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A Short Story

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  • A Short Story

    I wasn't too sure what this was about, where it was going, or where it came from, I just had one of those mad something-completely-seizing-every-thought-I-had urges to write, and this is what came out, unedited - well, except for my awful spelling mistakes I'm unsure if the end is grand and vague, or sloppy and over-the-top, but I like the description throughout. Oh well. I hope someone enjoys it.


    'I walked heavily back to my apartment, stopping briefly on the way for a large latte, and to observe the flight of birds, a nightingale, twittering manically above the ivy-ridden cafes; young writers, oblivious to the spectacle, sitting at tables, scribbling furiously in hieroglyphs onto crumpled paper, splashing wine onto the tablecloths. I looked down at my feet upon a nervous feeling in my feet to see hoard of angry pigeons pecking at my laces, hoping to gain some nourishment from my tattered leather shoes. Dragged into my flat as though by marionette strings, I contemplated concocting something to eat after my entry into thee kitchen, but all I could see was a less-than-ripe tomato, and an empty bottle of Olive Oil. No doubt the cupboards would be equally bare, so I instead reached dejectedly for a bottle of red wine, the label peeling slightly at the corner, revealing 'Bordeaux'.

    The waft of freshly baked bread drifted through the wooden shutter of the window, temporarily alleviating the hot dustiness of the Moroccan afternoon. I poured the liquid into the glass slowly, watching the bubbles form, the shades of red and mauve mingle and weave in the glass before settling, still as a mirror-flat lake, the sweetened Autumn scent of berries and plums coming from the glass delicately tantalising my nostrils. I took a sip, and settled down to my desk, scrawled out manuscripts and lost lines lying in front of me on ebony coloured paper. I lifted my silver pen, but replaced it almost instantaneously. How can one write when one feels nothing?

    The huge horizon line approached my window, and I stood up, wine in hand, to observe the scene, pausing for a second to light a cigarette which I had subconsciously reached for. I, like so many before me, looked out and saw the wonder, the mystery and clarity, and the delicacy, as though painted in oils, of the far reaching sky. Threatening shades of grey and black choked the white clouds, persistently embracing them in a death-hold, blocking the light from shining onto my pencil-creased paper pad.

    There's a deficit of hope, and I am certain of nothing less ambiguous a feeling than despair, a 'commodity' many claim to understand from their comfortable middle-class chairs armchairs, moralising behind their chintz glasses perching on their upturned noses. But I am sure comprehension of the real meaning of anger, of depression, of love and happiness, of existence, can only be gained once one has seen evil in the sky, robbing the day of the brightness of the sun, forcing it into submission under the heel of impending and unrelenting darkness.'
    Last edited by The_Narrator; 08-11-07, 07:34 PM. Reason: Chucked in a proper intro.
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