#thecloudsexcerpt

Every once in a while, a new man would join the ranks. They made sure they got to the appropriate place and settled down on the curb. Laughter and hilarity rang out, the tumult rumbling. (It was certainly a noisy spectacle.) Certain passers-by on the street peered in with puzzled eyes and the bewilderment framing them. Nobody at all seemed to grasp the swirl of hormones and rampage located at that spot in the city—they are adolescents, after all, only themselves can understand each other. So why the gathering of youth?, they wondered. Why do they wait around?, they wondered. Why and why?

The pulsating, metallic sound of a bell pierced the ears of the crowd. It spiraled up to the sky and burst acutely over the plethora of heads. Mike Morgan, as many, allowed his impulses to propel him to the Fishheads’ mouth. A pairing of jubilant faces greeted the crowd with smiles. “Welcome”, cried one of them.

They soon thundered the names of the different voices in the ranks. The clock that seemed to be stopped in Jonson Street was repaired by a clockmaker with quivering hands and gaunt features. Like a train at rush hour, the throng was tingling in a daze. They were heading towards Fishheads’ doorway as if it offered them a shining and vigorous future, a new and lavish life in quite a way that not only their shadow would not recognize them, but they would not recognize themselves. A place where they could be baptized as they always dreamed of; their most far-reaching fantasies. Famished for a life which would only run for a few days, yet long enough for them to fly and twirl around; to turn in upon themselves, having worn themselves out, till they faced the finite and fell headlong into miserable poverty. It would yell at their faces while opening their bags in the lofty rooms they inhabited, their hearts pumping in sorrow against their breasts and their dreams shattered at the door. But now, that one thought had been locked away in a wooden box somewhere in their suitcases, forsaken before life’s fierceness and put off to the last of their sojourn. They were advancing to their sunny tomorrow, a tomorrow that awaited them and them alone.

The queues were sometimes emptied at breakneck speed, like cool water from a waterfall falling into a stream and like a bold steed at the hands of its paladin in a brisk chase between life and death; and sometimes with slow, very slow gaits, like a sloth awakening from a deep sleep. At around 9:15, it was Mike’s turn to walk through the door; a door that now fragmented two worlds and spelled utter disaster. He walked through Fishheads as dry as a stick. The kids who had raised the question at the door were standing behind a precarious plastic table, on which chaos was solemnly raised to its peak (Mike waited expectantly behind two girls with Texan accents, and once they had finished, he stood before the table).

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In the city, nervousness ruled; it was not yet eight o'clock, but the profusion of heated faces had started to dissipate nearly unnoticed in the streets. Lawson Street was recording the last few tourists of that day. The bustle and rattle of the cars were accompanied by soft giggles echoing from the corners, and the stained-glass lighting was struggling to penetrate the pavement surface of the streets. The row of easygoing grins was clustering in front of the displays, which swung with great movements gifts placed in paper bags. Infinite electrical cables stretched out on the ledges, flashing and twisting together, and dazzling balls of light were swept over the sky like the setting of a stage play. Bicycles were ridden on the left-hand side of roads by children aged between eight and ten, in shorts and cotton T-shirts and with their pockets bulging with candies. At the gates of the bars, small groups would gather, and with flushed cheeks and crystal-clear eyes, they narrated anecdotally stories that were never going to be repeated of being young. As they waited for the traffic, two women were chattering away in a pompous way, leaning on trolleys of thick daisies and lively colors.

A dog ran after a brown-coated feline, which jumped up onto a reddish house roof and disappeared in the water pipes. Fingers entwined, a pair of adolescents roamed the streets with a shy grin, muttering from time to time their most transcendental ideas. A local bus drove by to park near a grocery, crossing all Shirlely Street first. Taxis would occasionally show themselves, penetrating the crowded thoroughfare of Lawson Street and overwhelming the riders. Early as it was, the pace on Lawson Street was slackening—on all the streets in fact. Shopkeepers were anxiously strolling around their stores and workers (who had come downtown to finish the work) said their goodbyes with laughter and cuddles until the next year. Christmas loomed large over Lawson Street and, in short, over the whole city.

these were the opening lines

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At the bottom of the avenue, a judicious faces procession was standing in front of the entrance to a bar. Bathed in the gentle breeze, they all loaded up with suitcases, some broader and more striking, in others narrow and dull; some were embellished by eccentric blue, yellow, green, and violet patterns, an infinite number of colors that depicted them; and others represented a most declining and somber canvas of a masterpiece. Most teenagers were immersed in words, and a few (soon to be included) appreciated to their hearts’ content the lanes and the waters, the two or even three-story houses, the birds plummeting; they checked their watches more ceaselessly. Many were dozing on the pavement and on the baggage, with their hands like pillows. At the spontaneous assemblies that had been organized haphazardly, banal and bland affairs proper were questioned to initiate conversations. (They lacked interest, though.) The girls nibbled their lips and spoke in high-pitched tones; the boys fondled their arms up and down and giggled as if they had somehow missed the purpose for which they were there. (How silly, Mike thought.) The kids were scattered whimsically all along the way and all around the Fishheads Bar (Mike read a bit closer), turning sharply to the right and continuing to put up its walls to a faraway souvenir shop.

Time seemingly stood still in Johnson Street. There was the same old scene playing over and over again on the cinema screens. The joy and the din, the endlessly stupid conversations. They were played to the very end, and once they had concluded, the tape would be rewound to repeat itself again. Back and forth, back and forth.

Mike’s approach swelled the throng. He stepped aside after two boys with coarse hairdos and shabby mannerisms and left his pack on his feet. The two guys bickering over the latest news items in the world of strip cartoons, he overheard. There were abstracted discussions on red capes and blue tights, black gowns and midnight strolls, both heroes and villains sketched out on mounds of printed paper. Which heroes? Which villains? What was it but the aspect of good and bad? Honesty was defined in those harsh stories by orthodox feats, the clapping and cheering from the public. But, verily, characters who boasted nobly were nothing other than the hypocritical icons of society. The illusory heroes claiming an imminent salvation of the people, themselves, in the icy blackness of their hearts, the infamous assailants attacking their liberty non-stop; the liars and preachers; the muggers of those empty-handed; the illicit and silent actions. The Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde from the graphic literature. Wickedness shaping them; falsehoods.

The rosy sunset light was diffusing in the air by the same time. It lit up the teenagers and made them glow. The western winds whipped up the chestnut girls’ hairs, as well as the blond and orange ones. It would wave them like the flags wave on a burning California July day: proud and haughty, and with some sense of what is termed power.

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To Mike Morgan, nonetheless, the scene was nothing more than a crude and prosaic representation of what was already obvious. A plumb haze that undressed in front of his eyes as he walked. What did these children with their fingers glued to the glass dream about while they gazed out at the shop windows? Did anyone ever warn them of the reality behind the horror of the party? Would they be angry when they discovered the—oh, hilarious yet true—dark truth? Blissful reality! The weeping eyes and the disjointed smirk on their faces; the dazzling fact woven through the lights and the recesses of the mistletoe; the dreams left on the mantelpiece; the promises fading away with exuberant cadence. How guilty were those parents? The proverbial and everlasting tradition that began, whose origin was ignored by most.

It was not until the early years of five that Mike Morgan met Christmas. He burst under his bed and stuffed it with lots of messy questions that no one had answers to. In his childlike soul the deceptions were not allowed; the inconsistencies. Ah, the candor of childhood! She cautiously manifests herself and runs away like the cowards in war. His spirit of seeking the truth drew him into a grim yet true journey, and so, time later, Mike too came to understand the tricky reality that surrounded them.

Hands in his jeans, Mike Morgan was sliding along the winding road. A shabby backpack and a knapsack on his left shoulder. The instructions previously received by an average gentleman were crowding into his mind in haphazard fashion. Words slipped through his fingers and fell into an abysmal pond from which they could not be rescued; and the images of a map he had picked up at the airport (which he later threw into a rubbish bin) were blurring with each other. Eventually, he moved to the right side and a vast boulevard parallel to the beach—Main Beach, if he remembered well—was opened before him. He marched with an unyielding step, staring at the sea; the waves; the fine sand; the sun; the birds. His face was trimmed against the gloomy rays of the sun, which added to his stout figure. A thin layer of sweat formed behind his neck, which he attempted to rid himself of with harsh rubbing. His scowl at the sun’s stinging, the sole of his muddy slippers and the jeans that slackened on his knees; it was the epitome of Mike Morgan.

Flocks of snow gulls flocked to the shores of Main Beach, hovering laboriously among the trash bins, clamoring for every crumb. The swell whipped up against the rocks, which clumped together on one side; it lashed out with spite, soaring in majesty with each onslaught. The pristine beauty of the waves! The pristine waves! The scant greenery bobbed to the sound of the wind, nestled in certain nooks and crannies on the beach. It danced with him, danced Viennese waltzes, were dedicated harmonic and yearning tunes, like two lovers’ victims of passion. He kissed him so sweetly.

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@kashilascorner​ @maidollanganger​

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