pavleruzin - Tumblr blog

pavleruzin · 2 years

Text

The Fool's Journey:

The Fool

Malina Tamayo Townsend wasn’t really an oracle, although she would claim otherwise if someone would question the authenticity of her profession. She knew that people like her, augurs, fortune-tellers, and seers, were all just charlatans. Lying and deceiving people for money.

However, Malina didn’t have any problems sleeping knowing that fact. A lot of people that came to her knew she was a fraud, but that didn’t stop them from flocking to her tent. Many people wanted, no, needed to hear comforting words. She’d tell them how their loved ones abroad were safe, their late family members were proud, and how their decisions, whatever they might be, were the right ones. When she was done, customers were happy and content and Malina got a few coins to buy some food (and whiskey).

Church-goers didn’t agree with her, though. Especially priests and religious old hags who didn’t dare wear two different types of textile at the same moment. The latter gave her trouble from time to time. Malina thought that the old hags would rather have her burned at the stake, much more than the clergy. The churchmen could be bribed if anything. Old religious hags couldn’t.

Another thing that gave her more trouble than she deserved was her ethnicity. Malina was a gypsy, and although she was proud of her origin, others, especially religious old hags, found it... distasteful. Malina never met her parents and was raised by her grandmother. She was an old hag too who liked to drink and tell fortunes.

Malina Tamayo Townsend wasn’t an atheist, despite her stance on her profession. She was spiritual, although not in a religious way. There were forces in this world she didn’t understand or even comprehend, but she accepted them. If she believed otherwise, her life would turn out to be a lot more depressing. Malina didn’t like being depressed, although the world repeatedly tried to make her feel like that. Someone above sees all was the closest thing she got to a prayer. And she wanted to make that Someone proud.

However, that all changed on the second of April, 1922. Her life-long friend was visiting her. Valerie, together with a few of her companions, was living what could be called a nomadic style of life. Always jumping from town to town. The last time Malina had seen her was some five months before. In the meantime, Valerie managed to get herself pregnant. Surprise, surprise, Malina thought, as she prepared coffee for both of them. She poured some coffee into two handleless cups. “Sugar?”, she asked.

“Yes, please. A spoonful!”, Valerie said. Malina was turned with her back to her guest as she stirred the coffee. Carefully, she pulled out a flask from the inside pocket of her robe, opened it, and poured a bit into her coffee. Fortunately, Valerie didn’t notice. Pregnant women can’t drink, she thought to herself. She wasn’t stingy, no, she was mindful and caring for her friend, Yes, she cared for the baby. Whiskey ain’t cheap no more, she thought.

Malina placed the two smouldering cups on a tray and carefully carried them to the other side of her trailer. There was a small table with four lavish cushions around it. On one of them, Valerie sat. She leaned back slightly, allowing her giant belly some space.

“Oh, thank you very much, Mal!”, Valerie said, eagerly clasping the mug for its warmth. Despite the slow-coming spring, it was still chilly. Malina got herself comfortable on the cushion opposing Valerie. She was sitting with her legs crossed.

“So, how’ve you been?”, Valerie broke the silence.

“Eh, ever the same. People come, I say a bunch of things they want to hear, and then they go away.” Malina shrugged, bringing the cup close to her mouth.

“Umm... still no man around?”, Valerie asked, frowning. She took a sip and then cringed. “What-“

“Oh, I must have mixed them up!”, Malina quickly took her cup. “Mine is without sugar, you know.”

Valerie coughed. “That’s some awful taste. I don’t get how you can drink that.”

Malina smiled, taking a sip. She didn’t cringe at the alcohol inside.

“Anyway”, Valerie continued, “How come you still haven’t found a man?”

“Eh, what can I say. Men don’t seem to like me that much.” More like I don’t seem to like them.

“Oh, that’s horse shit, and you know it”, Valerie waved her hand vigorously, and her belly jiggled. “You just need to put yourself out more, like...”, Valerie gestured to Malina’s robe, “I’m sure that does wonders to your image as a... fortune-teller, but as a woman...”, Valerie shrugged.

“What’s wrong with my robe?”, Malina asked, feeling slightly insulted. She was wearing a dark red robe over her shirt, slightly ragged, but it still had a certain mystical flair Malina liked. “It’s my nonna’s!”

Valerie looked at her and smiled.

“Oh, I see”...

“There you go, dear”, Valerie took a sip of her coffee and placed her hand on the belly button.

“So...”, Malina shifted in her seat, “Who’s the lucky father?”

“Oh... I think it’s Zonedlo.”

Malina nearly spat her coffee. “You think?!”

“Oh, don’t give me that face!”, Valerie protested. “I’ve been travelling for a long while. Both Zondelo and Angelo looked after me. So... One of them, I think.”

Malina was out of words. She finished her coffee, grateful for the little kick whiskey gave her.

“Do you love either one of them?”

“I do... I think.” Valerie set down her cup. “I don’t know, Mal. But they love me. And they’ll love the baby no matter whose it is!” Valerie said optimistically. Then she reached back, snatching her rucksack. “I have a little something you might like.”

“Oh?”, Malina straightened her back, trying to catch a glimpse.

“In Dedwich we stumbled upon a gypsy travelling group. One thing led to another and we decided to camp together.” Valerie stopped talking, carefully pulling a box out of her rucksack. “Turns out Nadya was with them for a while?”

“Nadya? My nonna Nadya?!”, Malina gasped.

“One and only!”, Valerie pulled a pile of cloth from the box. Carefully, she removed them revealing a...

Crystal sphere. An oracle’s crystal sphere.

Malina nearly dropped her coffee cup. “What on earth...” She carefully took the sphere from Valerie’s hands. Her friend continued talking about something, but Malina’s eyes were chained to the sphere. It was a little smaller than the one she had, but it was pristine and high-quality. Unlike Malina’s, which was completely see-through, this one had a small round purple sphere inside the big one, giving the entire crystal a purple-blue hue, depending on how much light there was in the room. At the bottom was a small wooden pedestal, which held the crystal in one place, and on it, something was engraved. Nadya’s Orbuculum. Don’t touch!

“I can’t believe this!”, Malina said, cutting off Valerie. “What did they ask for this?”

Valerie looked left, awkwardly fixing her hair. “There might be a third candidate for the father...”

“Oh, for God’s sake!”

“I didn’t do it for you!”, Valerie protested. “It was more like a... a bonus, you know!”

“How much?”, Malina asked.

“How much what?”

“For the sphere, Valerie!”

“Oh, immediately to business, I see...”, Valerie trailed off. “Well, you see, I thought about giving it to you freely, but...”, she touched her belly. “I’ve got some company on the way.”

“Say a number”, Malina said, still transfixed on the ball.

“Fine. Fifteen.”

“Fifteen what!?”

“Big ones. Dineros. Bacon.” Valerie smiled. “Fifteen dollars, sweetie.”

“You’re out of your mind”, Malina quickly laid the sphere down, acting uninterested.

“Oh, come on, Mal! Twelve!”

“Pfft! You’re still out of your mind.”

“Oh well”, Valerie shrugged, reaching for the sphere, “I guess the guys in Temisland might think otherwise.”

“Ten!”, Malina quickly grabbed the sphere. “Ten dollars!” There was something about the crystal. It connected to her momentarily.

Valerie laughed. “Honestly, I thought I’d have to struggle more. But a deal is a deal! The damn thing’s yours now!”

For possibly the first time in her life, Malina didn’t regret overpaying for something. She still had the sphere in her hands, caressing it as if it was a child. “Is it really my nonna’s?”, Malina asked.

“Oh, even I’m not that nasty. I wouldn’t go as low as to write your grandma’s name on it.” She shifted on her cushion. “Is it your Nadya...? That I don’t know.”

Malina frowned. Then she smiled. “I’m gonna think that it is nonna’s!”

“Hey, whatever floats your boat, right? Those ten greens are certainly gonna float my boat”, Valerie chuckled. “Wanna try it out?”, she asked.

“The sphere? Right now?”

Valerie nodded, caressing her stomach. “Tell me if it’s a boy or a girl. Oooh, even better, tell me who the father is!”

Malina smirked. “Sure”, she said.

The round table had a runner with a circle in the middle; a spot for the sphere. Malina gently placed the Orbuculum in the middle. “I need to dim the lights”, she said, acting out the role. She pulled the drapes shut, the dancing tassels allowing hesitant shimmering light. Malina lighted three large candles with a matchstick that stood next to the door of her carnival trailer. The door could easily be nudged open with a slight tremor, like a customer jumping, which allowed a slight draft to extinguish the candles. It did wonders for dramatic purposes. Malina also placed a small candle on two sides of the crystal, which reflected the light stunningly. With the uncommon purple round object inside, the whole room was covered in shifting tones of purple.

“Beautiful...”, Valerie whispered, looking around the room.

Malina allowed herself a moment to enjoy the lightshow. Then she clapped her hands, startling Valerie, but drawing her attention.

“You ready?”, she asked.

Displaying a faint hint of nervousness Malina often noticed in her customers, Valerie nodded.

“Oh, spirits of the beyond!”, she called, giving herself completely to the act. Malina knew Valerie knew she was a fake. That fact allowed Malina to be carefree, knowing there wasn’t a chance the customer would call her act. It was great practice, as well.

“Oh, inhabitants of the nether! Prisoners of Limbo!”, Malina waved her arms theatrically and closed her eyes. “Grant me your insight! Present thyselves to me!” Malina placed her hands on the Orbuculum.

However, the moment she touched the crystal, she felt a strange coldness rush through her arms. She cringed, surprised, but still in the act. Malina forced her hands to remain on the sphere. The coldness was gone now. Had she imagined it?

Valerie was sitting opposing her, with her eyes closed at well.

“A woman covers humbly in your presence. Give them your name!”, Malina bellowed.

Suppressing a smirk, Valerie uttered. “Valerie Gorgoza. My name is Valerie Gorg-“

A loud thump cut Malina off. Startled, she opened her eyes.

Malina was still sitting on her cushion and her hands were still on the Orbuculum. However, she wasn’t in her trailer anymore. Shaking at the realisation, she tried to stand up, only to find out that she, together with the table and the cushion, were on a wooden board, drifting on a black sea.

Screaming in terror, she knelt back in fear of overturning the raft. The small table trembled, and the crystal started rolling towards her, unhinged off the small wooden pedestal. Instinctively, Malina opened her arms, but when the orb landed in her hands, the crystal turned to dust, leaving only the inner purple round object in her palms.

The purple object wasn’t made of crystal, as she previously thought. It was made of some unusually light stone material. Mesmerised to the point of forgetting her surroundings, she brought her palms to her face, studying the structure. It wasn’t perfectly smooth either. It had small vein-like ripples.

One of them shifted.

Malina screamed and dropped the purple object.

Malina fell from her cushion. The Orbuculum was still on the table, the same as before.

Valerie looked at her, shook. Then she smiled.

“Oh, you sneaky little fox!”, she chuckled. “You had me! You had me!! Oh, you’re good.”

Malina gasped for air, looking around. She was back in her trailer. Everything was the same, apart from the candles by the door being extinguished. The door opened slightly when she fell.

“Your mumbling and seizures... It looked so genuine. I nearly called for help”, Valerie continued, still smiling. “Damn, you’ve gotten real good while I was gone!”

“Umm... W-wait...”, Malina stuttered, getting up. Was it real? The sea, the raft...

She glanced at the crystal sphere on the table. It shone purple, reflecting the light of the candles.

Was that real?

“Oh, you can drop the act now, dear. You fooled me, I admit!”

Malina looked at Valerie. How could she explain? “Can you go?”, she asked abruptly.

Valerie stopped, her smile turning into a frown. “What do you...”

“Just... go. Please. I just realised I remembered-“

“Are you planning to cheat your way out of paying me?!”, she flushed.

“What? No... Wait!” Malina rushed to her cabinet where she held her stash. She dug it out from a pile of stockings and socks, not caring that she revealed her money-hiding spot to Valerie. Malina counted ten bills and tossed them onto the table.

Valerie looked at her, confused. Then she snatched the money and placed it into a pocket on the inside of her unbuttoned jacket. “Are you...”

“Go”, Malina cut her off. “I’ll explain later.” She didn’t have a clue how to explain anything that had just happened to her.

Confused, but happy she got her money, Valerie stood up and went for the door. “You still haven’t told me who the father-“

Malina slammed the door. She practically ran to the cabinet again, snatching a small leather pouch from a different drawer. She walked over to the round table, carefully eyeing the Orbuculum. A part of her expected the purple round sphere inside to burst open; the other part thought she acted crazy. But on the other hand, the vision, or dream, seemed so real. She shivered anxiously.

Someone above sees all.

Malina opened the small leather satchel and emptied it, letting all of its contents fall onto the table. A pin, a few earrings, one from real gold, a pearl she stole when she was a child and a dried buttercup flower enclosed in two small glass panels fell onto the table. Lastly, with a strong shake, a deck of purple-blue cards bound by a string fell onto the table as well. An eye was drawn on the back of the card which was on the top of the deck. A purple eye with a black iris.

Malina shivered again, although not from the chilly weather. The eye was the same shade of purple as the inner sphere of the Orbuculum.

From her grandmother, Nadya, Malina inherited only two things: the oracle’s vibrant robe and a deck of tarot cards. Now she had the Orbuculum to add to her collection. Somehow she knew that the crystal sphere was her grandmother’s. Nonna, what have you done with this? she thought, removing the string.

Carefully, she touched the cards. It wasn’t cold. It was room temperature. Just plain paper. She smiled forcefully, feeling dumb. They’re just cards. I’ve read them before.

Malina rarely read tarot cards to her customers, but she knew how to do it. Nonna had taught her. Although she fell she was doing a better job with the crystal sphere.

She picked up the deck and started shuffling. A tarot reading would usually begin with the customer saying their question aloud. She knew that part was meaningless, but, considering what she’d just experienced, she decided to play by the rules. Just in case.

“Was what I’ve just seen real?”, Malina asked, her voice echoing in the empty trailer.

She cut the deck and placed three cards facing down on the table. The eyes on the back covers seemed to be looking directly at her. Malina knew they were drawn that way, but it still made her nervous.

She flipped the first card. It was an upright Star card. There was a girl kneeling in a lake drawn on it, with a blazing star above her.

Malina pondered for a moment, looking at the girl in the lake. ‘The Star’ card meant one needed more faith. Do I need to believe the dream was real?

Malina flipped the second card. An upright Judgement card. Again, a girl kneeling in the lake was drawn on it. This time, she was looking up, where something was looking down at her. That something was an eye, identical to the one on the back of the card, surrounded by a flutter of white wings.

The card meant that one would soon be judged for their actions. What actions? What have I done? The Judgement card also represented forthcoming rebirth.

Shrugging, Malina flipped the last card.

She gasped.

It was a reversed Tower card. A stone medieval-looking tower was drawn. There was the same eye at the top, in the sky, casting a lightning bolt at the tower. There were two people depicted falling from the tower, a woman in a white dress and a man with a crown on his head.

Malina closed her eyes, trying to think. The reversed Tower card meant that one needed to undergo a personal transformation in order to achieve their destiny. What’s my destiny? she thought, massaging her temple. The reversed Tower card also meant that there was a way to avert the coming danger. Danger? What danger?

“This means nothing”, she whispered hesitantly, taking back the cards. She started shuffling the cards again. Malina glanced at the Orbuculum. She was slightly afraid of it, but also curious. Was she beginning to believe in the mysticism of her profession?

“Let’s try again”, she said and cleared her throat. “What should I do now?”

Malina cut the deck and placed three cards again on the table. With trembling fingers, she turned the first card.

An upright Devil card.

Malina trembled. An eyeless goat’s head was smiling at her. It was a bad omen, for sure, but it didn’t show her any guidance on what to do next.

Shaking her head, Malina turned the second card.

A reversed Hanged-Man card. A man was hanging from the tree, chained by his ankle. He had blood-shot eyes and a red halo around his head.

It meant she was resisting something. Or someone.

Malina sighed, looking at the man on the card. She remembered Valerie and her travels. Malina was supposed to join her group as well, but she declined at the last moment. Do I need to go somewhere? Should I have gone with them?

Malina flipped the last card.

She stopped.

The card depicted an empty boat, drifting on the black sea. There were ten purple eyes on the cloudy sky of the same colour.

“What the hell...”, she whispered, picking the card up. She didn’t know what the card represented. Or what it was called. It was the first time she had seen that card.

The Orbuculum buzzed. Malina looked up, dropping the card. There seemed to be a faint buzzing sound originating from the crystal sphere. No, Malina thought. It was coming from the inner purple object.

She glanced back at the unknown card. Malina paled. The sea around the boat. It was the same as the sea in her dream.

“Shit”, she uttered, petrified.

She returned the card to the deck and pulled a new one out. Beads of sweat started rolling down her temples.

Malina flipped the card. A reversed Hermit card. “Isolation”, she said, “Loneliness. Getting lost.”

Someone above sees all.

She flipped another card. Death card.

Malina shrieked, pulling another card.

A Fool. It was the Fool card. “Beginnings”, she mouthed, absent-mindedly. “New beginnings. Travel, no, a journey. Do I need to go on a journey?”, she asked.

Malina flipped another card. She stopped breathing. Another Fool card. She stared at the two identical cards. This can’t be, her mind raced. There was only a single copy of every card in her deck.

She pulled another card. Another Fool.

The fourth card was also the fool card.

Malina’s breathing quickened. “Where do I need to go?”, she asked, her voice trembling.

Malina pulled a card. The Emperor card.

Someone opened the door. Malina startled, jumping on her feet. In the doorway, a man stood.

“Oh, Jack, you scared me”, she said, trying to calm herself down.

A young man, barely in his twenties, took a step into her trailer. He carefully looked around. “I’ve just seen Valerie runoff. Is everything fine?”

Malina nodded, gathering the cards on the table. Curiously, there was only one copy on the Fool, unlike what she’d seen a moment before. Malina tied the deck with a string and placed it back into the satchel, together with other contents.

“What are you doing?”, Jack asked again, sounding worried.

Malina looked at him. “I think I’m going on a journey.”

#short fiction #my writing #fiction #original post #short story #creative writing #original story #original writing #prose #my wriitng #tarot cards #tarot reading

2 notes · View notes

pavleruzin · 2 years

Text

The Garden

A man stood in a wasteland. Dry, cracked earth surrounded him. He was wearing an unbuttoned white suit with a black shirt underneath. He had a black tie that flapped on the wind. The man took a step, his white shoes leaving a footprint in the barren, brown dirt. Everywhere around him was the same; a dreaded scenery of inhabitable land, ruined by bones of concrete and stone. No green was evident on the land, only black, grey, and sickly brown.

This wasn’t how he had left things. It wasn’t at all how he had left it. “Tsk, tsk, tsk”, he mumbled, sighing.

The man walked for a bit more, his suit and shoes remaining spotless and unspoiled. He was a speck of white on a grey-brown canvas. After some time, he stopped, looking down.

“Oh, you poor thing”, he said. The violent wind carried his words. In front of him, in a small, but shallow hole, something moved. A fetus was in it, sobbing and moaning painfully. It looked sickly and brown, its colour a shade deeper than the poisoned earth around it. Its limbs were thin, looking more like branches. They weren’t moving. Only his frail chest rose faintly when it took a breath.

“What have they done to you...”. The man reached down and took the fetus in his arms. It left a spot on his white suit, but the man didn’t seem to mind. “It pains me heavily to see you like this, my child.”

The fetus stopped moaning in the man’s embrace and it started breathing more regularly. Its limbs dangled numbly in the air. The man looked up, frowning. Two giant dark clouds mingled above, occasionally hurling lightnings at each other. It cast the entire land in shadow.

“Let there be light!”, the man said. Instantly, as if pushed by an enormous hand, the clouds dispersed, allowing rays of sunshine to fall upon the man and the fetus. It cringed in his hands, surprised by the sudden burst of light. “Hush, hush”, the man gently swayed the fetus. “Now let’s find you a better home.”

A man stood in a wasteland. It was the same as before, barren and empty, but it wasn’t littered with concrete remains. The fetus was still in his hands, cradled like a baby. It seemed to be asleep. They stood at the top of a low but wide hill. “It’ll do”, the man said. He looked at the ground. A patch of dirt suddenly darkened, and soon, a puddle appeared. The water was clear and cold. Soon, as more and more water burst from the ground, the puddle began moving down the slope of the hill. As it washed over the land, the dirt regained its dark colour, allowing the acid and toxic dust to seep into the stream of water. Contently, the man watched. He knelt, gently holding the sleeping fetus with his left arm, while he touched a piece of wet dirt with the palm of his right arm. The earth opened, revealing a shallow hole with a dome-like bottom. The man gently placed the fetus inside the hole. It snuggled, shifting a bit, and then it continued sleeping. The man stood and the earth closed. In a moment, dots of green appeared around the place where the fetus was buried. He looked at the sun and smiled.

A tree erupted from the ground, reaching the man’s height. It had young budding leaves on its branches. “There you go. All better, I see”, the man said. The wind gently rustled the leaves.

“Now, I know they hurt you, and that they’ll probably do so again. But I want you to give them a second chance.” The man pulled two clay figurines out of his pocket. They resembled humans. “Maybe they will treat you nicely and with respect this time. Maybe...”

The leaves rustled in the wind.

“You will accept them? I know I can’t force my love...”

The leaves rustled again, eagerly so.

“Even after everything, you forgive them.” The man smiled. “You make me proud.” He placed the two figurines at the bottom of the tree trunk. The man turned around. The green was covering almost every piece of land as far as he could see. The man took a deep breath of fresh air.

“I guess I have a soft spot for gardens...”

#creative writing #my writing #fiction #original post #short fiction #short story #original story #original writing #prose

1 note · View note

pavleruzin · 2 years

Text

The Boy in the Mirror

Every year, a week before Christmas, the whole family would gather at grandmother’s house. My brother, mother, and I would usually come first, mostly because we were the only ones who hadn’t left the town after grandma died. We would step into a cold, dusty, and dark house and it was our responsibility to prepare and clean the two-storey house for the rest of the Janssons.

My mother would get to clan the ground floor, I would get the upper floor, and Gustav, being the bigger, older brother that he is, would take the attic and the basement. Ever since our father had died, Gustav started acting more serious and mature. And I guess mother and I didn’t mind having someone bossy around. We were used to it.

The house was still called grandma’s house, although she had passed away ten years ago. Mikaela, or as we all called her, Minnie, was, by all means, an old-fashion woman. Quick and harsh with her words, scolding and stern, Minnie was the backbone of the entire family. Since she died, everyone had scattered away, seemingly eager to do so. They unrolled, each to their own, like dropped yarn. We would still get occasional calls, but that was it. ‘Congratulations!’ on birthdays, ‘Well Done!’ and ‘You’re really grown up now!’ on graduations, and my favourite: ‘Say hello to your mom from me!’ at the end of every phone call.

The only time when they showed up was when my father died. And so ‘Well done!’ and ‘I’m so happy for you!’ turned into ‘My condolences’ and ‘I’m so sorry’. The next day, they were all gone.

I didn’t hate any of my uncles and aunts. In a way, an envious way, I understood them, wanting to be able to cut all ties and disappear before anyone could hurt me again. But I felt way too much tied to my mother to be able to do that to her.

I was somewhere around twenty-five or twenty-six when Gustav had dug up the mirror. He had found it in the attic, covered in dust and cobwebs. The mirror’s surface was a bit scratched and dirty, but the frame was intact. It was made of bronze. For some reason, everyone hated this mirror. The adults especially. Whenever one of them was walking down the hall on the upper floor, they would look away or nervously hide their eyes from it. I never understood why. It was chic and old, ugly even, but it was still functional. The only adult I remember liking the thing was Minnie.

“Wanna hung it up?”, Gustav asked, turning the mirror in his hands. He was covered in dust.

“Sure”, I said, happy to be taken away from my cleaning duties.

We walked down the hallway on the second floor. There were scratch marks on the wall where the mirror used to be. When Gustav set it up, the scratch marks were perfectly hidden.

“Like a glove!”, Gustav said, taking a step back and looking at himself in the mirror. He checked his hairstyle and then turned back towards the attic. “Stop slacking off. You’ve got five more rooms to vacuum.”

I said something to him, but my eyes were chained to the mirror. I looked awful. My hair was desperately pleading for a cut and I needed to shave. The worst were the bags under my eyes. At that moment, I couldn’t remember when I had a good night's sleep. Before, when I was younger, a lot of people told me I took after my dad. Over time, I noticed it myself. We had the same nose and eyes, and when we smiled, our lips would curve the same way. A little part of me broke when I realised I couldn’t see my dad anymore. Either I’d changed drastically, or I had already started to forget him.

Feeling shame, I glanced away from the mirror and continued about my day.

Overall, I liked grandma’s house. If there was one thing I had to rule out as being bad, I’d say it was the silence. I could never sleep in perfect silence. My thoughts would become unbearably loud.

The night when we found the mirror was like that; too silent. It kept me awake well into the night. Somewhere after three, I got out of bed, hoping a glass of water would ease my mind. Using my phone as a flashlight and tiptoeing through the hallway, I stopped in front of the mirror. The same feeling of dread returned to me.

When Minnie was diagnosed with dementia, my family moved and lived with her. In the beginning, everything was as same as ever. Sometimes she’d forget her slippers, or would start eating her soup with a fork. As the disease worsened, Minnie started mumbling constantly, forgetting to dress herself completely, and kept asking my mother when she was planning on graduating. Around that phase of dementia, I used to stumble on her looking at herself in the mirror.

“Look, Johan. It’s me!”, She’d say when I came close to her. “Let’s go to that place you’ve talked about.”

I would say something meaningless in return and return her to her room. Weakly, she would turn and say: “Johan, wait”, or something similar. When we got into her room, she would act as if she was seeing me, her grandson, for the first time in her life. I never gave much thought to her words. After all, my name wasn’t Johan. Johan was her seventh child who died when he was twelve. They found him days later at the bottom of a well that was in the back garden. Now it was boarded up and hidden.

As I looked at myself in the mirror that night, thoughts about Minnie and Johan returned to me. Still, I couldn’t shake off that feeling of dread. And shame.

“Why am I feeling like this?”, I asked for some reason.

“You’re hurt”, I said.

I took a step back, startled. Did I say that?

Of course, I said that. Who else?

“You’re hurt and lonely”, I said again. No, the me in the mirror said again. My hands shook, casting shadows on my reflection.

“What on earth...?”

“There’s a hole here”, I touched my chest. “Someone left you, creating that hole. Ever since, it was there, threatening to suck in every other organ.”

“Stop this!”, I said, a tad louder than a whisper.

“You’re the one doing this”, the other me spoke again.

“Is this some kind of a fucked up self-therapy?”, I whispered.

The me in the mirror was silent. I sighed and started rubbing my eyes. I needed sleep. I’ve started seeing and hearing things.

“I just want to help you, Adrian.” A child’s voice.

I looked in the mirror. There was a child next to me. Screaming, I jumped.

I was alone in the hallway.

“What the hell?”, Gustav peeked his head out of his room, squinting.

“I... I...”

“Yo, why the fuck are you up so early?”

I took a deep breath, steadying my stuttering. “I wanted a glass of water. I... I tripped.”

“Jesus, Adrian...”, Gustav went back, slamming the door.

Panting, I slowly stood up, picking up my phone. I pointed the light at the mirror. There was only me, scared and confused. I ran down the stairs, afraid that the other me would start talking again. The sink screeched as I filled up a glass. I was sweating all over and my hand was shaking as I lifted the glass. I really need to sleep, I thought, setting the glass down. Slowly, I went back up the stairs. I noticed the bronze frame right away. Deciding not to cast any light onto the mirror, I walked slowly, looking at my feet. I was right by the mirror when the feeling of being watched overwhelmed me. I stopped in my tracks, too scared to lift the phone. Slowly, I glanced at the shadowy mirror. There were three figures in the mirror now. Next to the other me and the boy, a tall man stood. I couldn’t notice anything but that he was tall and had curly hair. He also wore glasses. Round.

Dad?

I jerked the phone, casting light at the mirror. There was only me. “Matheo has been dead for two years”, I whispered. NO. I won’t talk to the mirror again, I decided. I turned away from the mirror and started walking away, towards my room. I promised myself that I would throw it out the next morning.

“I know where he is.”

I jumped, turning around. In front of the mirror, the boy stood. I opened my mouth to scream, but I could only fall to my knees. The phone fell from my hand, leaving me alone in the dark with the boy.

“I know where Matheo is. Let me show you.”

“Gustav, will you please wake your brother up ?”, mother asked, shuffling a bunch of letters in her hand.

Gustav yawned as he lazily went down the stairs. He rubbed his eyes. “Adrian!”, he yelled.

“Oh, for crying out loud, I meant going to his room!”, Mother yelled at her older son. “I could use his help. The others will come soon. I want to be over with this!”, She tossed the papers on the table. Mother sighed. “You hungry, sweetie?”

Gustav nodded.

“Pancakes?”

Gustav nodded again, with a smile emerging on his face.

“Go and wake your brother then. He didn’t even finish cleaning the rooms.”

Grunting, Gustav turned around and went back up. When he walked through the hallway, Gustav didn’t notice that the mirror was slightly tilted. “Come on, Adrian, wake up!”

He pushed the door open, finding an empty bed.

They found me after five days. My body was at the bottom of the well, broken and twisted. They still haven’t decided whether I died of hypothermia, shock, or bleeding. They also found a board next to me, one of the many which were used to board up the well. I scratched a name on it with my nails. Johan.

Fortunately, Johan has made me forget all that. When you get to know him, he is a really cool guy. It’s surprising how a twelve-year-old boy can know so much. Even Minnie smiles and laughs when Johan is in the house.

Anyway, Johan said that he’ll bring my dad to the house. But only if I finish my part of the deal. I’ve got five more rooms to clean. We’re expecting all of the Janssons to come soon.

#creative writing #short story #my writing #fiction #original post #short fiction #my wriitng #original story #original writing #prose #ghost #horror

0 notes

pavleruzin · 2 years

Text

Rapture

“And he will send his angels and gather his elect from the four winds, from the ends of the earth to the ends of the heavens.”

-Mark 13:27

As I waited for Dahlia, a homeless man, the one we called ‘the Guy’ suddenly stood up and raised his cardboard poster. Looking afraid of something which seemed to be in front of him, he started yelling.

First, it was unrecognizable yelling, and only after a few moments, as if his mind had trouble taking control of his tongue, his shouts took the form of crude and badly pronounced words. Nobody knew who the Guy was. He had a long and tangled grey beard that covered more than half of his face and on his head, he wore a dirty yellow fisherman cap. Now when I think of it, I’d never seen him without his hat.

Nobody knew who he was or from where he came. His French was questionable at best but he somehow managed to speak it… or yell it for that matter. He found a spot at the city square one day, obtained his cardboard post, and started waving it and screaming at the bystanders. On the poster, the Guy had written: Be Afraid. They are coming. Sure, some people, mostly the owners of the coffee shops, tried to have him moved, but he would always come back to his spot. And he wasn’t violent or anything, he just liked yelling at people. With time, the people got used to the Guy, occasionally even handing him some change.

“Oh, am I late to the party?”, Dahlia said, walking towards me but glancing at the Guy. He was now yelling at two teenagers who laughed in return.

“Nah, the show has just started.”

We sat at the cafe for a while, enjoying the music from the radio as well as the guy’s shrieks. I had a Macchiato with soya milk and Dahlia had a large Americano. She wore a loose scarf as a hijab, although a few strands of her black hair fell through. We would meet at least once or twice a month where we would talk about everything, from everyday nuisances to questions about purpose and the whole universe. We used to date before, back when she was still Annie, back before she converted. However, I don’t think I’ve ever been closer to her than at that moment when she was Dahlia. It was a kind of closeness you can develop with people only after the passion and sexual desires have dwindled.

“...So, as I was saying!”, she finished her coffee with a loud gulp, “I caught Ali doing it, and I mean doing it, together with the tissues and lotion, and you know what he had said to me? Right there at that moment??”

I shook my head, grinning.

“He said that I should close the door because there was a draft. A DRAFT!”

I laughed, almost knocking down my glass of water.

“And, the worst part... he said it in all seriousness. Holding his... thing and looking me in the eyes. And the draft was his biggest concern? I can’t...”, she burst out laughing, “I can’t even. That kid is crazy!”

She laughed for a moment, while I grabbed a cigarette. Ali was her younger brother.

After Dahlia had stopped giggling, I asked: “Do you think that it was okay to convert Ali? I mean... he isn’t even eighteen. He can’t know...”

Dahlia shrugged. “I... umm. I guess he can go back to being Martin when he turns eighteen. Although... I don’t know. What I want to say is that being Dahlia is much better for me. It’s even worth carrying this thing around!”, she tucked her hair under the scarf. “All the anxiety and stress I’ve dealt with before are now gone. Well not completely but... you know. You understand. It’s much easier knowing that there’s something or someone there that you can always lean on. Something that will take care of you when you finally lose the fight with life.” She shrugged. “I have no idea what I’m talking about... but I think you understand.”

I nodded. Annie was an atheist when we first met. She was just like any other typical teenager, in love with rock and black clothes. But she had problems, mainly with overstressing and anxiety. It was after I had left her that she found help in her father’s religion. And so, Dahlia was born.

“So, what about you? Did you meet someone new?”, Dahlia asked, smiling.

“Nah, I’m too introverted to find a girlfriend. Landing you was probably my peak.” We both laugh. “But for all seriousness...”

Her phone rang. Dahlia looked at it, then at me. She was worried.

“It’s my dad.”

Dahlia’s dad never called her.

She picked up the phone, shaking. It looks like the hijab couldn’t protect her from the anxiety anymore.

While they spoke, I looked around. I froze, noticing that half of the cafe was empty and the other half was worrisomely looking around. Glasses and trays fell and shattered as people stood up, knocking over their chairs. As panic erupted, they called out their friends and family, whoever was with them mere moments ago.

“What the...”, I cursed under my breath, when the Guy started shouting.

“They are here! They have taken the lucky few! Oh Lord, help us who are unworthy!” His shouts overpowered the panicky tumult of the crowd which appeared on the square. Someone near me called their husband. I picked up my phone. I wanted to call my parents but the finger lingered above the ‘call’ button.

“It’s Ali!”, Dahlia put down the phone, visibly shaken. “He’s gone. Just disappeared. Father was with him and it is as Ali disappeared into thin air! John! What’s going on! What the fuck is going on?!” She grabbed my hand as tears rolled down her face.

“Um”, I stuttered as my mind raced. An ambulance siren reached me, making me panic even more. I stood up.

“I warned you, but you didn’t listen! Now we will all burn with the heathens!” The Guy continued screaming as people ran around. Everyone was frightened and confused, only the Guy seemed to be excited. “They are here! The messengers are here! We are not worthy!”

“Sorry”, I murmured to Dahlia, who begged me with her eyes. “Let me just...”

I walked away from her quickly. I could feel her eyes on my back. A woman bumped into me. “Pierre? Are you Pierre? Where are you, Pierre!?”

In a corner of my eye, I saw someone jumping from the window. It sounded as if two cars crashed somewhere near. A girl was praying, kneeling among the rushing crowd.

The Guy raised his eyes and looked at me. “You can see them as well? The messengers?”

“What the fuck is going on? Did you do this?”, I asked, surprised at the rage that came with those words.

“Oh, I warned you, son. I warned you they will come!”

I grabbed him by the collar. His stench nearly pushed me back. “What the hell is happening? Where the fuck are all the people?!”

“Hush! He’ll hear us!”

“What? Who the f...”

The Guy’s voice, his smell, the sounds of the crowds behind me, even Dahlia calling after me; everything stopped. Everyone stopped moving. I slowly turned around.

It was as if I was looking at a renaissance painting. People were frozen in their running. There was confusion and fear in their eyes. Dahlia’s hijab had fallen off and was now hovering in the air. Dahlia was reaching for me. Her fingers were inches away.

The air vibrated. A sound erupted, enveloping me. It seemed as if an orchestra of slightly unturned harps was around me.

“They heard you!”, The Guy said to me, although he was frozen like the others.

The orchestral harmony culminated when a solid structure appeared right in front of me. As it was gaining in size, the air and whatever else was next to it, vibrated and fizzled, curving itself to make space for the structure. The stone slabs on the ground bent so that the structure could be perfectly round.

A white line appeared on the equator of the round structure. I struggled to breathe. It was hard drawing in the air when it was refusing to move.

The two halves separated by the white line retracted, revealing... an iris. My whole body gave out when I realised a human-sized eye was staring at me.

The Guy squealed from behind me.

The eye started buzzing.

Be Not Afraid.

Foreign words appeared in my mind. The eye was staring at me, still and emotionless. Around it, a few more structures started sprouting from nothingness. They looked like circular pillars, going from and back into the eye. One erupted where Dahlia stood, distorting her and making her tilt to the side.

I opened my mouth to move, but the fear had clogged my throat. “Aren’t they magnificent?”, the Guy whispered.

God Still Loves You. You Are Worthy.

My eyes watered as I struggled with words. The unseen orchestra continued, louder than ever. The structures which orbited the eye vibrated themselves.

Holy, Holy, Holy Is the Lord Almighty.

Smaller eyes appeared along the circular pillars. They opened up and looked at me.

The music stopped.

My legs gave out and I fell. The panic was still in the air, but the eye and the ominous music were gone.

Dahlia grabbed me. Her hair danced in the wind.

“John? Are you alright? You are so pale.”

As I struggled to breathe, I glanced at the place where the Guy was. All that was left of him was the cardboard poster on the ground.

#original post #original story #original writing #short fiction #short story #fiction #my writing #prose #creative writing #be not afraid

1 note · View note

pavleruzin · 2 years

Text

Thornless Rose

Larry took his thick spectacles off and squinted at the rose. He fished out a magnifying monocle from his pocket while grabbing a pair of tweezers with the other hand.

“Oh, come on, now. We can’t have you looking like that!”, He whispered, plucking a partly shrivelled-up red petal. “Only perfection, please.” He sighed contently. “Now, about the thorns...”

Larry got the rose on the thirteenth of February. Or maybe it was the day after. Either way, Larry remembered it being a warm and sunny day, perfect for a walk in the Meres. A part of Meres, where Larry lived, was overgrown and abandoned by the city folk, but the other part was groomed and regularly cleaned. It consisted of a few pebbled beaches surrounding a lake, which would attract people for picnics during the day, and a lot of hidden pathways and remote openings perfect for drinking and having sex during the night. The latter sickened Larry. His mother had taught him better than that! Larry knew what girls really were like. They were all pure and perfect at first, but after a while, Larry’s mother says that all they do is sicken your mind and make you go crazy in the head. Make you violent. Larry’s mother says that his father was violent. Larry had trouble remembering him, though. He had his dolls, and that’s all he needed. They were always there for Larry.

Anyhow, it was a warm and sunny day when a group of three girls appeared on Larry’s walking path. They asked where the main beach was. Larry showed them the way, too scared to talk. They thanked him and went on their way, but, as soon as Larry relaxed, one turned back, walked over to petrified Larry, and handed him a rose. A red rose, freshly picked.

Larry had dreamt that moment every night since the thirteenth or the day after. He had never developed an interest in the girls before, no. His mother had taught him better. But that girl, let’s call her... Nelly (like his mother; Larry didn’t really know any other girls’ names), that girl awoke something in him. Every night, Larry would inspect her face, as if seeing it for the first time. Every freckle had to be counted, every eyelash should be properly arranged, hair strands were to be put in order, and her lips needed to be accentuated just a bit with a hint of red lipstick Larry had lying around since his mother had died. Unfortunately, Larry would always wake up before he could finish perfecting Nelly’s face. And that infuriated him. Mostly because Larry didn’t like leaving any of his work unfinished. No, sir, his mother had taught him better! Finally, this repeating nightmare of never finishing his work had driven Larry mad. It even made him go past the convenience store that was at the end of Meres. Larry never went past the convenience store that was at the end of Meres.

It was easy singling out Nelly among the other girls. The youth didn’t really have any other place to gather in their little town except for the Meres. After finding her, Larry would wait, perfectly still and perfectly silent, in the bushes nearby, watching her undress and bathe in the lake during the day, and dance and sing with her obnoxious friends during the night. And sometimes, after having the entire day spent sitting in the bushes watching Nelly, Larry would gather the courage and follow her, even into the streets of the town. He would stay out of sight, of course, hidden by his grandfather’s coat and hat.

Nelly lived in a three-storey building, fourth in the line at Columbus Street. It was painted in a horrendous yellow and had old rusty fire escape stairs on the East side of the building. She lived supposedly alone, Larry thought, on the second floor. He would notice when the light in the window would be turned on moments after she would enter the building. Sometimes, Larry would even count the seconds, seeing how much time she needed to get into her flat. She wasn’t a very fast girl, which was fine with Larry. He didn’t need her to be fast, after all.

Nelly didn’t have any hair on her hands and legs, Larry noticed when her volleyball ball fell near his hiding place in the bushes. She really was pure and perfect, like his other dolls. At that moment, however, Larry was scared to death. Nelly was so close that he could hear her breathing. But also, he fell in love with her even more. So much more, actually, that he realised he needed to elevate their relationship. Smiling like an idiot with his mouth open (and to think that his mother had taught him better), he spent the rest of the day unusually relaxed and happy. He didn’t even bother putting his coat and hat on when following her home. ‘Mom, I’m walking a girl home!’, he would think, enamoured of the way her hips moved when she walked and the way her hair gracefully fell on her back.

Then, just as she was to enter her building, someone called someone else’s name. Holding his breath, Larry jumped into the shadow, not daring to even blink. Why did she turn around? That wasn’t her name. She was Nelly!

Somebody walked towards her. A man walked towards her. She smiled at him.

She smiled at him.

That image cut itself deep into his mind.

The man was now so close to her, and yet she wasn’t moving back. Why wasn’t she moving back?!

He hugged her. He hugged Nelly. He hugged his Nelly.

Larry grabbed a lamppost (which wasn’t working) to keep him from not falling.

The two, Nelly... his Nelly and the man talked for a while. How could she, Larry thought, still gripping the lamppost? His fingers turned blue.

Then, the unimaginable happened. He leaned into her and kissed her. The man kissed his Nelly.

He had to sit down, even in the street’s dirt and dust, just to retain his consciousness. After a moment of sitting and steadying his thoughts, Larry stood up.

It was his girl, his Nelly. Nelly’s freckles were HIS to count, not the man’s! Nelly’s hair was HIS to comb, not the man’s! Nelly’s lips were HIS to kiss...

...No

No.

Nelly’s lips were his to be accentuated just a bit with a hint of red lipstick Larry had lying around since his mother had died, not the man’s.

Nelly was his! Larry needed to finish his work. Nelly needed to be perfect!

“There you go, love”, Larry said, holding a thorn with his tweezers. Only one remained on the stalk. Larry smiled. After finishing the work with the rose, Larry would leave it to dry upside down in a windy and dark place for half of a day, before submerging the rose in a mixture of lukewarm water, glycerol, and formaldehyde for a few days. That would keep the rose perfect forever.

Larry put aside the tweezers, tossing the last thorn away. “Perfect”, he said, looking at the rose. “Isn’t she?”, He said.

The silence was his answer.

Putting his spectacles on, Larry glanced at the sofa. Nelly was still lying on it, in the same position he had put her. “Still sleeping?”, he asked, but she didn’t answer. Larry clicked his mouth upon seeing some dry spit and vomit around her mouth.

He will have to deal with that as well, he realised. Larry wondered how he had missed that. His mother had taught him better. He would need to fix and arrange every single detail. Making things perfect was never easy, after all.

Larry glanced at the jars of chemicals on the shelves. One with the formaldehyde was running low. Larry sighed. He would need to take care of that as well.

#original post #my writing #original story #short fiction #short story #fiction #my wriitng #prose #spilled words #creative writing

12 notes · View notes

pavleruzin · 2 years

Text

Losing Eden

Devil’s left the stage,

Giving way to human touch.

The audience throws flowers.

And the halos, like by child’s hand drawn

Finding none.

Shiver in the corner,

Looking for value and honour,

It doesn’t take much to become a saint these days

And yet, nobody seems to try.

Halos remain headless, lost in the darkness.

In the hall of what once was Eden,

The Seven masters rule;

Men are quick to follow.

Devil flees the hall, now useless.

God is dead.

Only humanity applauds.

#my poem #my writing #depressing poem #original poem #original work

0 notes

pavleruzin · 2 years

Text

Happiness in the Sun

There is happiness in the Sun.

Compassion.

A feeling of a warm embrace.

When it rains, hails,

Grey clouds loom above...

Remember, please, to push on.

There is happiness in the Sun.

And when it snows;

when the white death calls your name,

Resist the allure, the cold welcome

Promising rest and bliss;

Resist, and push on.

I've had my excuses...

And lost them all; all but one!

There. Is. Happiness. In. The. Sun.

.. If nothing else, that stands true;

Joy. And Liberation. Love. Love!

There is happiness in the Sun.

#poetry #spilled poem #my writing #original writing #original post #amwriting #inspiring words

0 notes

pavleruzin · 2 years

Text

A Glass of Milk

I went to the café at the end of the Concordia Street, across the old, seemingly-abandoned Belgium theatre. There was a lingering feeling that I had forgotten something as my hand was trying to grasp the handle of a briefcase that wasn’t there.

I pushed open the door of the café and the little bell above the door rang, although nobody could hear it from the tumult of the crowd. ‘Lyin’ Eyes’ by Eagles was playing in the background. I don’t know why I chose exactly this coffee shop; maybe it was that here the crowd didn’t bother me as much. And not only that every table but one was occupied; even nearly every chair had a person sitting in it.

I snuck my way to the only vacant table near the window. It usually had two chairs next to it, but now, someone from the nearby tables had taken one. How fitting, I thought. Not so soon, a waitress came to me, wanting to take my order.

“A glass of milk. Warm, if you don’t mind.”

She lingered for a moment and then nodded.

“Quite odd, I know”, I said, although I didn’t know why I had the urge to explain myself.

She chuckled. “Trust me, after working here for five years, there’s nothing wrong with a warm glass of milk”, she smiled politely, like many people working in restaurants and at receptions do. “I’ll be back with your drink in a moment.”

She turned her back to me and walked to the counter where the coffee maker was, apologising to customers when they got in her way. Her name was Donna, but I never told her I knew that. Sometimes, she had a small silver bar attached to her white shirt, just above her left breast, where her name was written. But lately, she’s been refusing to carry it, as if she’s somewhat embarrassed about her job.

Donna was wearing a set of black, albeit slightly washed-out jeans and her white sneakers, as she always had when I visited this place. She had her blond hair tied into a ponytail and her face was accentuated with a hint of mascara and vibrant red lipstick. I loved her lips, perfectly curvy and sexy, and yet, somehow intimidating.

I liked Donna, although I never made any moves to show it. Even after visiting the café so many times, I doubt she recognized me. Until I ordered a glass of milk, that is. I wonder what she thought about me after that day, about the guy who ordered a glass of milk.

About the lonely guy who ordered just a glass of warm milk.

About the weird guy who ordered just a glass of warm milk.

As Donna was minding her business behind the counter, next to her, through the door which led to the kitchen and pantry, Trey appeared. He had a cigarette in his mouth, slicked black hair, and his neck had more beard than his cheeks. Trey wore a white undershirt and had a towel on his hairy shoulder and his hands were covered in white flour, which meant he was doing something in the kitchen. That was odd because this place was equally known for its good coffee as it was for its lousy food. However, I hadn’t tried either of the two. Normally, I had a cup of green tea, or if I felt worse than usual, black tea.

Trey said something to Donna, strictly and loudly, although I didn’t hear it. Donna furrowed her brows and then waved her hand through the air, which was an Italian way of saying leave me alone, I already have a lot on my plate. Then, as she was placing two cups of smouldering coffee and a glass of warm milk on a tray, she said something to Trey. I’ll do it after my shift, she said, although I didn’t hear it. I read it from her arousing red lips. Trey sighed, looked at the contents on the tray, lifted his brow confusingly when he saw the glass of milk, and then went back to the kitchen.

I hated Trey. I hated the fifty-five-year-old man who had escaped from Italy and opened a café in my city. Donna was, presumably, his niece or maybe a daughter from a close friend, but he treated her badly. She deserved better. Not that I could give her that.

Donna came to my table, forcing a smile, although I saw through her façade. She was irritated. She placed the tall glass in front of me.

As she was to leave, I stopped her, grabbing her wrist, gently. Donna was startled, looking at me with confusion in her eyes. Her façade dropped instantly.

“Sorry, but would you mind switching to the news channel? I don’t need the sound, I can read the subtitles. I’ve forgotten my phone, you see…”

Donna took a breath, restoring the mask of a friendly waitress. “Oh, certainly”, she said, smiling, “Not a problem!”

Grinning, I took the glass and lifted it to my lips.

...

Frowning, I returned the milk to the table, realizing it was hot, not warm. I sighed with disappointment.

After fiddling with a remote for a moment, the TV flashed as a woman reporter was on the screen, voicelessly talking with a large crowd behind her. Donna turned and glanced at me, to which I responded by raising my thumb.

I looked at my glass of hot milk.

I didn’t like Donna anymore.

Feeling slightly anxious, I glanced at my wristwatch. It should be happening soon, I realised. Flexing my hands as if grabbing the handles, I wondered if someone had found my suitcases. The milk was still in front of me, now warm, but undrinkable. Absolutely undrinkable! A flash of anger bolted through me but I remained still. The café was half empty, but there were still a lot of people around. And there were children, as well. I hated children, maybe as much as Trey. The person who had taken the chair from my table before my arrival hadn’t returned it. That also irritated me for a moment.

Donna was walking back to the counter, carrying a tray littered with filthy cups and filled ashtrays. Suddenly, a loud bang overwhelmed the café. The surface of my milk danced in a circular moment for a bit.

Stopping in her tracks, Donna said: “Fireworks?”. Again, I didn’t hear this as much as I had read it from her arousing red lips. However, before she could take another step, two more bangs, one immediately after the other filled the café. The window next to me vibrated. A few glasses that stood at the edge of tables fell and shattered. Silence conquered the place for a moment. Only the ‘Lights Are On, But Nobody’s Home’, by Matt Schofield could be heard. They changed the radio station, I realised. When had they done that? I didn’t really like the Blues.

And then, after a moment of peace and unprocessed shock, panic broke loose. Someone close to me started yelling into their phone. Customers stared at the TV in shock. Hands covered their mouths. A few practically flew out of the coffee shop. They didn’t even pay. Idiots...

I glanced at the TV. At the same time, I felt excitement and anxiety intertwining within me. The pixels on the screen were rapidly changing colour. From grey to orange, red and yellow. My eyes, for whatever reason, couldn’t stand looking at the chaos depicted on the screen. However, the sheer chaos excited me. A sound of an ambulance and a fire truck reached me. The door, left open by the fleeing customers, moved on its own, pushed by the wind. Donna was staring at the screen while still holding the tray littered with filthy cups and filled ashtrays. Trey appeared next to her, holding a landline phone, punching numbers while his eyes were chained to the TV. There was a different woman on the screen now. She was still voicelessly talking, visibly shocked and afraid. There were some numbers next to her. They were constantly rising. Then a slowed-down video was depicted on the TV screen. Nobody had remembered to turn on the sound.

I again looked at my glass of milk. Its surface was still moving, like small tides. Emotions were raging throughout my whole body. I felt a sense of remorse, blaming me for something horrendous, numbing the nerves in my hands and legs; Begging me to get on my knees and plead for forgiveness from God. It was threatening to tear my mind and my sanity to little pieces.

But then, that feeling came. It appeared suddenly, and it lasted no longer than a heartbeat. And yet, it felt like an eternity, crawling through my arteries and nerves, reaching my brain. It was a feeling of utmost euphoria and blissfulness, ruling all other feelings, such as the one begging me to cling on to my humanity, as redundant and non-important. It gave me power above my raging thoughts, and soothed my mind, giving me a purpose in this world.

The surface of the milk was calm and still again.

And just like that, that feeling was gone. It left no trace of ever being in me, except for the beads of sweat that formed on my forehead and my rapid heartbeats. Only the hollow feelings of wrongness and self-pity were present, gnawing on me. Donna had managed to lower the tray littered with filthy cups and filled ashtrays onto the counter, but she was still watching the TV. Trey was gone.

I sighed, feeling content. I longed for a cigarette myself.

Rising from the chair, I left what I owed next to the untouched glass of room-temperature milk. Looking back at Donna, I shrugged and left the café for the last time. Those awful feelings were still within me, silent but noticeable. I knew what I needed to do next to silence them, at least for a moment.

I didn’t leave a tip.

#short story #flash fiction #short fiction #short stories #fiction #amwriting #my writing #mystery story #writers #reading #thriller #writing #prose #literature #spilled words #spilled prose #original writing #original post #creative writing

1 note · View note