewhat unkempt and messy. I pull my attentions away from my writing and take a closer look, running my hand lightly across the top of my desk to see faint lines appear, trailing my touch like finger paints, and I realize that the desk is dusty. Gracious! I know that my concentration maintains acute, directed focus toward my work (as I write this, I pause with the thought that I could order a pizza for dinner, get up out of my chair, walk over and look around on the door of the refrigerator for the magnet that has the delivery number on it. I have to hunt rather carefully among the dozens of delightfully designed art magnets that decorate with such bright and snappy flair, stopping to look at a few and remembering when I created the drawings from which they were made, then see my two elongated oblong magnets are stuck there also. So I pull them off, place them in my right hand far enough apart that they don’t snap onto each other, and then toss them up into the air. They come together with a resounding clack and vibrant buzz as their hard attraction joins them in a series of miniscule bounces which sounds like some kind of outer space ray gun: Z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z! Cool! I do this a few more time before dropping them and then having to get down on my hands and knees to reach under the refrigerator ...sheesh, doesn’t anybody dust under here? As I grab my errant toys, I suddenly recall my dusty desk, quickly stand up, intending to get right back to the matter at hand, and handily slap the magnets back onto the fridge. But in doing so, knock off some papers stuck up there under some of the other magnets, dropping them to the floor. I bend to pick these up and see that one is a note for me to call my brother to ask if I can stay with him when I am in town for a volleyball tournament next month. I decide that this is important enough to warrant special attention, so I stick it back on the door, but use the two oblong magnets instead of a flat one. There! Much more noticeable! Satisfied by a responsibility well handled, I return to my desk, sit down and get back to typing. ...ummm, where was I? oh yes: ) and does not easily yield to distractions (I suddenly look up, remember the pizza, push out of my chair, rush to the fridge, find the number, make the call {deep dish, mushroom and onions}
I sit and sputter, knee deep in fresh dust, swirls and clouds of the stuff settling all around, and I hear a voice call out from somewhere, “Be careful what you wish for.” I silently acknowledge this sage advice and, since I can’t see my keyboard to continue on for the moment, offer you this story for today’s entertainment. Take it in stride.
Master Bishu and the Genie
Bishu was out walking along the beach in Tibet one fine summer day when he noticed something unusual sticking out of the sand. He walked over to it, saw that it was some kind of handle, reached down and pulled it out to find it was an old, tarnished oil lamp.
“Hmmm...” he mused, “this looks interesting.”
He rubbed the sand off of it and, as he did, it suddenly grew warm and began to shake. Smoke started coming out of the spout, growing thick very fast and billowing up in the air.
“My goodness,” Bishu said, raising his eyebrows in surprise.
The dark smoke coalesced to become a cloud above him, gradually solidifying, colors and patterns appearing within the forming shapes until he could see a humanoid figure rising, stretching, reaching two large and powerful looking arms to the sky.
“Well, well,” murmured Bishu, quite fascinated by all this.
The lower part of the figure was still smoke and cloud, but up from there it had transformed into bright purple pantaloons, a red vest over its bare, blue-skinned, muscular chest, a thickly muscled neck holding a large oval head, pointed ears decorated with golden rings, and above it all, a sparkling yellow turban. A fiercely scowling face bared knife-like teeth below the two steaming nostril slits as its single flaming eye looked down upon the small figure of Bishu, still standing holding the lamp in his hands. The two tree sized arms slowly lowered until the gnarled hands with razor-nailed fingers were poised on either side of Bishu, like living, malevolent walls.
With a further cloud of noxious steam emanating from its mouth, the creature spoke in a thunderous voice, “I AM THE GENIE OF THE LAMP.”
“How do you do?” said Bishu right away, “ I’m Bishu.”
The Genie looked taken aback for a moment, then again spoke, “I HAVE SPENT TEN THOUSAND YEARS IMPRISONED IN THE LAMP. YOU HAVE RELEASED ME BY RUBBING IT. I WOULD SQUASH YOU LIKE A BUG, BUT I AM PLEASED TO BE SET FREE, SO I WILL GRANT YOU THREE WISHES AND SPARE YOUR PUNY LIFE.”
Bishu looked up at the Genie, looked down at the lamp in his hands, looked back up at the Genie and said, “How’s that again?”
The Genie scowled even deeper and his eye burned bright.
“I WILL SPARE YOUR LIFE AND GRANT YOU THREE WISHES BEFORE I LEAVE TO WREAK HAVOC ON THIS MISERABLE WORLD. WHAT ARE YOUR WISHES?”
Bishu looked up to the Genie,
“Wow. Three wishes, huh?”
“THREE!”
“Well, how ‘bout that,” Bishu mused, holding onto the lamp with one hand while scratching the back of his head with the other.
“MAKE YOUR WISHES NOW! OR DO YOU WISH TO DIE INSTEAD?” bellowed the Genie
“No, no,” laughed Bishu, “all in good time for that, I’m sure,”
He looked up at the Genie and said, “Y’know, you seem to be quite a nice fellow, but you have some anger issues that could be resolved.”
“WISH!” thundered the Genie.
Bishu raised his eyebrows and said, “Gee, I wish you had a more pleasant disposition. You’d make a lot more friends that way, you know.”
The Genie looked startled for a moment, then said, “OH. I’M SORRY. I DIDN’T MEAN TO GET ANGRY. IT’S JUST THAT BEING COOPED UP IN THAT LAMP FOR SO LONG HAD MADE ME A BIT GRUMPY. PLEASE FORGIVE ME.”
Bishu nodded understandingly and replied, “Of course, no offense taken!” then smiled and said, “I wish you enjoyed being cooped up in this lamp,” waving the thing up at the Genie, “so that you wouldn’t get so cranky when you come out. Don’t you think life would be better that way?”
The Genie again looked startled, and then somewhat anxious, saying, “UM, EXCUSE ME, MISTER BISHU, SIR, BUT COULD YOU PLEASE HURRY UP WITH YOUR THIRD WISH. I’D LIKE TO GET BACK INTO MY LAMP AS QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE.”
Bishu bowed to the toweringly timid Genie and said, “Of course! I apologize. If that’s what you truly want, why then I wish for it as well!”
And with that there was a sucking rush of air pulling the cloud formed Genie back into the lamp, its face showing a delightedly relieved smile.
All alone again on the beach, Bishu shrugged, tossed the lamp over his shoulder and continued on his walk, mumbling to himself, “I wonder if there are any seashells around here...”
Okay, I’ve dug myself (and my keyboard) out of the dust and am able to type again. The room still needs a bit of cleanup, but I’m sure that with a swipe or two of a damp cloth, things will be good as new. I hope you didn’t get caught in the fallout of my ill-conceived wish, but if so I apologize. In the future I will try to remember to follow the offered advice and be most careful what I wish for. In light of this thought I immediately set it to the test and wish you a most pleasant day!
Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-08-09
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