by Alfy Dade
They walked and they talked. Through the night, they held each other, not in body but in mind. He could little look away from her. Her long hair bounced with every step, imprisoning his attention. He watched the solitary strands play with each other, they intertwined and jumped gently to and fro. Her beauty was truly great, but it was the least attractive thing about her. Her smile made a novel warmth spread through his body. Like a severe and unwelcome episode of heartburn, it made his insides churn. He needed her.
He could tell just by looking at her that she wanted him, her glancing touches, her shy smiles, and purposefully pointed feet, it all sent shivers down his spine. Their chemistry was something he'd neither felt nor seen before, with as much intensity as the stars his passion burned brightly. He was determined to have her. He was determined to be hers, he was determined that it was right.
“Ugh, another one of these idiots,” she thought to herself on a cold winter's eve. She feigned interest, at least that way he wouldn't go crazy and scream-y. She would not kiss him though, and she certainly would not sleep with him. Maybe she'd hug him, but more likely just shake hands. Perhaps she would turn this into a short story about unrequited love. Yes, that would be quite ironic, but under her pen name, A. Mohiruto, only then would jackasses like the one in front of her part with precious dollars in hopes of finding their very own predestined love scuppered somewhere between prolix lines. Meanwhile, she would feign interest in his tales, which seemed to vacillate uncertainly between Kakure Kirishitans or some fool called Larry's latest televised mishaps.
All the while a fly fought for its survival in a nearby soup.
16 – He Sat
He sat on a bench. What now? He eyed the brown case which he'd put down on the ground next to him. He didn't know what the next step would be, all he knew was anxiety and fear, unsure of who he was, and unsure of what he was doing. He picked up the case and placed it on his lap, all the while maintaining a shifty gaze.
He nervously placed his index finger on one side of the clasp release, and his thumb on the other. He applied even pressure and lifted up the wider, top part of the case. It revealed a crowd of emerald green keys inscribed with ivory letters. On the right, above them, the maker's mark announced he was using a genuine Smith-Corona. The carriage return said 'Super', and boy it sure was. The only problem now was what to write? He decided to write about a universe in which a guy, not unlike him, wrote. He looked around for inspiration but found little in the mundanity of life. Being the clever boy he was, he pondered life instead, its meaning, its purpose, and goals. Thoroughly uninspired, as usual, he realized there was very little worth writing about anyway. Very little would remain, all would die and be forgotten. Inevitably and invariably crushed by the universe's unknown mass. It didn't matter, anything would alleviate his wretched thoughts. He fed in his paper, half a sheet, aligned with the carriage, and he began to type:
“He sat on the bench, 'What now?' He thought to himself. He eyed the brown case he'd laid upon the bench, right next to him. He didn't know what the next step would be, all he knew was anxiety and fear, unsure of who he was, and of what he was doing. He picked up the case and placed it on his knees, his eyes shifted back and forth.
Anxious, he placed his fingers either side of the clasp release. He applied even pressure and lifted the top, wider part of the case. It revealed a mob of grass green keys, on them cream colored letters. In the corner, branding shouted loudly that he was using a Smith-Corona. The return said 'Super'. Right...super fake maybe. He raised a suspicious eyebrow at the lifeless machine. Now what? He decided to write about a world in which a guy, not unlike him, had a brown case, not unlike his. He turned his head right and left, hoping to find an inkling of inspiration. He found none in the plain boringness of his surroundings. Being a smartass, he pondered life instead. The big why. Now ironically inspired, as usual, he realized very few things needed to end, but his story did:
“The man with the brown case sighed as he opened it. Inside gray padding hugged the exotic curves of a shining pistol. He wrapped his hand around it, enjoying the sensuality of the textured metal. He closed his eyes and brought it to his skull. The frigid firearm grazed his ear, sending a chill down his spine, and making his clammy hands wetter still. Little would remain, all would die and be forgotten. It didn't matter, anything could alleviate his wretched thoughts. Click. He brought it back down, all the while trembling with fear, now knowing the strength that he'd had. He pulled out the clip,fed lead past the lips, and brought it back up to his head. He trembled now harder, his lip quaked inconsolably. Sadness welled up in his throat. He couldn't cry, that was too much, too melodramatic too melancholy, the frog lodged firmly in his gullet wouldn't let him. It yearned to jump into the rivers pouring forth from his eyes So instead he breathed harder, and harder, and harder still. Weakness slowly started creeping in. He wasn't sure anymore. He breathed harder still. He didn't know if what he did was right. Such thoughts were, of course, madness, for most assuredly it was. Now panting like a beast, he straightened his back, remembering imagined lessons which he'd lacked. He clenched his eyes harder as man fought against himself. One's will against his nature.”
The writer who wrote finally worked up the courage, emboldened by the length of his story. He held the gun tight, and his index finger came back. With a bang, his life was done & he had gained glory. Now the writer who wrote lay on the ground, next to his typewriter, twitching less and less. Dead in time for the end of the page.
17 – Soulmates
Every time he thought of her his chest tightened, his stomach churned, and an idiotic smile overcame his stylish brooding. He couldn't help it. He couldn't. It wasn't a choice – she was almost a curse. But he liked it. He enjoyed thinking about how sweet and kind she was, about how heartily she laughed, about how lovingly she looked at him. She felt the same and had said as much earlier. He experienced a giddiness which he had long not felt. He was beset by ecstasy each time he looked at his phone's screen. He could move mountains for her, she needed only ask.
“Let’s run away" she texted, with a happy smiley at the end.
"Let's” he typed back, adding a cheeky wink. Every time they were together others looked on jealously. Powerful envy, from absolute strangers, was made them uncomfortable each time they went out. It was clear to all who saw them that they were meant for one another. Even skeptics, who insisted that soul mates were but societal hallucinations, created out of desperation by those who did not understand statistics and feared being alone, even those people acquiesced and knew.
They had not known each other long, only a few days, but even so their situation was clear to both of them. He lay on his bed, remembering their first embrace, remembering their first kiss, and remembering the first time that their eyes had met. It was too early, that was for sure, but he loved her all the same.
She lay on her bed, pondering and recalling those same moments. With such timing that even the world's foremost percussionist would have been impressed, they reached for their phones. They had to speak. They had to hear each other. They had to feel the unbridled joy provoked by one another. They spoke, for hours and hours they spoke. They talked about music, about politics, about food, and about sex. All the while blissfully unaware.
In a year, they'd gotten married, in two they'd replicated, in three they'd even bought a house. It was in that fateful fourth year that disaster would strike. Their child, a fragile being, would be forthrightly crushed by a pane of poorly installed glass. It will happen as they walk down the street, hand in hand in hand, ever the happy family. As their child skips, the pane will slip and fall. He won't know what to do so he'll hold her bloodied body tight against his and whisper “Be brave”. She won't stop crying though, she will be too pained. She will clutch the body of her progeny, and then he'll clutch his chest. His arm will stiffen, and then she'll have to stop crying all alone.
18 – To Care Or Not To Care
Why should she care? Everybody always dema
nded that she care about every damn little thing out there. What did it matter to her if people starved? It didn't concern her in the slightest. She didn't understand why everyone seemed so enthralled by every morbid story they came across, why their attentions were easily captured and yet easily lost too. She simply didn't understand. Even world leaders feigned caring. In some ways, she thought it funny. Despite the faux empathy and real pity, people didn't care. The irony of celebrities speaking about African orphans from cavernous cliffside mansions struck her. Heartless, cold, uncaring, bitch, an imbecile, an ass, a social Darwinist. All things which she had been called. She could not comprehend it. She spent most of her time alone, minding her own business, as did everyone else, the only difference was that she was outwardly honest about her views. Money mattered not to her, so she led a simple life.
All claimed to care, but what is caring without action? Empty words, empty gestures, and empty cash-filled wallets, nothing more. As more tricksters built more houses for their friends, the sick and poor watch another unaffordable neighborhood appeared. Why should she care? Would it not be of more benefit to just to live her own life instead? Surely it would. Then again, wouldn't that make her less human, less kind, less alive? That was what she had always been told...it must then be true. To care or not to care, twas that which so often befuddled her. Would she bow down to the will and demands of society? Would she feign resistance with great insistence only to soon after forget her emotion? It was an outrageous fortune which had seen so many lives belittled, but such was life, and her feigned empathy would neither fix nor even serve as slightest solace. It would merely remind the remainder of a painful memory which they strove to forget. It didn't matter anyway, not in the end.
What drove most to claim they truly care were selfish interests. They desired to fit in, to have friends, to feel good without doing anything of value, all the while basking in mass adulation. For what? For more to come and view the pale cadaver left behind? For more flowers to be lain on the grave for longer? For more tears, for more sadness, that those others might pretend that they too care? She would not go down this path. The best way to show she cared was not to care at all. Her burial would not be well attended indeed she would no longer even be able to afford a richly-grained coffin, not after having given away so much. Rachel didn't care. This was true, but she was at least honest. Her stone was spartan, left simple to preserve what wealth remained for those who lived and struggled still. Her weathered coins were for the worthy, not her own joy, they always had been.
19 – The Flower Bringer
Every year on this day the flower bringer carries with him a single pink lily.
Every year on this day he lays it by her resting head.
Every year on this day he sheds tears over an ever smaller mound of dirt.
Every year on this day the flower bringer sits, alone, and remembers the past.
Every year on this day the flower bringer begs to feel again; yearning for respite from an emotionless purgatory.
Every year on this day, the flower bringer contemplates the passing of the years.
Every year on this day the flower bringer sighs at the immutability of everything and everyone.
Every day the flower bringer realizes he has not changed.
As years pass by and the world turns, people predestined to repeat mistakes of yore live and die.
This year on this day, the flower bringer wilts, destined to bring flowers no more. Her resting place is now and will forever more be barren, a sole stone its only marker. That stone too shall crack, shall break, and disappear, as will the flower bringer's too after.
Eventually, they will perish and be forgotten; nothing more thna typos in the play of the universe.
20 – The Green Moth
Once upon a time, there was a butterfly. The butterfly was very beautiful, so much so that wherever she would fly, everyone and everything would turn to point & stare, stunned by the sight of her. She was a smart butterfly too, she lived a great many years without being hurt or eaten, no mean feat for such a fragile fluttering speck.
One day she came across a large orchard. She had seen many orchards, but none as big or as beautiful as this one. In it, there were flowers of every size, shape, and color. There were blue flowers; there were red flowers. There were big flowers; there were small flowers. There were flowers that gave off an aroma so soothing, so sweet, and so enchanting, that highways of bees buzzed to them in furious columns; then there were those which did not smell, but instead were among the most beautiful in the orchard. They had thousands upon thousands of gossamer petals. Each petal was a different color, each glowed with the iridescence of fish's scales beneath a scintilla of sun, each beckoning the massing mellifera.
There were some flowers which were neither intoxicating nor beautiful, but they were special in their own way. Some had thick stems which could be woven together so as to build useful things. Others grew pungent healing buds. Others still were plain, and small, they went unnoticed easily; they were the most special of flowers; they could talk, and they could think, indeed they could even feel. The butterfly had never been happier, she knew she would remain in this orchard forever. The magical fruit on the trees were rather good too, supposedly they brought love, though none could fathom how. Some said that this was the garden of Aphrodite, the others...well, not many knew about the garden, so most had nothing to say at all.
The butterfly spent many happy years in the orchard, learning what each flower was. Learning how each bug behaved, ever curious, ever thirsting for knowledge and wisdom. One day a great brown, moth the size of a fist, found the orchard. Curiously, it flew mainly in the day, something most unusual. Moths, the butterfly knew, only flew through daylight if they were depressed. And indeed, so it was.
The moth always worried for he was nothing more than a moth. He hated that people hated him because of that, it made him mad. Why could the wretched others just not let him be? He had no harm in mind for them. Yet each time they swatted, each time they yelled; they hated him. He surveyed the great orchard from above, he saw its beauty and flew a few inches lower, for he knew he could not belong among such elysian bowers.
The emerald butterfly floated up to the moth breezily, she told him about the special, and sacred, nature of everything in the orchard, and that sadness was the sole thing prohibited therein. A nearby flower, one with a fly upon its stem, swung lightly in the wind. Bizarrely the moth was no longer sad, he did not know how such things were possible but his burden was lightened, and he flew accordingly higher, many feet so. The moth was entranced by the flying green shard, he could not bear to be burdened so, not around such a perfect creature. A pang of jealousy shot through the moth's wing veins.
The moth and the butterfly spent many wonderful days together, slowly realizing that they were, if not birds of a feather, at least insects of a shape. The butterfly cared a lot about the moth and often tried to cheer it up. She tried to keep it from being sad about its dull brown nature Normally it worked flawlessly, and the moth fluttered about, happy enough on his own at night. He needed only momentary cheering from the butterfly every now and then. The moth was joyful, for it too had a special purpose there, without it the night flowers, of which there were many, would be all alone, and eventually be no more at all. The moth did not sleep, he felt no need to in that mystic orchard; he thought too much about the butterfly. When time to sleep came he would find the tall wakeful plant, and rub his wings against its powdery stem. At night the moth was the garden's king; the best, brightest, biggest, most beautiful of the all nocturnal insects. It was his kingdom, yet he was uninterested in its governance.
During the day, the moth plotted and schemed, though he was joyful he could not bear the butterfly's beauty much longer. She was green and stunning, a floating gem, and what was he? A discarded cloth, jerkily blown by wind's cold currents, that's what. He hid beneath well skirted plants conspiring, he would sort it all out, soon enough. He too wanted to be emerald gree
n, beloved and beholden by all.
He was particularly upset when the butterfly spoke to the beautiful flowers. He feared that whatever he might do the butterfly would find someone or something better and more beautiful than he. The butterfly saw these tinges and joked with the moth that perhaps he should be green instead of her. Normally that sufficed to raise his spirits. She cared for the month, deeply so, but those comments terrorized his soul. He never told her, but they haunted him, with waking dreams of his own transformation into a green jewel. He despaired at being unable to be himself. At least, the moth thought, at least he would have her. But this too was frustrated, for the butterfly knew that she was destined to be free. She knew that separate species could never mate, and so that they could never be.
One day the moth could take no more. He remembered the butterfly's taunt — that he be green instead of her. He would. He would show her, he would be the green one, he would be one everyone loved. Finally, he would be the one everyone looked at. He knew how too. He would take her green, then she would see the torment he endured, let her try to be happy then. No other green would suffice, no other green was as beautiful or as heartrendingly intense as hers. Sadly, the moth was more cruel than he was dumb. The moth found a rose, the most beautiful of all which bore the sharpest of thorns. He carefully snapped them off, giving the rose a thick coat instead, one spun from caterpillar thread so that it might finally hug its friends without hurting them, a fair trade for both.
As the butterfly slept, the moth flew to her. He ignored the night plants and went to start his wretched misdeed instead. He took a thorn, and slowly cut a green section from the butterfly's wings with it. He winced as he cut a similar section from his own. He momentarily realised the panels above him, like pieces of stained church glass, then carefully swapped them in. Impatient, he flew to a drop and to check his reflection in its aqueous aether. Oh wow. Oh heavens. Finally, he began to be beautiful. The moth took one more look to make sure it was real, then flew back quick to continue his villainy. The green panel felt strange in his wings, it was much lighter than his heavy brown scales. The moth worked to control his flight, he found the imbalance troubling. He wondered if it was right to do this, but he didn't wonder long, for soon he was back by the butterfly and beautylust which drove him mad set in once more.
