hg80summer-blog

[hg80summer-blog]

Crossing the river

(This story is conceived and finished during the Winter of 2019)

The funeral was held at the languid hillside sixty miles away from the city. Took a man some amount of effort to get here, but that was neither here nor there. What was more “here or there”, however, was the fact that I was sitting in the front seat of the sable and grey hearse, but I had no bloody idea who was the funeral for. I didn't know who that man behind the black and white and grey picture frame was.

Okay, that wasn't entirely the truth. I know the guy was a business partner of my brother’s, but that was literally it. I didn't even know the guy's name for crying out loud, and knowing that fact, the wheels of the hearse still just kept on spinning, like that one dreidel I saw in my friend's house during Hanukkah that just wouldn't stop spinning, and it took my best effort to not just jump out of the car and stab the goddamn tire with a butter knife. What a bunch of assholes.

Earlier the day, I was standing in the man’s living room. His house was blue as anything, and the field outside of his house was green. His family members were standing in front of me, and they all looked miserable, in a way that was not expected from a family who had just lost a loved one. The man, the guy’s son, looked like he simply didn’t care, with his complete and utter indifference and apathy evident by his constantly flattened eyebrows and catatonic face. He dressed like a hobo as well, and not that I had any problems with homeless people, well, to be honest, I had plenty, but disregarding that, the man was at his father’s funeral for the love of all gods. Showing even just a little bit of respect would already be good enough. But no, fuck it, his fat ass just couldn’t have enough cookie for him to show proper grief for his own father’s death.

The woman, bloated looking, presumably the guy's daughter in law, was taking care of a little boy, presumably the guy’s grandson, and she looked somehow elated. She dressed okay, I guess, but good god her taste was awful. Puffy dresses, swollen hairstyle, all just to cover her almost anemic looking body size. Her eyes literally got sucked down back into her skulls, but again, somehow, she looked happy. The funeral was less than a few hours away, and she looked a lot more than just rejoiced. Strangely the couple never talked to each other. The woman kept dealing with the kid, and the guy was just standing around. There was this air of awkwardness, so thick it was like oatmeal, I could eat it with a spoon. They were definitely having a fight.

The kid was… well, a brat. Eight years old, wouldn’t expect him to even know what the date of the day was, let along with the fact that his grandpa had just died and could never wake up like he thought he would. Overweight, tumid, sickly looking. Not the best looking kid I have ever seen.

We were just standing around the living room waiting for something, what exactly? I don’t know, nor did I care. The drivers maybe. I hadn’t talked to any of the people there, and I didn’t, and still, don’t know any of the people in that living room beside my brother. My brother was talking to the husband about something which I couldn't possibly understand, nor did I want to, so I just stood aside with the grey tuxedo I picked this morning just to passively show everyone how little care I had for the funeral. Luckily, no one got it, I guess being discerning wasn’t a trait this family possessed.

Now I was standing in a line, surrounding the guy's coffin. I could see his peaceful but waxed face, with an expression of this horrendous serenity. I remembered that expression, I had seen it before on that one chicken my mother butchered during thanksgiving because a turkey was just too big for a family of single parents. The funeral had gone on for a while, and I was over it a long time ago, so I just spaced out and started to think of random crap that would be more entertaining than the songs they were playing. My car, my warehouse, my colleagues, my career, my love, my wife’s tits, my mistress’ tits, fuck, fuck, fuck…

As my thoughts ran wild, I started to look around to seek other stimulations. The family members were standing on the other side of the coffin opposite of me, all standing there looking like kids being punished standing in the hallway. The coffin separated us, and I started imagining it as a river. That side was the family member’s, and me and my brother and other business associates were on this side. Maybe Moses was in the middle, splitting the Red Sea with God’s will. Okay, Moses was not in the middle, the dead man was, and I don’t know his name. Maybe his name was Moses, that would be an interesting coincidence.

The mother, just couldn't stop wailing with her lungs hung wide open, like she was afraid the people over that side of the hill wouldn’t be able to hear her ghastly voice. By god it was unbearable. Howling, howling, couldn’t stop her own noise from escaping from her own throat! The dead man's son hadn't even made a significant expression, and this woman just wouldn't shut it up. Was she faking it? I wondered. The kid standing next to the woman looked as bewildered as I was. The only difference was, I wasn't sucking my middle finger.

Then the songs were over. It was time for us to wrap it all up. Me and my brothers and an entire line of business-suited men walked up to the family and shook their hands to express our condolences, which regrettably but not so remorsefully, I had none. I saw my brother in front of me shaking the little boy's hand as well, which I was just thinking of ignoring the brats cause what the fuck would he know? He probably thought his grandpa was just taking a morning nap in a strange wooden box. But my brother had started it, so I have no choice. After I shook my hand with the wailing woman, which was all wet with her tears, I proffered my hand to the boy, and the boy took it, quite competently, to my surprise. I tried my best to not have such a tight grip, so I wouldn't scare the boy or made him realize that I really didn't give a crap. Honestly, if he noticed it, I wouldn’t care either. Who would expect anyone to give a shit about some complete stranger’s eternal relief? He was dead. So what? They didn’t even look that devastated anyway.

The boy looked up at me mid handshake. And he smiled.

"Congratulations." He uttered.

The room was drenched with silences, and the silence was coated upon the already natural quietness of an almost ending funeral like jelly coating a Black Forest cake. So thick, so goddamn thick, flies wouldn't be able to fly through the silence. I panicked. My hands jumped away by themselves, and my vision shook like a bad family VHS video.

 His mom slapped him right across the face and screamed at him for his insolence. The boy didn’t cry, in fact, he still looked just as confused as ever, rubbing his swollen cheek with his little hands, not realizing why his mother had just slapped him in front of so many people, or why was she yelling right at his face. I tried to calm the woman down by telling her he was just a kid, and I am sure he has no bad intention, and kids always just blab random stuff, and we shouldn’t scorn a kid in public like that, and how that might hurt a kid’s pride, and how that is not healthy for a kid’s growth, and how it meant no offense for sure, but the woman didn’t care, she was just screaming, crying.

The husband, the dead guy’s son, did nothing. He just stood there, staring at the dead man’s face.

The funeral was done, but my hands were still shaking. The mother was still scorning the kid, and I don’t get why? Why me? I am not the first in line. There were like dozens of men in front of me, all had shaken the kid’s hand, along with his parents'? It is because I was at the back end of the line? Well, there were still enough people behind me. So why me? Is it my wrongdoing? I mean, the kid was eight, or nine, or ten already. He is not stupid. He definitely knows better to not say things like “Congratulations” in such an unseemly time? Congratulating what? His grandfather’s death? Why would a kid be so vicious? Then it hits me. The family might be estranged. They might not like the grandpa that much. The kid might never even know grandpa that well. Grandpa might be abusive. That might explain the joy the wife had experienced. Or the husband’s indifferences. The grandpa might not be that good of a person after all. The family oozed exhaustion. They looked tiresome. Maybe, the old man was still a part of their family, no matter how abusive of a person he was. Maybe the wife thought she would be glad that the abusive old fart was gone, but then when she was standing in front of his coffin, she still couldn’t control her grief and sadness. Maybe she was not faking when she cried. The husband might have hated his father’s guts, but still couldn't figure a way to deal with his passing and the affairs and the inheritance business that followed. That could explain his numbing reactions to all these. Maybe the couple was having fights nonstop for the past few weeks. Arguing about the funeral, the death, the house, the legacy, and their kids. That could explain why they never talked to each other. But they still love each other. Even with all the arguments and exhaustion, they still love each other. That was why even though they never talked, the wife would still put her husband’s hat on for him, and the husband would carry their son if the wife got tired. Maybe the wife slapped the kid just because she was breaking, and she couldn’t control himself. Maybe the kid said the word, not because I had done something wrong, or out of any vicious intent. He said the word just because he was a kid. The kid didn’t even look happy. He looked tiresome as well. His chubby little face looked cute and childish, but look further into the details, his high forehead, disheveled black hair, enormous blackened eye bags, and a look of deep exhaustion in his sunken eyes, all features that would be normal on a fifty years old’s face, no an eight years old’s. The kid might be having a hard time as well. His word might just be a slip. I mean, how could anyone assume malicious intent from an eight years old little… uh… little…

Little…

Huh.

I don’t know his name.

I don’t really… know them, this family.

The thought stopped all my tracks. I chewed on it, tasteless, but interesting.

I don’t know, any of them.

Not their name, not their past, nothing.

Huh.

When I walked outside for some fresh air, the family had left the scene long ago. I stood at the top of the hill, looking down, seeing them going back on their car, and their engine starting, and their car slowly going away. The sky looked cloudier. The car was going away, leaving the hill, and crossing the river now. Finally, it disappeared from my vision. If they were still here, I might have asked them their names. I thought to myself. My brother came out and told me to get ready to leave, but I told him I want a moment, he gave me one. I just stood there, staring at the spot where their car disappeared on the other side of the river.

The end

#short story #literature #practice writing #old work #writing

[hg80summer-blog]

No Return

(This story is conceived and finished during the Fall of 2019) 

The touches between their lips burn.

He woke up in sweat and horror. The things in his dream had never happened in real life, which was more of the reason to feel terrified over. You dreamt what you had thought of, but he could swear to all gods he hadn’t thought of anything alike for quite a long while. He then realized he was not lying down on his own bed staring at the ceiling like it was supposed to be when waking up from a nightmare, instead he was sitting at a table by himself. Drowsiness and stupefaction of his mind prevented him from processing any more thoughts beyond the thirst for water. He waved his hand, a waitress came for him, and he asked for the icy waters. The ice water cleared the mind, he could finally observe his surroundings. It was the bar downtown, he realized, and soon enough he remembered he came here by himself just for some drinks, but then fell asleep at the table, succumbing to his sleep deprivations that had been pestering him for the last few weeks. One could only imagine his exhaustion if his little nap had dreams horrifying enough for him to wake up amidst it.

The lady’s voice on stage sounded like silver bells. These round tables surrounding the stage were mostly empty. No one would come to a bar on a work day afternoon.

Well besides him.

He walked out the bar, and the sun almost blinded him in an instance. The street looked exotic, so did everyone that walked past him, but it might just be the effect of his slumbering mental state. Bilious, agitated, he wanted to do something, but there was nothing for him to do. The classes were all done and needed no more attention, besides, sitting back at his desk and starting doing work would be the last thing he wanted to do at this moment. He had a train he had to get on this evening, but that just seemed so far away right now, he wouldn’t want to entertain the idea of doing nothing until then.  

The phone came in. He picked it up.

“Yo! Dawdler! I would imagine you having nothing to do right now.”

“Yes. I have nothing to do.”

“Come over to my apartment. Rand and I are heading out, you want to come?”

“Heading out for what?

“I don’t know. Christmas is coming my dude. You don’t want to make a proper meal together before going back home?”

That sounded like a decent enough idea, but that meant he would be stuck with Reynolds and Rand for the next few hours.

“Sure… I am coming.”

The sun was relentless, and there were no clouds in the sky, so it blasted the land with all its might and wills, scorching the tarmac roads with thundering heat. Stepping on it, he could feel the ground hitting back up his feet, and his skin grinding against the bottom of his shoes. Their apartment was quite far away from his, and although they both belong to the school, one was far more superior than the other. He would normally be able to tell which was which, but right now the vivid dream and the numbness of his limbs had disabled him from making any judgment on anything, and nor could he remember what he thought of their apartments before today. All he could think of properly right now, was to walk. Walk to their apartment. Just walk under the screaming sun.

The blocks looked all the same. Building after building climbing on top of each other, stacking layers upon layers like some kind of foreign dishes of which he forgot the name of. Since the surroundings were so monotonous, there was really no way of telling north west east south. But somehow, as if there were a mental map in his brain, he simply just kept walking, and his feet would just follow an invisible trail, heading towards an unknown destination.

“Goddamn, I would expect you to be late for forty minutes or so.” Reynolds blurted when opening the door.

“I was nearby.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know.” That wasn’t a lie.

“Well, let's go then. Rand!”

“Yea. I am ready.” Indeed he was with all his backpack and hiking shoes and such. “Would you keep it down, by the way, Not everyone has gone home you know.”

“Thought it was just you two in the apartment.” He asked, not knowing why he would ask such a question. Seemed rather specific.

“He meant our neighbors,” Reynold answered.

They headed out. Rand suggested heading back to school, which was a few miles away. Reynold chided him for being such a nerd that even though they had all finished their courses the school was still the one destination he had in mind, but he did agree with the suggestion. The school’s market was quite cheap, and their goal of the day was to get food after all. Him, walking alongside the two, or to be more accurate following the two, since he just couldn’t pick up the pace of his steps, and the two sometimes had to stop their steps to wait for him. He didn’t voice any opinion about the suggestion, simply because he knew that even if Rand had suggested them all jump out of a bridge and off themselves, he would still think of it as a good idea. He felt dehydrated, dizzy, tiresome, and every time his feet stepped on the dirt or some rough surface, his entire body shuddered.

Their school was on top of the hill, so the few miles that usually would be pretty easy for casual hikers like them were a lot more difficult this time. The uphills were almost torturous. Reynold joked about them all should just head back home right now and bored their brains out while at it, Rand laughed, while he, again, remained silent. He was a talkative person, for sure, but not right now, as he couldn’t construct a complete sentence in his head and continuously finding the act of listening to their conversations to be progressively burdensome, so he toned out, and focused himself on walking and seeing.

“Say, Francis would have hated to be here.”

“We need to do this with him next time. Walk to our school from the apartment.”

“That moron probably wouldn’t be able to last ten minutes. I could laugh by just imagining his expression.”

“I couldn’t. Mainly because my feet hurt.”

“Yeah the uphill was quite the tribulation, but hey we had done it before right?”

“Right, I am not saying we can’t do this.”  

“I know what you meant.”

“Sure you do.”

“Hey, I got you. We should do an even longer hike after this one.”

“Of course you wouldn’t stop until my shoes are completely whacked.”

“I got you, man. Don’t worry about those trivia details.”

A farm. Amidst the esoteric, recondite conversation between the two, the corner of his eyes spotted something. A farm right next to the tarmac road they were walking on.

He voiced: “We should check out the farm.”

“What?”

“We should check out the farm.”

“Isn’t the farm a restricted area?” Rand asked Reynold.

“Right… I don’t think we are allowed to enter the place.” Directed toward him.

The sudden urge in his heart of visiting the farm was overwhelming, and it seethed in his chest, pumping and quickening his breath. He needed to see the farm. He felt. The need was a necessity, comparable to the matters of life and death and the basic need of human beings, like water and food. His arms and legs froze over, even with the boiling air surrounding him, he could feel the chill spreading from his spine to the outer skins and organs. It was the chill of desperation. If he gave up right there, there might be never again a chance of entering the farm with his friends, and the farm would forever be cloaked in mystery, and every time he walked past it would be mental torture from now on. So he must insist. The two standing in front of him would follow as well, and he would make sure of that.

“Say, you are an adventurous person.” He blurted. “It is gonna be fine, alright? Trust me on this. I am circumspect enough of a person, won’t you agree?”

“Yeah…” Reynold uttered slowly beneath his breath.

“So then, what else is the problem. They don’t have guards, they don’t have security cameras, they have nothing. It is just a detour. Again, thought you are an adventurous person.”

“Sure I am.” Reynold was properly convinced. He headed to the farm right away.

The farm was not big, just a small field of a prairie. The wheat was still pretty young, so the colors of the place were mostly green instead of the usual bright yellow of a wheat field. The heat was magnified by whatever was in the field, maybe from the reflection of the road. The sun was right above them, with nothing between, he could feel his hair gradually heating up. He walked around the place aimlessly, but suddenly he found something. A small barn, in it, laid a few containers. The two followed him in here. He opened one of the containers, it was filled with rice grains.

“Huh. So here are the foods the school dining hall uses?”

“Why would there be no one guarding these will be my question.” Reynold looked around.

He reached out his hand, grabbed a handful of it. The rice, though uncooked, looked extremely appetizing. For some unknown reasons, he could smell the delectable taste of a bowl of perfectly cooked, fluffy white rice. He was salivating, like a dog. He swallowed a lump down his throat, but his stomach was now growling as if it was protesting the long absence of food, which he would admit to. He hadn’t eaten for at least a day or two by now, but still, even himself found the fact of him hungering over raw rice to be disturbing.

He suddenly made the decision. He pulled out a plastic bag and stuffed some handfuls of rice in it.

“Hey! What are you doing?” Rand said, with certain panic and anger in his voice.

“Woah there!” Reynold, less agitated but still with noticeable vexation.

He just kept on stuffing. His hand that kept reaching out to grab the grains had slowly gone numb, and cold. He considered switching hands, so his left hand would be the one that held the bag and the right would be the one that purloined, but switching hands right now would be looking really weird, and his friends were watching him, so he gave up the idea, and kept moving his arms with muscle memories. Finally, the small plastic bag was filled with rice grains.

“There is no one around.” He said, addressing himself to Reynold. “Nor are there any cameras. Look around. This little barn is not capable of having any sort of security alright? There are no fences around this place either. They don’t sell jasmine rice up there, and damn it I haven't had a good meal in way too long of a while. There are at least a few bushels of rice in each of the containers, a bag from it would be less noticeable than a needle under the ocean.”

“Why would you go out of your way to do things… with all these illegalities…”

He didn’t know why either. He could feel the fume burning, and the urge of doing something outrageous, something outlandish, something that no one else would have done just wouldn’t stop its hissing trails all over his body. He didn’t know the source nor the cause of such wants, and he didn’t question it either, he just obeyed.

“Hey! I don’t care. Do what you want, I am getting these myself if you want to wash all your hands and walk away clean.” He appeared more insolent than normal as well. He normally wouldn’t talk to a friend like that.

“Alright!” Reynold slapped his knees, “If the prudent living, overly-paranoid and cautious friend said it is alright, why not right?” He pulled out a small plastic bag and stuff and a few handfuls of rice in it as well.

“Reynold!” Rand cried. “Dude! We are not doing the right things right now! This is stealing.”

“Hey, it is fine.” Reynold gave Rand a few comforting pads on the shoulder, “Don’t worry alright? He does that. We said we are gonna make a proper meal tonight, and yeah like he said, they don’t sell these good rice up there in the supermarket. There are still tons lying around here. A few bowls of it, no one would notice.”

“Nor would anyone care.” He followed up Reynold’s sentence even though it needed no follow up. “Let's go.”

The dusk had come for them. On the way back, walking downhill, he could see the sun slowly drown beneath the horizon, as the bright yellow light slowly turned into a deep and crimson red. The heat was gone, and replacing it was the breezes and the chill that crept under people’s sleeves when they were not noticing. They had shopped quite a lot, and it seemed they really planned to have a proper meal in their apartment. Him, on the other hand, bought very little, just a stick of celery, some chocolate for the way back, and that one bag of rice sitting at the bottom of the pocket of his coat. He could feel the weight of it. And as the heat of the day died off, his rational minds had seemed to come back alive. His hand felt cold, and his brain was scrambling for a good justification for being a larcener, and no doubt not one was satisfying enough.   

What’s more, was the fear. The fear of being caught. The rebellion of the act was far greater than he had expected, and the anxiety and the nerve such rebellious intention brought were weighing in far harsher than he could take. There is no way to be sure. He told himself. How could one be so stupid that they thought their act of crime will not be caught. It was a strictly forbidden area, beyond any doubts that trespassing would be punished. He didn’t see any fences, or any guards, or anyone, and the barn was barren and empty enough for him to observe all over without an untrodden corner, and for sure there could be no security camera there. Something might have already gone wrong, but he was just ignorant of it. Maybe the authorities were heading their way already. Maybe someone who accidentally walked by saw them, and they would become the witness of their crime. Maybe that someone remembered their faces.

Then he checked the watch, an even more intense but significantly more mundane kind of anxiety took over. He needed a proper hour to get to the train station, but right now, by their pace, he would miss his train which was also the last one of the day. He had to make home before tomorrow.

When they reached their apartment, the stress had finally taken his toll. As they walked in their apartment, he voiced:

“I can’t stay, guys.”

“What?” Reynold turned and asked, just about to step in the door. “You stay for dinner at least right? We bought all this stuff.”

“No… I can’t… I have a train to catch, I already bought the ticket. I have to go.” He put down the few things he bought in the shop, along with that heavy bag of rice. “They are all yours. Just enjoy your meal alright? Happy holiday…”

Suspiration could be heard, presumably made by Rand since it was coming from behind Reynold, though he couldn’t really see the inside of the apartment, it was unlit, and he had his head down and couldn’t raise it back up. He was just staring at Reynold’s shoes. They were new, and shiny, seemed expensive.

“You sure. You can still have your stuff you know, we got quite enough.”

“No just… have them, I need to go… put more water in that rice cooker… last time I ate here the rice tasted dry…”

“That was what? Two or three years ago?”

“Right… I must be going.”

The road leading to the train station meandered around the hills and the city as if it was consciously expanding to agitate him even more than he already was. He needed to get to the train station. The ticket was not cheap, and missing the train would be a huge loss on his and his family’s behalf. He rushed through streets after streets, blocks after blocks, until finally, the thought of giving up had caught up to him: The train station was still one miles or more away, yet the train was leaving in twenty minutes. If he makes haste, he might still be able to catch it, but there was no point in doing that. His lungs were already burning with exhaustion, so did his limbs shaking from starvation and dehydration. He gave up. He would go back home the next day. Right now something more urgent must be done: eat and rest. But both his and the two’s apartment was really far away from him now.

The dining hall it is. He thought to himself. The food there was absolute trash, and he enjoyed no bits from knowing the fact that the meal he was about to consume would barely be tolerable, but he needed to eat, and rest, fast.

He headed back uphill towards the school dining hall.

。。。

The morning. A very early morning. Not even seven o’clock yet. The sun had just come out, and the light it emitted was still mellow and somber, shining on the church’s wall appearing as different shades of blue and white. Some people were gathering at the front door. He just came back from home, and he had heard the news: the two friends of his had died, cause of death remained undisclosed. The church in the school was having a memoir right now, and he had just caught it. He rushed here immediately after he stepped off the train. It was the start of another quarter, and coming back from winter break, not a lot of classmates of his could handle such tragic news.

He could, and fear and distraught overwhelmed him as he stepped into the church.

The church was still relatively empty. No priest could be seen, just some classmates and friends of theirs sitting on the benches, weeping or whispering over the death, he couldn’t tell. No other sound could be heard. The people at the front door were greeted by a front desk set up temporarily to deal with the guests coming from outside the school. At the very front, there were flowers sent by people everywhere giving their condolences sitting on the altar and ambo, along with some words of prayers, but he couldn’t see the expected portraits of the two friends of his. He was glad about it, since he wasn’t sure about his ability to hold it together if he saw the two’s faces again.

He saw a girl sitting on the very front bench, he walked down the nave to her.

“Viola.” He whispered since the surroundings were all so quiet.

“Oh, you are here.” She clearly had wept. but she still had her composure, with that ever-lasting stoic expression of hers, “Oh god, I wish we would have met under better circumstances…”

“Where is the principle?” He asked. If Viola was not knee-deep in the water of grief and affliction, she would definitely be able to spot the irregularity: there was no anguish, or sadness over a close friends’ death on his face; his pallid skin and pale lips were all the expression of horror and utter fear; he looked as if someone was chasing him, as all his limbs shudder noticeably like care branches amidst a snowstorm.; his eyes wide open, and the trembling mind could be seen through his almost diluted iris. She didn’t notice all these however, as she was, indeed, overwhelmed by the sadness of losing two of her close friends.

“Where is the principle?” He asked again, this time bellowing yet remained the low volume. “I need to speak with him.”

“He is sitting at the front desk…” She replied, quite bewildered, yet again having not enough of vigor or strength to question his behavior.

He turned his head and confirmed her answer. Strangely he had just walked past the front desk and didn’t notice the principle sitting there.

“Mr. Principle.”

“Oh, lad…” The principle was a man in his middle age, with a bald spot on top of his head and a pair of unpleasant looking specs, “You have my utmost condolences. I know you all are close friends...”  

“I need to talk to you, in private.”

“Aye, just give me a few minutes to settle down the guests…”

“It is urgent.”

The principle paused for a moment. “Let's go to the quad.”

The quad, not really a quad, but a football field, with running tracks circling it. There were some students on the field practicing sports, and some running on the track. Not by any means a lot of them, but still enough to scatter all around the field.

“We can talk while walking.” The principle uttered.

“This needs to be in private.”

“It is private. We walk along the track and talk, no one would have heard.”

They got down there and started strolling along the running track.

“So. What’s the matter?”

The news reached his house a week or so ago during the middle of winter break and holiday, and the trepidation he had experienced since then must certainly be something beyond anyone’s comprehension: it had mastered him, as he was unable to fall asleep without feeling the sensation of those grains of rice slipping through his finger. He checked all his clothes and bags for any shreds of evidence of him ever been to that farm, any traces of soil or grains of rice he hadn’t noticed before. Naturally, there was nothing, he was all clean. He then got a fever, though he had never heard of anyone getting themselves physically ill not of outside factors but of inner turmoil. The fear of getting caught, coated his jacket, followed him every second of the day. He laid in bed for a few days, sinking down to the bottom of near unconsciousness, and during those days when he encumbered himself in the dusty bed sheets shaking and shivering, speculations and educated guesses muddled his mind even further. He could no longer believe in the blissful lies he had before. There must be a reason why a farm would be such a heavily restricted area, and there must be a reason why such classified and prohibited places so lacking in security. After a few days of bed-riddening, he finally felt better, physically. For the rest of the holidays, he suddenly became more polite, more timid to others, as he would never greet or welcome those relatives of his normally, but this time he was acting like a sycophant, smiling and treating them all like the most up class guests. Those around him noticed the differences, figured he was changing for the better. But he knew, because every night, when he stared at the ceiling, it looked like that metallic surface of the rice containers, pale white, staring right back at him. He needed to sort this out, and even though the principle wasn’t a person he had the most trust in, he was the highest official he could easily get to. He recounted everything to him, everything that happened that afternoon, even down to the details like the feeling of rice running through his hand like water.

“Do you know what is in those farms around the hills, sir?”

“No.” The principle answered solemnly. They strolled along the running tracks, occasionally passed through by some students having their morning run. “I am just managing the school, so does every school official, we don’t own the place you know. This is a public school, owned by the government. They got those farms. Even we are prohibited from entering.”

“So they are of even higher-ups?”

“Yeah… oh boyo, I wouldn’t trade places with you right now for all the whiskey in Ireland…”

“I know why they are dead! The official record for their cause of death was unknown right now, but I know why!”

As he was about to say something, some runner ran right past them. He recognized the kid, he was from the same class as theirs, the known juvenile, often breaking rules and disobeying the authority, someone on a completely different spectrum than his. He was a good student, well, decent enough, well-liked by teachers. He then noticed the runners running around the tracks all belong to that category, then the terrifying potential hit him: they were eavesdropping. For what reason, might simply be out of curiosity. Nosey cur, like a sewing circle in the back of the class, whispering rumors and conspiracies.

“I know why they are dead. The rice was laced.”

“Why would you think that?”

“That is the only reason that is possible, I had thought of this through and through. There is beyond doubt they had eaten those rice we stole. I haven’t voiced my concern then…”

“Why is that?”

“I was partly intoxicated…” He scratched his head embarrassingly. “Those rice looked irregular. They were glistening. I had seen enough rice, and that is not something rice grain would do. The glitter was not a coincidence, and that also explained why there is no guard or fences. They knew. Whatever purposes the rice, or heck any other foods coming out of those farms serve, they must have a special procedure to wash off the substances before using.”

“The soviet.” The principle suddenly voiced.

“What?”

“My guesses. These products are for the soviets. Or their organizations in the state. Or something along the lines. These poisonous lacing of anti-theft tactics also fits with their normal doings.”

“Thought you said the farms belong to the federal government?”

“It could be spies working there, or some other reasons, secret alliances, anything. I had done some digging of my own before in regards to these farms, out of sheer curiosity, and just some amount of spikes that I, as the principal and general managers of the school, were still not allowed to walk into those places, which are under my management! A lot of papers pertaining to the crops were written in a language I can’t understand. Russians. I have seen tags around the necks of those cows. These all add up.”

“So, those farms…”

“You guys touched the wrong stuff. Basically.”

They had stopped their steps, standing in the far side of the track, looking at the football field. By then he had already determined that those runners were eavesdropping their conversation and feeding it back to the class. They were looking through the corner of their eyes every time they ran past them, and their ears were all erected and tall standing. Eyes and ears everywhere.

“I think you should head home. I don’t think it’s safe for you to remain in school, my lad.”

“You think that is appropriate?”

“There must be further aftermath. I would contact you after the things blow over, right now you must head home. Nobody can know what we had spoken of here, boyo?”

They had already known. He thought but he simply nodded.

The way heading the train station was long, and numbing. After finally divulging his thoughts to someone else, certain clearances had finally visited his mind, the long yearned clearance, but yet still, the damage was done. He now no longer felt the overwhelming dread, instead, he felt nothing. Numbness and emptiness occupied his brain, and they were long-awaited. Like a drywall or an empty canvas, he sauntered to the train station and bought the most recent tickets. He hadn’t been this calm in a long while, not since that afternoon. He felt no relief, yet it was already good enough for him to not crack and cross the last line of defense and sanity.

The train came, modern and refreshing. The cart was quite large and tall, so the inside really didn’t feel crowded even though there were plenty of people up there. The train looked more like a good modern subway now he looked at it more closely. The windows were all huge so there was no need for lights, for the sunlight had lit up the train more than anything else could. People standing around even though there were still seats available, most of them staring at their phone or taking a nap, all seemed like business people attending to work. He found a seat and sat down, put his head in his hands as if his nails would drill through his skull.

Tears. He didn’t weep a single drop of tear through all these days. He hadn’t even considered the impact of their death, in fact, after all these days of isolation and apprehension, he had already kind of forgotten the appearances of theirs, how they looked, how they acted, how they talked. Fear and dread were so overbearing, no sorrow or sadness could compare to it, but now that those paranoia had slipped back a little, the regret and the remorse finally came crashing through the gate. They were his close friends, and he could never see them ever again. Such cold hard fact pounded his chest harder than his breath. He had led them to their death. He was the one who decidedly wanted to do an outrageous ordeal. He was the one encouraging them the unlawful acts. He was the one that practically killed. He wept like a baby, wanting to wail yet trying his best to hold back seeing he was in public on a train. There was not a trace of pride or ego of himself anymore, and the crushing sense of guilt gripped him by the spine.

He cried into his hands, for the loss of his friends.

The trains ran further into the horizon, and there was no return.

#short story #literature #practice writing #old work

[hg80summer-blog]

Untitled or (The flute of Azathoth)

(This story is conceived and finished during the Fall of 2018)

Newspapers as a dying medium had struggled for a while by now, and the descent into the complete and utter abyss of extinction seemed to be accelerating in a jaw-dropping velocity. There was no wonder why her press was struggling financially, every newspaper outlet was, hers was just more severe. She was now standing in the line, waiting for her coffee, and that bastard of a teenager standing in front of her was texting on his phone while blasting loud and obnoxious music out of that headset around his neck, which kinda defeats the purpose of a headset. She was beyond annoyed, of course.

“Kid.”

The kid raised his head up, saw this middle aged red-haired woman standing right in front of him.

“What?”

“Would you mind turning off the music.” She said, tried to be as kind as possible, “This is a coffee shop, not a public park, nor it is the subway, though you really shouldn’t be doing this kind of stuff in those places either.”

The kid turned off the music, visibly fuming, but didn’t say a word.

She smiled. Proud of her own work, of talking a kid out of his annoying and selfish behavior. The line before her had shrunk, and now finally after a 20 mins long wait, which for sure would be the reason that she would be late for work again today, it was her turn to order the coffee.

The guy behind the counter was visually disgusting. Obviously of his teenage, pimples and blemishes were all over his cheeks, two bloodshot eyes suggested an intense binge the night before, or the influences of pots. Droopy nose, dull gazes, and a messily worn uniform, all permeated the sense of purposelessness and a faineant. She chuckled to herself, found that description of the cashier formed by her own head to be extremely amusing.

“Miss!” The teen was almost shouting at that point. “What can I help you with today?”

“Um...” She came back from her daze, “A cup of coffee will do. Lots of cream lots of sugar.”

As she held the hot coffee with both of her hands to help combat the chilling weather of the recent days, the front door was pushed open and a gust of breeze rushed into the store. Then the door just stayed open, and the cold air just kept pestering her scarfed neck. Finally, after a few moments of tolerance, she turned her head to see who was so irresponsible to not even close the door on their way in.

It was a sickly obese man sitting in a wheelchair, trying to get through the narrow doorway of the coffee store. The staff came to his help, but his scooter was just way too big to fit in. His oily face was filled with anger and the expression of dissatisfaction and discontent, his floppy arms were flying in the air, and his mouth was uttering the voice of complaint. Those who had suffered greater for a better cause, and now there is this fat guy standing in front of the coffee place wailing at the waiter because the door was too small for him and his enormous scooter. She tittered at the concept, took another sip of the coffee.

They didn’t put enough cream in it. It was bitter. 

* * *

“So. Are you free tomorrow?”

She raised her head.

“Hilbert.” She sighed.

“Are you that disappointed to see me?” The man languidly leaning on the glass panel of her cubicle was wearing a grey sweater, and always had been wearing a grey sweater.  Ever since the first day she met him, he was wearing a grey sweater. He pushed his glasses up with the back of his hand, “What are you working on right now?”

“Editing the report of that one ghetto.”

“How is it.”

“It’s um… it’s alright.”

“It’s interesting. It’s not… great?”

“Well, you know.” She turned her gaze back onto the screen.

“Listen, you care for a drink?”

The blue light illuminated her face, drenched her expressionless features with a somber tone. The cubicles of their publishing house were all so small and squishy, and dark as well for some reason, the light just couldn’t reach here it seemed. She often compared this place to that torture chamber in Edgar Allen Poe’s short story, where a pendulum axe was hanging above the stomach of the tortured inmate, and as time run off it would slowly descent and brings the inevitable doom to the poor soul, presenting the most gruesome death to any spectator too sick to not turn their eyes away. Weren’t they the readers? The idea popped up in her head just as her gaze locked on the statistics provided in the article that she was editing. The article was riddled with grammatical errors and faulty statistics, to the point of near incoherence. The writer of the piece was this overweight old fart, who practically lived in the publishing house since he owned no property whatsoever besides all his stationeries, the old fashioned typewriter of his and a seldom working printer, along with all those borderline trash hoarded in his own dorm room. He divorced a decade ago, lost his house to his wife, estranged with his son and daughter, and had been diagnosed to be severely diabetic. Though he had one thing to be proud of -- being the oldest employee of this publishing house, working here for at least twenty-something years. She found that funny, very funny. The old fart had lost all his abilities to write an adequate article for the press, but the house would never fire him just because he was the most senior member of them all. The reader was the sick one. She realized. When the reader read that short story, they were the one expecting the axe to cut the man in two, and even though in that story of Poe’s, the man escaped, but if theoretically the axe did come down and the man did got split into two parts, the reader would not turn away from the gore, because they yearned for it.  

“I presumed you don’t have anything to do this afternoon.”

“No.” She then realized he was still there. “I am free.”

“Care for a drink in my place?”

“How is your work?”

“It’s um… it’s alright. I need to review a play before I could go any further though, so that is bummer.”

“Tea?” She pulled out her draw, “Got some bags here. I could get you a cup if you want.”

“No thanks… listen…”

“Ey.” The receptionist, April, walked to her cubicle, with a commanding tone of voice and an everlasting despise on her face, “Someone was at the door. He said he came to see you.”

Obsequious sycophant, the harlot blew our boss under the desk. But it was rather a pleasant surprise. She had no relatives around this state, let alone with this city, nor did she have any friends laying around, so someone coming to visit her during work was actually a change of pace that she was not expecting.

“He said his name was John.”

The bench in the front door bore quite a bit of history actually. This press house was fairly old after all, but before its time, the building was actually a police station for the local towns. The bench was there for those who were arrested to have a rest before being dragged into whatever room that was needed for them to be dragged into. Unlike those things, the bench remained.

“I got you some tea.” She said.

He took the cup with the coaster, took a sip, and an expression of disgust emerged on his face.

“You never liked my tea, uh?” She said. “You never liked it, not even for a day.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You said that quite often, actually.” She sat down on the other end of the bench, “How is ma?”

He frowned at the question, took another sip of the tea. It was bitter. She knew it. She made it that way, and she wanted to say she made it that way unconsciously, but it really was not that convincing, not even to herself.

“She was feeling better.” He said. “She is feeling better.”

“Like how? Has she gone back home yet?”

“She is feeling better.”

“Is she still in the hospital?”

“You should be asking her that instead of me.”

“What do you mean I should be asking her?” She said, unintentionally raising and heating up her voice.

“I mean you should go ask her how she is.” He said, then he took a huge gulp of the tea, swallowing it with a painful and totally not exaggerated countenance.

“You do not like the tea. I see.”

“I did not say that.”

“You did.” Anger brewed within her, and slowly but surely she was edging on the cliff of an outburst. “You hate my tea. You always had. Now stop jumping all over the place. I know how much of a busy gentleman you are, and coming to visit me was merely the byproduct of a trip or something. How is ma doing? Answer me!”

“DON’T YOU TALK TO ME LIKE THAT!” He suddenly yelled out, almost spilling the rest of the tea, “I AM YOUR BROTHER!” Acerbate, his eyes bloodshot, and veins walled off his forehead like the defense lines from the battle of Stalingrad. He composed himself in mere seconds though, then made a deep breath, “Do not raise your voice at me.” He said, trying to be as calm as possible.

Silence dawned.

She stared out the front door. The long cold breeze blew through the empty but littered street. The press house located at the unheeded corner of the city, so of course vacancy and dead silences were the prevalent frequenter. The winter was longer than before, and harsher. The blanket in her house couldn’t even provide enough warmth for her to fall asleep without being bedeviled by nightmares and long dreams, which was why she was planning to go shopping for a quilt this afternoon to get her through the winter.

“Have you cleared the payment of your house?” He suddenly asked.

“Yes.” She said, still gazing at the street.

“So you own a house now.”

“An apartment, to be exact.”

“How is it?”

“It’s um… it’s alright.”

“It’s interesting. It’s not… great?”

She turned her gaze at him, and didn't answer.

A short pause. He looked at his watch, “Shoot, gonna go. The plane is flying in two.” He stood up. “Thanks for the tea.”

“You are welcome.”

He walked out of the building with festinate steps.

She picked up the cup he left behind, not a drop of tea was left behind.

As she was walking back to her office, or cubicle, she was stopped by the receptionist sitting at the front desk, once again.  

“Ron wants to see you. Like right now.”

She definitely swallows. She thought to herself.

“Thanks, April.” She said with a smile on her face. “I am going, right now.”

When she came back from her boss’s office, she saw Hilbert was still standing around her cubicle.

“Why are you still here?”

“Tea break. Where else can I go in this dreadful place.”

Truly it is a dreadful place. Not just this place. The city in general. What a hell hole. What an absolute hellhole. A place where gun shooting can happen so regularly it became one of the mundane. A place where sunlight was toxic and rains were acidic, umbrellas became a necessity on every day of the year. A place where morality is nothing but a piece of shredded newspaper flying across the empty blocks, so the homeless people will stab those who offer alms and helping hand, and bosses will force their female, or male who give a rat crap, force their female employees to suck their phallic one, and fat people would roam around the street while someone else starve to their lurid death. This place is dreadful. Truly dreadful. She could feel her spine split open from the middle, and raised into the sky like the skeleton of the birds' wings, so she could crash through the window of their press and leave this place once and for all.

“It’s alright.” She said, sat back down in her cubicle, and started to pack things up. “I need to finish my work now, you should get going as well.”

“Yeah… yeah… of course.” He said. After a small pause, he turned and about to leave.

“Hey. Hilbert.” She stopped him.

“Yes?”

“Where are we gonna meet for the drinks this afternoon?”

* * *

His house was as dilapidated as ever, with its shoddy door frame and chintzy carpets, molded corners and peeled off ceilings. Just like before.

"Is Bourbons on rocks okay with you?" He pulled out some glasswares and a bottle of Bourbons, cheap.

"I am alright. I don't drink no more."

He was pouring the liquor, and her words paused him, "When did that happen?"

"Happened a long time ago."

He resumed pouring a glass, clearly for himself, "Well, what can I help you with then?"

"A cup of hot coffee will be alright."

"Sugar and cream."

"Yeah."

The backyard still had that one tree in the middle. It had shed all its leaves, and what remained of it was only a wizen skeletal contour of its former self. There was a working table right underneath it, clearly, a birdhouse was in the making.

"Dickinson kept bugging me about this birdhouse. Really don't know where the obsession for birds came from." He said, walked up to the table. "It's almost finished by now."

"I can give a hand." She really did not want to, but the fact that he brought up Dickinson and the birdhouse kinda made it no longer a viable option.

"That would be so nice of you."

The squirrel on the street looked anemic, lack of food source might have already taken a toll on it. What a pathetic sight. It just oozed with dreariness, which made it quite fitting for this place. This abhorrent city, abhorrent place, where the winter is so goddamn long.

“Someone is getting laid off, let me tell you that.” He said, cutting down the pine board as he was speaking. “Someone is gone, that is all I know. The house was not profitable, they had to kick someone off. For sure wouldn’t be that geezer sitting in the back of the office all the time being as unproductive as possible. Bunch of schmucks, am I right?”

She didn’t answer. She simply helped him attach the board onto the tree with some deck screws, then she just stood aside, watching him nailing down every single one of those holes.

“I need to visit ma.” She uttered.

“Oh? You planning to take out the rest of your yearly vacation leave already?” He said, “You know there is still Christmas.”

“I don’t need to take out anything.”

Just as he finished cutting the corner of the birdhouse floor, he realized. “Oh my lord…” He moaned, then he drank all the remaining Bourbon in the glass in one gulp, “What have they done? How could they…”

“I need to visit ma.” She interrupted him, calmly, “Would you be so kind and drive me to the airport this Sunday?”

“Sure, when are you gonna be back?”

She handed him a bunch of finishing nails, “Nail them.”

He did. Then he just stood there, looking at her. She remained unmoved, stared back at him with a gaze just as bleak as ever. “Are you serious?” He asked.

She handed him the last bit of nails.

“You are for real. Are you just gonna leave all these behinds?”

“Like what? What will I be leaving behind, Hilbert.” She raised her voice ever so slightly, and the tone of anger would not go unnoticed.

He still seemed determined to convince her, but after a ponder or two, he stayed silent. He couldn’t even come up with an excuse. The sheer incompetence of it bemused her.

There was no proper answer besides silence, so he nailed down the floorboard with the rest of the nails.

“Would you hand me the roof?”

She did. He put the roof to the side with some more deck screws.

The birdhouse was finished. They stepped back a little, observing their work.

“Well, you would at least be leaving something behind now.” He said, tittered.

She found that humorous. She truly did, but she didn’t laugh, not even a chuckle.

On their way out, Hilbert invited her to dinner, and a play. It was the play he was supposed to do a review on, and it would be performed in the local theatre on Thursday night. He said he got two tickets from the press, but he had no one to go with, so he was thinking of selling that ticket to earn some extra cash. Now that she was leaving, he wanted this to be to their farewell event. As she was imaging burning the theatre down, she accepted the offer.

The play’s name was John.

* * *

She walked out of the theatre with a face of complete shock. It was a mind contorting catharsis. She felt sick, so she bent down and tried to puke out whatever the dirt and smut that was in her, but she hadn't eaten anything since yesterday, so she gagged on dirty airs, and choked on her own cold dark pride. Now she felt better, and her eyesight was now expanded for at least thirty degrees more than normal. Limbs felt duplicated, like many copies of them were behind each and every single move she made, shadowing her actual limbs with poor imitations. The play resonated. She could feel the play, and the storyline was giving her romantic kisses on her cheek along with the winter wind like she was being loved in the most intimate way that was possible. Making love. The play had made love with her.

She stood straight. The street was clean, people were walking out of the theatre, discussing the masterpiece they just saw.

Hilbert was standing next to her.

“Wow.” He said, seemed to be dazed by what he just saw.

“Indeed.” She answered. “I felt kinda sick.”

“Oh… I am so sorry.”

“In a good way.”

“Oh. It’s… alright.”

It's not alright, it’s great! She screamed in her heart.

“You need to head home then if you are feeling sick.”

“I will. Thanks for the play and dinner.”

“You are welcome. You have a way back right?”

“Yeah… buses.”

“I will see you around…”

She lolloped along the street for a bit, then she called a cap. Dragging herself onto the car became a harsh and relentless mission, but she did succeed at it. The taxi driver was this benign old man, with a green cap and a grey sweater on. He asked her if she was alright because she looked pale and sick. His face was furrowed beyond belief, but his voice was so mellow and chummy, and his expression so elder and kind. Befuddled by the nice old man, she told him the destination and closed her eyes shut pretending to be asleep. When the taxi got to her house, and as her feet were stepping out of her car, the driver gave her his blessing by telling her to have a good one, even though it was already two in the morning.

She got home, poured herself a glass of whiskey, and laid down her bed staring right at the ceiling. The alcohol ran through her throat like a double-decker bus operated by an inebriated Scottish man, and they burnt. She felt enlightened. The play she just saw sang songs within her head, and her mind became its backup singer. She had never felt so understood, no one had ever given her this feeling of absolute empathy, like the one who wrote this play actually knew her personally and knew her entire life up until this point. She gave a standing ovation when the curtain was drawn, and even now when she was already on her bed in her own soon to be former house, she still wanted to give the play another standing ovation. The script of the play had literally zero paid off, but the sense of loss and bloatedness and purposelessness and loneliness of life it had provided literally synchronized with her most inner emotions, like two magnets left near each other would just crash into each other with full forces, or two teens in their nonage with their unhinged hormones sucking each other’s face off in their embrace, or that one meteoroid leaped into earth during the extinction of dinosaurs.

She was drunk. She knew that, because she could see her own pallid volitant soul gyrated to the ceiling, ululating the sound of liberation. It flew all over the place, every corner of the room, and even tripped over the glass which still had some remaining whiskey in it. Elated by its presence, she cackled, then burst out in braying laughter. She would continue to lay on her bed, downing glasses after glasses of whiskey, and laugh and cry herself into sleep. She would do that because, for the first time of her life, she felt understood.

* * *

April looked just as beautiful as ever, with all the makeup and ludicrously expensive headgears. She was so young, and the blossoming youth could be seen from her ample bosom and ripe torso. She still got such a bright future ahead of her. She thought, so she walked up to the front desk. April saw her walking towards her, and gave her a giant PR smile. She smiled back, and thanked her for all the help she offered all these years.

As she cleaned out all of her belongings and cleared out her cubicle, sentimentality flooded her mind. She would miss this job, no matter how bad it may be from time to time, maybe she would miss this city as well. This job, this press house, was the epitome of a good chunk of her life, pleasant or not. Life was just too floaty and vacuous for one to insist it to be something enjoyable. All the bitterness she had gone through in this less than six feet square cubicle, now only amounts to a faint, lingering sweetness aloft her tongue. She smiled at the past, put the last of her possession, a Japanese peace Lily, into the cardboard box.

She was about to turn off the computer, and leave this house for one last time, but then she decided to read the newest draft of their newspaper, to see her final contribution to this press house. The last of her presence in this place that represented so much for her.

There was her work. The report about a slump near this area, written by that well-respected senior, edited by her.

Then she scrolled down a bit. Another article emerged.

The Cynical Banality -- A Critique of John

by Hilbert Johnson  

The latest trend among the circle of artsy, pretentious writers had slipped further into the depth of inanity it seems. The newest sensation, John, by Annie Baker, was truly the greatest piece of theatre work I have ever seen, due to how revealing it is, that through simply watching the play we can truly and intimately feel the cynicism of those writers and how little respect they held for both writing and the art form of theatre.   

The play followed a vacation of a damaged couple, and through piles amongst piles of useless dialogues and set up, we got to an ending that is so shocking, the only proper emotional response I can contribute is a simple sigh and a “meh” if I was having a good day. This is probably the most time-wasting theatre experience I have ever been through, and with my whole heart and with all my respect to anything holy above, I mustered all of my strength just to not walk out in the mid-act, and after the play had ended, I wish I could scorn myself for holding up the integrity of being an audience, because clearly, the creator of the thing has no intention of holding up anything.

Anton Chekhov’s principle of firing a gun in the third act if the gun was presented in the first act, had been defenestrated in the most violent way that is possible. The number of guns this play had thrown out was truly mind-boggling, and of course, none of them even made a spark by the end of the play, let alone firing any of it. The amount of subverted expectations become mere statistical numbers by the second act, and none of them can induce any emotional response besides simple ennui. Set up led to nothing, and half of the stuff the script had offered was useless beyond belief. The story threw out countless dots to encourage the readers to connect them by themselves, but by the end none of them had any pay-off and audiences and readers just left wondering why they wasted their time with it. It was like if there is this breadcrumbs trail in the forest, it is interesting so you follow it, and the trails just lead you to more forest, and more forest, and finally the end of the trail is just more forest and nothing else. It is an infuriating experience. 

Besides the problem of having no paid off, the story was also clogged with useless assets that have no use whatsoever. To demonstrate the point, there is this entire scene in the play dedicated to a reading of the work from HP Lovecraft, The Call of Cthulhu, with no particular reasons and contributed nothing to the story. Why Lovecraft? Why not Edgar Allen Poe? Why The Call of Cthulhu, why not The Shunned House? No one would know the answer to those questions, because it doesn’t matter. It is like the writer just put some useless trash in between the actual story, just so it is different than the “normal” and “mundane” stories of the others. The play felt wider than an ocean but shallower than a piss creak, but somehow those high tier critiques now consider that quality of one that is a compliment. Maybe I am too stupid to realize the symbolism these informations, but isn’t it equally problematic when your play had nothing but symbolism?

Which leads me here. Not only the content I must criticize, but I also need to criticize the mentality of it as well. Critics say the play had perfectly captured the nature of human life, and the loneliness it had offered, praised it to be one of the best plays that year had to offer. How the play subverted the expectations of the audiences, bringing them to an emotional rollercoaster. How the play successfully captured human’s inner nihilism.

If such a story and writing concept were executed in a short story, I would not even have said a thing. But to put it in such a drag out script, was truly an insult. The play felt like it was written to subvert the audience’s expectation, for the sake of subverting the audience's expectation. It was breaking the golden rules of storytelling, for the sake of breaking the gold rules of storytelling. It was being special, for the sake of being special. It has this immunity of criticism since whenever anyone points out the flaws within the story of the storytelling techniques, it could be brushed under the rug by simply saying it was the intention of the script so it could mimic the meaninglessness of real life. It failed at every level of providing a joyful or anything remotely close to an enjoyable experience for the audience, then turned its head and said it was doing so intentionally. It felt like a work created by the most high-end writer, just so he or she could break more new ground and receive more praise from all of her also high-end colleagues, the top five percent of the population. But this play was also genius enough to pander to the bottom five percent of the population, by presenting nihilism as its topmost quality. According to anecdote, when the play premiered at Paris, viewed by normal theatre-goers, all of them walked out in protest, but when the play was put on the San Francisco Prison, all of the prisoners gave it a stand-up ovation for how close and real the play had represented life itself.

How benevolent of an idea. In that case, whenever criticisms was brought up, this anecdote would just be the last nail of the coffin for the critique. Who you would want to side with, the poor and oppressed prisoners from San Francisco, or the smug, overprivileged theatre-goers from Paris? Case closed.

Truly cynical. To make a play so intentionally abhorrent for any normal viewer, and so pandering to those who are the most vulnerable along with those who are on the very top. It is truly disgusting to see the current mentality of creating art had regressed to a point where a Pulitzer Award-winning writer would write something like this, just to poke and enrage the normal viewers, then slap them across the face and scorn them for not understanding true hardship of human life, and being a privileged arse.

Art is based on real life, and above it. Imitating real life with art in this fashion, truly could only be described as pathetic. 

If I am being as cynical as the writer, I would answer the previously asked question like this:

Who actually, wholeheartedly, wants to side, or go along with the prisoners in San Francisco, rather than those so-called fancy theatre attendees from Paris. Sure, everyone would say they would go for the prisoners, and condemn how privileged those theatre-goers are, but are we honest to ourselves? Between the Id, ego, and superego, which part of us is speaking when we said we would side with the prisoners?

I don’t want to be so cynical, I truly don’t. But when faced with a play created for the top five percent and the bottom five percent of the population and no one else, created to break all the established rules for the sake of breaking established rules instead of breaking traditions because it would help the storytelling or the style of the work, created not to express a message to or provide any entertainment to the public but rather to scorn and educate them for being one of the mundane, created to be as artsy as possible and as high end as possible, I don’t really know the way to keep my cynicism in check. I am just a mundane guy, who went to a theatre expecting something, anything that is not a cynical piece of esoteric mock, and before I can do anything about it, my money and my time were wasted into the thin air in return of absolutely nothing.

I still haven’t mentioned how western-centric this play is, how any other culture that values practicalism and collectivism instead of romanticism and individualism of the westerners would despise this play with their most core value, and how racially insensitive it is for it to be exclusively enjoyed and judged by western audiences, but I have had enough. If I keep talking about this thing, the seed of migraine in my head will be out of control.  

This is true cynicism.

It has some terrific writing techniques, and the restraint and subtlety of the writing were all beautiful, but it can’t amount to all the other issues I have with the script, not even close.

I gave it a strong two to a light three, out of ten.

John, by Annie Baker, 3/10

By Hilbert Johnson

  * * *

Look at this fat bastard. Oily and greasy, how in all the bloody but holy hell can he get a job? She thought to herself, as the waiter standing in front of her was waiting for her to order something. What a waste of resources. Truly morality had got itself into some sort of unremitting horror, just so this creature can serve in an overpriced airport cafe.

“Nothing. Thanks.” She said.

“What you two want for drinks then?” The waiter asked, clearly empty-minded at this moment.  

“Uh I would want some sweet tea, and for the lady here, a cup of hot coffee, lots…”

“Black.”

Hilbert paused for a second. “Make it black then.”

The waiter walked off, and a cup of sweet tea and coffee were put on the table.

“So that’s it.” Hilbert said, taking a sip of the sweet tea, “No way to convince you.”

“You do not have to. Nor is there a necessity for you to do so.” She said, took a sip of the coffee.

Bitter.

“How about the apartment? You just clear your debt for it.”

“Sell it. Or rent it. You don’t have to worry.”

“You sure you don’t want to eat anything before you got on the plane?”

“No. I am fine. You can get something to eat if you want.”

“No.”

“Then we can just have a drink can’t we?”

Pause. Silence. Just the noise of her sipping her coffee.

“I want to apologize.” He finally spoke.

“Not necessary.” She then followed it up with: “For what?”

“I am so sorry about that play that night. It was truly not my intention… I don’t know better.”

“It was a pleasant night.”

“It was truly awful to waste our time like that. I don’t know what the play was about. I should’ve done some more research on it before inviting you…”

“I am actually kind of hungry.” She suddenly uttered. She waved for the waiter, this time the waiter was no longer fat and ugly, but still possessed the same uninvested attitude and disgusting demeanor for a waiter to have. “May I have a slice of the cheesecake, the plain one.”

“Yea, and what the good sir wants?”

“Huh… refill my tea.”

The cheesecake tasted like anesthetic, and it was also bitter.

“I just want you to know, I did not intend for the play to be that... indescribable.”

“It is alright.” She said, finishing the cheesecake with her fork.

“So uh… this will probably be the last time we have a meal together, in a very long time.”

“You want some cheesecake as well?”

“No… thanks.”

“The play was very good.”

“You really don’t have to say that… I felt guilty enough as it is…”

“My plane is almost here.”

“I will walk you to the…”

“You still have work, Hilbert. Thanks for all these years.”

“For sure.”

“Take care.”

“Yea.”

She left, leaving him alone, sitting in the airport cafe.

The cup of black coffee she ordered was not finished.

* * *

The old man laying on the bed looking unfamiliar and strange, elder as well, like some kind of eldritch monster. The bed was made with a clean white sheet, and the flowers next to the bed were all withered and shriveled. The Filipino nurse came in and took those flowers out of the vase, and replaced it with fresh white lilies. That corner of the room looked so clean compared to the rest like it was just created out of thin air minutes ago, like no one had ever walked into that corner of the room ever before. She walked around the room, confused, walked back to the front desk. The receptionist there looked like even more of a whore than April, which was quite an achievement considering the environment they were now in was not the most casual place for one to be working in, she was expecting some kind of professionalism at the very least. The nurse pushed her away because she was blocking the hallway, she stepped back a little, asked the receptionist, who was also a nurse.

The receptionist spent forever going through her computer, then she pulled out a bunch of paperwork and asked her to sign.

She was confused, she asked her the question again. The nurse stared back at her with the most intense gaze like she had just accused her of murder.

Murder.

Like an unclogged sink, she now realized why.

* * *

Rustling leaves and moaning sky, darkening the land with argentine clouds, screaming winds and blinding rainstorm. Somehow the moving company was still working even under such harsh conditions. Laborers and workers carried out those old familiar pieces of furniture and threw them onto the truck with the most apathetic attitude one could have ever have, but who could blame them, not a single person would be glad to work amidst an incoming storm, but uncultured man do uncultured job, who could blame anyone for it? She walked past those people, walked directly into the house. One of the workers stopped her, said the house was under construction and unrelated personnel should stay away, she said I am more related to this house than I would ever want to admit to myself and the police would be on their way if you keep blocking my way. The worker, of course, stepped back.

He was sitting on one of the wooden antique chairs of theirs, in the middle of a practically empty living room, seemed like the movers were doing their job quite efficiently. He was reading a book. Atlas shrugged. What a surprise. Men love it. They goddamn love it. Hilbert once read that book as well, and he wouldn’t shut up about it for the next three months. Truly one has to treat themselves with godhood to think of themselves worthy of the position of Atlas where he could have just shrugged away all of his weight. She had never read the book.

He rose his head and saw her standing at the door, with a black bedraggled umbrella on her hand.

“Holy moly! Why are you here?”

“Why did you lie to me?”

“When are you back? You should have told me about it.”  

“Why did you not tell me?”

“Why would you be here anyway? I really didn’t expect you to come.”

“Answer me.”

“You want some tea?”

“John.” She was gnashing. “Answer me.”

“There is still some coffee lying around.”

A short silence.

“A cup of coffee would be nice.”

“I don’t have much sugar though, and I think those creams have certainly expired…”

“Black.”

There were two wooden antique chairs in the living room now, and a small wooden teapoy between the two. A cup of coffee and a cup of sweet tea were placed on the teapoy, along with the book Atlas shrugged.

“When was ma gone?”

“Two weeks ago.” He took a sip of the tea. “Ah… perfect for a rainy day like this. A cup of hot sweet tea.”

“Why did you not tell me?”

“Do you know ma was extremely proud of us?”

She didn’t answer.

“Of course you don’t. Why would you? She kept telling me not to bother you. She didn’t want to bother you. She said to me, don’t bother her because her job working for that international trading company must be straining.”

“Why did you not tell me?”

“She said not to bother you.”

“What?” Truly enraged, she was progressively getting angrier as the conversation continued, “You didn’t tell me ma is gone, because she told you not to bother me?”

“Well, she didn’t want to bother you! You have a busy job.”

“So you didn’t tell me my mom is dead!? When exactly did she die again?”

“Uh… the funeral was this Monday…”

“Funeral? What funeral?”

“Funeral for ma. Everyone was there…”

“And you didn’t tell me my ma is dead! And you didn’t tell me about the funeral?”

“She said not to bother you… I listened to her.”

“What are you, mad?” She stood up in rage. “You didn’t tell me my mom is goddamn dead because she told you not to bother me?”

“Yes exactly!” He was vexed as well, for some reason, he was clearly in the wrong here so god knows what could possibly be fueling his fury. “Exactly, I didn’t tell you ma is dead because she told me not to! And by god! It took some amount of repetition to get this across that thick goddamn skull of yours!”

“We met on Tuesdays! We talked in the press house! And even then you still lied right to my face!”

“I didn’t lie to you. She told me not to bother…”

“You lied to me! You sultry little squid piss lied! You told me…”

“I DIDN’T LIE TO YOU! SHE WAS FEELING BETTER! SHE IN ALL HELL GODDAMN WAS!”

The scream was ugly, intense, and truly horrifying. Every other screams before this one shivered in its presence.

“I couldn’t drink tea no more.” He sat back down. “They all tasted bitter.”

“Me neither. I couldn’t drink coffee, because sugar and cream just make it more bitter…” She sat back down also.

Silence. The storm outside bellowed.

“I enjoyed some theatre art recently.” He suddenly voiced. “Have you heard of a play called ‘John’?”

Just when she was about to answer, a mover walked in.

“Sir, the furniture is all loaded on the truck now.”

“Sure, have a break, wait till the storm blows over.”

The worker gave her a gaze, then walked out of the house.

What a fat piece of trash. She thought.

The End 

#short story #literature #theatre #play script