#shortst

Billy looks sweaty as fuck. Abandoned his denim jacket, drenched through his thin t-shirt. He’s like, unbuckled, rolling around in the seat, all hunched in fetal position. Grabbing the crotch of his fucking pants.

Then he really fucks with Steve’s shit.

Says, “I need to come, I think.”

Recently, I had a English project where the prompt was simply to write about a relatable problem.  This was the result

My head was drooping, eyes slipping; I could feel myself losing control. It was already 5:00 a..m. and I needed to finish this now. All of it would be due in the next few hours. I just didn't have the time.

Past my desk, past all those wretched textbooks and notes and through the window, the sky was lighting..

It was  no good, I'd never finish in time.

"You seem to be struggling , dearest Augustine," a feminine voice from nowhere spoke airily. "I can help you. "

"Just call me August," I replied, watching my pen click on distress. . . .on its own. "Who are you, by the way?" I asked suspiciously. The only people who ever used my full name was my three aunt and they were vacationing in Norway right now.

"I can help you," the disembodied voice said again.

Moments later, I was falling, my desk along with me. I reached out and snatched flying papers out of the whipping air, desperately clutching them to my chest.

"Stop this, you maniac!" I screamed upwards, where I could still see my ceiling fan whirring lazily.

With a thud, I hit the ground. I was in a seemingly endless white room. Nearby, on a plush couch, sat a finely dressed woman. She smiled at me mischievously.

"Welcome child," she said. Somehow, this woman shared the same voice as the disembodied one from my room. "Welcome to my world."

"Wh-where am I!?!" I stammered . "This isn't my room!"

"You can stay here as long as you need," she said, throwing her head back and sinking even deeper into the couch. "Eat, take a nap, whatever you need."

"But my homework is—"

She snapped her fingers to silence me. "Honey, this is a timeless realm I made just for you. Say 'thank you' and get moving."

"One rule," she said as I began to investigate the room. "Under no circumstance are you to touch that clock."

"But—" I began before I looked back to where the woman had been. . . .it took me way too long to realize that she had disappeared.

"What—where?" I stuttered. "Who are you, woman!?!"

There was only silence at first, but then her voice danced around me. " I'm called the Operator."

"I have to get out of here" was my first thought. But there was no visible way out and I was probably already late for school anyways. It couldn't hurt to stay here for a while.

I glared at the couch grudgingly; then at my desk, which had somehow ended up perfectly lain out with the chair tucked neatly beneath it. I looked back to the couch. Oh how comfortable it looked!

"Fine," I grunted, settling down for what would hopefully be a quick nap.

When I woke up, I felt new and refreshed. I couldn't tell if I'd been asleep for ten minutes or ten hours; that useless clock didn't have any hands. I immediately resolved to work on my homework. Late or not, I needed to turn it in.

"I'm done?!?"

I stared at the work in front of me in amazement. Already? The time had flown by like nothing.

"You're done?" the Operator said sarcastically. "Took you long enough."

"What do you mean?" I said indignantly. "You said I had all the time in the world."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," the Operator grunted. "I know what I said. Now get folding."

"Folding? Folding what?"

My hands started shaking when I noticed the hamper under her arm. My only weakness.

"You didn't really think I'd be giving you all this without asking for a price?" She raised her eyebrows. "You're to fold my laundry, then you may go."

My mouth said "I understand", but my mind was thinking "I've got to get out of here".

It all began when I was much younger. That certain event left me traumatized beyond repair. Now, even the slightest mention of doing laundry leaves me trembling.

I had to get out of here; I was not about to fold someone else's underwear.

There was nothing. No possible way out. Or at least, that's what I thought.

"The clock!" I exclaimed suddenly.

"What about the clock?" though the Operator was trying to sound bored, a hint of tension touched her voice. "Remember my rule? You shouldn't touch it."

I ignored her of course. She was the one trying to make me do laundry. I approached the clock and touched it gingerly. It felt like a regular clock, but there was a faint buzzing sound coming from it.  A fiery heat (assumedly the eyes of the Operator) followed me to my desk where my completed homework still sat in a neat pile.

"It's my ticket out," I growled as I picked up my desk chair.

Judging by the energy and absolute look of loathing the Operator had adopted, I'd decided on the right course of action, though she never did anything to contest me. With the loudest smashing sound the clock shattered into a million pieces, leaving me gaping at the brilliance of the twinkling shards.

It was dark for a while. I must have drifted off or something while I was doing my homework.

"My homework!" I fretted, glancing at the clock in panic. 6:30 a.m. I still had an hour. I looked down at my desk. "It's complete? When did I do that?"

I guess it didn't matter. As long as it was done.

The room begins to spin and I remind myself to breathe. My chest feels as though it’s been hacked in half. My lungs are pierced with a knife and yet I’m still breathing.

Light stings my eyes, a thousand cold needles digging into my skull. Unable to reach my brain. Unable to put me out of my misery.

It feels as though I’m underwater, ears thrumming, lungs not working. Everything hurts.

My heart is like a cracked bell that keeps ringing, ignoring the lines that grow and spread with each peel. Further destroying itself.

My eyes feel watery and I try not to blink. If I blink the tears will fall  and then everyone will know. They’ll see how I still care for you. For someone who’s found yet another way of breaking my heart and made me feel like the fool. As if our connection was one sided. I know you felt it too, but you refuse to admit it and I don’t want them to see. They can’t see. I won’t let them.

So I walk slowly and carefully out of the room. Down the stairs. Keeping my head down, I ignore all sounds of life. Hoping no one will notice me and follow. For once I want to be invisible.

The cold December wind hits me as I step out into the dark night. Stars twinkle down on me, a sight I might enjoy if my organs weren’t being ripped from my body. If every step didn’t ache. If every breath wasn’t a samurai’s sword piercing both of my lungs.

The first tear slips from my grasp. It chills my cheek and I know what I need.

My only thought is to find somewhere no one will find me. My feet start picking up speed. Taking me away. I almost slip, but I don’t stop. I need to go. I end up hunched next to a hay bale, leaning into it for comfort and warmth. I no longer hold back my sobs.

I don’t have to now.

I can cry without being seen. No one will come to look for me.

Tears run down my cheeks, and they don’t ever seem to stop. Time has stopped. The pain hasn’t left. It’s still here. Ripping me apart when I thought there was nothing left to rip. I don’t pretend anymore. So I dig through every wound. Every ugly scar, left by you. I offer all of it up. Release it into the sky with a shaking sob. No longer wanting any of it.

Every memory I have of us. Of you. It’s all ruined now. Stained with knowledge that I can’t forget. I heard once that love isn’t real if it’s not returned. That can’t be true though. What I felt for you was the most I’ve ever experienced in the two decades I’ve been on this earth. It was everything. Too much to put into words. I’ve already tried.

Besides, I know you felt it too. Everyone saw it. They saw it before I did.

Ice runs down my spine, and I welcome it. With it comes a spark of hope. The realization that I don’t deserve this. The thought that this was inevitable. This pain is the final straw. The last hurdle. The end of our journey. Forgetting you. Or at least forgetting how much I felt for you.

I try to breath slowly. Clear my mind. It takes a while, but the shaking eventually ceases. Each breathe longer and slower then the last. As I realize the truth. He doesn’t deserve me. I deserve more. That pain is almost as bad as the first. If he can’t be honest with himself, if he has to deny what I know he felt. He’s not worth it.

It’s been over three months for me, since that night. Over twelve weeks. More then eighty days.

It’s been an uphill climb. I was wrong about the last hurdle. You haven’t completely left my mind. You tend to pop in from time to time. It could be because I hear your name being called. Only it’s not you. Sometimes I see something green and think of your eyes. Or I wake up from a dream where you held me in your arms.

But the worst of it is over. I survived.

Changing Stasis

The paper for this letter was difficult to obtain, a candle’s flame so near causes me some concern. Concern…normally I wouldn’t feel concern for losing anything. It used to be incredibly simple to get anything back. Back in those days nothing was really gone for long. It would keep coming back, over and over.

           Writing with a quill proves difficult. It is nothing like a keyboard. Screens never had ink to run out of either. This is my first venture outside after getting everything settled and I am already longing for the comforts of my base of operations. I am sick of the idea of going back at the same time. My share of historical artifacts was exceptionally large since we agreed this was the lowest risk world out of the eight of them. I ended up spending a hundred-odd years organizing it all. I am both sick and proud of it.

           My traveling companions are snoring rather loudly at this point in the straw beds behind me. For them this is comfort. A moon adds a contrasting pale blue light that fights in the middle of this page with the warm yellow light of the candle. It is summer here in the small town of Stagberry. Small and quiet. All the houses are made of logs and I see smoke from the chimney of one, the remnants of a cooking fire for supper.

I’m amazed I can still smell freshly baked bread through the window.This room absolutely reeks of unwashed men and stinky feet. The sound of a cart’s wheels clattering over the flagstones and the clip clop of horse’s hooves grows louder as it nears and passes beneath our window and dwindles into the distance. The air is stale and baked from the day’s heat. The gritty dirt from the road I can still feel on the soles of my feet, in my hair, and scratching under my clothes.

           I write this…no, I tell this story for I have no desire to write a real story ever again. You misunderstand me though, I would imagine. I do not know who I write to. Books and records disappear through history very rapidly. I do not want the same to happen to this story. Perhaps when this world is older…no, they will take it as fictional. I had first intended to tell this story only to humble myself and also give it as a gift to this world as a piece of history they likely will otherwise lose. I see the future in it though. This story will be seen as fiction so I will write this for enjoyment instead, despite the truth of it.

           It is incredible. I fear for my hard work to go to waste because it can go to waste. Everything is final these days. I feel a slight thrill in it. A feeling I haven’t had for a long time. This writing could be burned and lost forever. A man can die and stay dead. I could die.

           I digress. Whoever reads these stories, understand this and you will not misunderstand when I say I will never write a story again; I once helped write the story of history. I am no longer that man. The title, “Author of Life,” belongs to another man than the one who was my leader. I realized the futility of it all as did some of my co-workers. They are stronger than I. That is why I am on this world and not any of the others who survived the locking of the Utopia Machine. I am the only one here out of the rebels.

           I still have some of the tools of the trade. Twenty-two eyes is one tool set. My eyes allow me to see at any distance through anything. It isn’t omniscience but it’s the most information a human can process at once with a machine’s help. My eyes are sharp enough I can even discern thought or the vibrations of sound. However, such minute perceptions are only possible by using two eyes at once. Pity. Only being able to see clearly in eleven places at once is a handicap, but one I’ll have to live with.

I’m one of the few who retained a connection to the machine you see. Well, built one is more like it. Excuse me, I digress again. My current job amongst the dispersed rebels is clear-cut. I keep tabs on everyone and try my best to facilitate communication with the tool I have left.

           In any case, here I am. I drew the short straw. We all knew it was a gamble. But who would have thought he would choose this surviving world? Perhaps he knew our plan all along. I have no powers with which to defy him.

So here I am. I have chosen to tell stories and never write them again. I’ve changed history with the machine too many times for my sins to be forgiven. Even if the machine wasn’t locked I still wouldn’t use it.

I don’t know what else to do. The people of this world will have to defy him. I would help but I cannot stand to manipulate history anymore. I am too good at it. I can look in those places that matter the most. I can analyze the likelihood of outcomes. I can act in the most efficient way to achieve the best end. What if I were to make a mistake? I couldn’t undo it.

           I will make myself sick thinking of these things. Let’s look elsewhere besides my past and other dark tidings. I’m sure this world I’m on has some distracting stories we can look into. Yes, here’s one. I’ll narrate it to you. I give you my word, I don’t have a single stake in it. I never manipulated it in any way to bring about The Utopian End.

***

           A multi-walled city clings to the mountains around a wide inlet of water in the night. Docks line the shores on each side of the inlet. Down by the docks inside the first wall’s main gate, an inn warms the street with the glow of its lanterns. Raucous laughing erupts from its door as two men exit and stumble awkwardly together through the narrow doorway with a slam. The smell of beer sticks to them.

           “That is soome goooood beer.” Said the taller of the two.

           “Hoho! Better for me because it was free! See? Didn’t I tell ya a local knew the best inns in town? I know where all the good drinking spots are!” Said the shorter.

           The taller man began to lose his balance and grabbed hold of the shorter man. Together they stumbled to the right, then to the left, overcompensating.

           “Whoa my boy! We best get you to bed!” The shorter man steadied his companion.

           “Mmm, thank yoou. I heeard things aboout this plaace, but itsss not sooo bad.”

           The shorter man smiled and his teeth gleamed in the lamplight. “Let’s get you back to your ship.” The shorter man was the older of the two and he had a burly frame. His cheeks were rough with stubble. His clothes had a few holes in them but seemed to have been of better quality at one point.

           The taller of the two had a handsome young face. His arms were corded with the hard labor of a ship and burned with a healthy dark tan.

           The two stumbled down the narrow street towards the city gate. The younger one kept leaning on the other man’s right shoulder forcing the other to give a little. They got closer and closer to the front of the buildings on the right side of the road. When they got to a narrow alley between two of them, the shorter man stopped resisting and let them fall into the narrow alley together. The taller one groaned. “Oow, my heead.”

           The shorter man got up and brushed himself off and stood over the taller man who was holding his head. His jacket had fallen to the side revealing a money purse. The shorter man slipped out a knife and deftly cut it from the man’s belt and walked quickly away. The taller man still in the alley did not notice his companion had left.

***

           I…can’t look away from this scene. A man lies without a penny in an alley. How many times have I seen this kind of thing happening and worse? It is different now. It cannot be undone.

Well, call me a sinner. I’m searching the machine’s recordings. We locked its ability to reverse change, we didn’t turn it off. We couldn’t turn it off, it was never made to be turned off.

           I found the man in the records.

He was a peasant working on a farm.

Lets see… yes, a drought came. His little brothers and sisters are hungry and their clothes are tattered. The land is so dry his father can’t do the work alone. There isn’t much land to work. The soil is bare and cracked even by the stream bed, which is little more than a rivulet now. The man’s name is Keb. Keb sits down with his parents and they agree to let him try to become a sailor for money. He travels to the nearby port with money only for food. He sleeps by the road at night. He arrives at the harbor dusty, grimy and thin. The moisture of the sea air fills his lungs and hope rises in him. He goes from ship to ship trying to get work but they don’t want him. He becomes a beggar in that town for a while before a passing ship captain sees Keb’s determination and takes him on board. Keb soon becomes an able sailor. Unlike the other sailors, he doesn’t go to shore and spend all his pay. Then they reach the city he is in now, the last stop before he goes home. His sailor friends convince him to come into town and celebrate his good fortune. He earned it after all! Keb agrees and goes with them to town. A local shows them the best bar in town and they all get drunk. None of Keb’s crewmates notice when he and the local guide walk out of the bar.

           That vulgar miscreant! His family…they are more poor and hungry than when Keb left. The beets the father planted by the trickle of the stream were pillaged by rabbits. He sits dozing on a log there tonight. A long knurled stick rests on his shoulder. He cannot let his family starve.

           Gah! The machine’s control’s aren’t there. Is there nothing I can do? Almost burned my hand on the candle.

           I could find that man and mug him! See how he’d like it! Why I’d…I’d…

           No. No, I can’t do that.

I’ve inserted myself into history to change the future too many times. What do we have for it? Broken worlds. I…I don’t even know if I want to walk among people anymore, to interact with them. A life touches so many. By all accounts I should be dead. I have no right to touch other’s lives anymore. I have no right to manipulate them.

I know what I was. I only strove to tie the strings of time to my own ends.

Every time I meet someone new, I want to reach out and know their story. But I feel if I touch them…I’ll taint them and they’ll become a pawn in my plan.

***

It is late where I am at now. The gray of dawn is clarifying the horizon.

           Was that all the money Keb had?

           The dying candle in front of me flickers and goes out.

 We made the lock unbreakable. We made a lock with no key.

 Signed, Thennar Rawya Rabia Aldan-Bern Autor

The End

 Thank you for reading my short story! If you enjoyed it, please like, share and leave a comment! :D