Authors Note: Here is one of my short stories. It is my shortest and probably least interesting. Do enjoy
Travis James Lancaster
It was Thursday, a late afternoon on a Thursday. It may have been a Thursday night, he couldn’t really remember either way, and he was in no shape, nor state of mind, to find out for sure. Matthew had just left, about an hour ago, or so he thought. It may have been longer, it may have been a different day entirely that Matthew had been there. He didn’t feel like himself. The clock was above the oven in the kitchen but he couldn’t read it that well, he may have been in another room completely but from where he was standing, he couldn’t make out the individual hands of the looming black clock. Assuming it was late Tom stood still, wondering what he would do next. Matthew had left about an hour ago; he assumed that Matthew had left about an hour ago.
The room was still filled with smoke and there was a smoldering cigarette butt hanging on the edge of the clover shaped ash tray. In fact there were quite a few cigarette butts in the ash tray, this is when he realized that Matthew had definitely occupied his house fairly recently. The sheer size of the ash pile suggested that there had been more than just one individual at the house, but knowing Matthew, it was fairly believable that it had solely been the two of them. He tried to remember what Matthew had come over for; though Matthew came over fairly often there was probably a good reason for this visit. He tried to remember what had taken place in the earlier hours, before his memory and sense of judgment had vanished without him even knowing it. While he thought hard, he realized the terrible taste in his mouth. Suddenly Tom remembered. Actually he didn’t remember very much at all, but Matthew’s phone call began to resonate throughout his brain.
“Hey, uh, when, uh,” he unwittingly stammered. “Thomas?”
“Who is this? Do you have any idea what time it is?” Tom reacted peevishly
“Tom, please, uh, Tom?”
“Matthew, where are you?” There was a stern sense of urgency in his voice. “Matthew, I need to know where you are, I need to come pick you up”
That was as far as he got. He sat down quickly, just to get a hold of himself. After a minute he stood up, coolly as though the troubling memory that had just burst into his brain held no real importance. He realized that Matthew had been over his house, and he had left, so things must have turned out alright, if they hadn’t he probably wouldn’t be standing alone just outside of his kitchen so late at night. That may have been wishful thinking but Tom brushed it off and grabbed a glass of water. He quickly phoned Matthew.
Matthew picked up after two rings “Hello?”
“Hey, Matty,” he said complacently “What’s goin on?”
“Tom? Are you aware of the time?” Matthew questioned groggily
Matthew had clearly just been startled out of a deep sleep, but Tom barely noticed; “Matt, I just wanted to make sure things were okay”
Matt responded in a somewhat befuddled tone; “What are you talking about Tom?”
“You know, before, things seemed a bit shaky, and uh, I just wanted to make sure everything had cleared up”
Still somewhat bewildered Matthew answered; “Oh, yeah, sure man, things are, good.”
“Well that’s great, hey by the way, you haven’t seen my watch have you? I musta lost the damn thing like three or four days ago and I just feel naked, ya know what I mean?
“Tom? I don’t have a clue what you’re talkin about pal, can I phone ya in the morning?”
Tom sat, if only for a moment, and mulled over the proposition, feeling somewhat betrayed he answered back in a semi-harsh tone; “Do what you gotta..” He then began to trail off and quickly hung up.
He walked to the couch and slowly sat down, staring blankly he wondered, if only for a minute, what in the world was going on. The phone rang. It rang three times and then stopped. The same phenomenon occurred two more times after that and then no more. Again he tried to remember what had occurred at his house earlier that night. Losing interest quickly, he turned on the news. What felt like an hour went by and Tom’s arm shook, it was just a jolt, but all the same, it was enough to interrupt the fixation that the television had had over him. He began to think about how long he had been watching television, or if the television had even been on at all, because from where he was sitting, it appeared as though it was off. He looked at the clock, but still couldn’t make out the time. He guessed that it was late, really late.
Tom was getting lonely, it had been a number of hours, or so he thought, since his guest, whomever it may have been, had left. Tom hated being alone, growing up it was one of his worst fears, and now, as an adult, it had sunken deep into the walls of reality. It had become as nonchalant to him as breathing. He no longer feared being alone however, he simply despised it. He remembered being a child and being left alone, abandoned, he remembered just how it had felt. The fear used to course through his veins and make his blood run hot, not the kind of feeling one expected to receive from a fear at all. It was a crippling fear, a debilitating fear, he would lie awake at night, alone, in the dark, frightened stiff. Darkness didn’t frighten him, if anything it enthralled him. He would look around in the vast emptiness, on occasion it would appear that his room was getting larger, and there was not a soul in sight, for miles. However, as he grew, so did the strength that banished his fears to the deepest regions of his mind. He had all but come to terms with his loneliness; he fought it every chance he got, inviting friends and acquaintances over constantly, but for the most part, he lived with the fact that he, was alone.
He stood up from his couch, which he began to realize, was quite old, and as a matter of fact, not as comfortable as it once was. It was then that he realized, he couldn’t move, and he couldn’t speak. It wasn’t so much that he couldn’t perform these tasks; he just couldn’t find it in himself to carry them out, it was as if he had lost all motivation. For a moment he thought about just how much motivation an individual needs to perform such mindless tasks; such happenings of nonchalance that are normally taken for granted. So he stood, if only for a moment, and waited, like it seemed he had done so many times before. Tom was always waiting; for someone to arrive, for someone to leave, for something to happen. It was an agonizing process, but Tom didn’t think much of it, he had become accustomed to it, as he had to so many other things. Again he attempted to decipher the time, but then realized he didn’t really care what time it was.
He walked to his phone and began to dial a close friend. Lola, her name was, or so he thought, it may have been Lila, or even Lisa, but he stuck with Lola, hoping that it would pay off in the end. He called her and convinced her to come to his place. He wasn’t quite sure how he had accomplished the task, he wasn’t even sure what he had said to her, or if he had even spoken to her, but he knew she was on her way. He looked at his home, and it was a complete mess, he began to tidy up for Lola’s arrival, but soon after, realizing any attempt would be futile, threw his arms up in defeat, and retreated to the couch. He placed his feet up on the table and waited. There was some sort of construction happening on the street directly in front of his house, a passing roller, or earth mover, or digger of sorts shook the ground as it passed. The table under Tom’s feet caught the most vibration but he barely noticed it. He shifted in his seat uncomfortably. After what seemed like about half an hour had passed there was a knock at the door. The individual knocked three times and then stopped. The same phenomenon occurred two more times after that and then no more. Tom sat still and waited, like it seemed he had done so many times before.
I’m starting to wonder if anyone writes anything genuine on this website—anything of any value.
I began this blog because of my passion for writing but now I just find myself posting songs and pictures and re-blogging the posts of a pretty French girl…I’m not quite sure I understand what has happened here. Maybe it is time for me to get rid of this blog…And maybe I’m just overreacting
Probably the latter, but still, this isn’t how I envisioned this working. But I guess I really have no one to blame but myself.
I either have to shut up and start writing more on here, or fucking knock this shit off and start writing on my own again (without the triviality of silly blog posts on my feelings, and daily extravagances). Perhaps it is time I actually start picking up where I left off on this thing that I consider my passion—
I’m absolutely gutted…The Irish have been cheated out of a place in the 2010 World Cup. A dishonorable French team, led by a disgraceful Thierry Henry, is the reason that Ireland have not qualified for the World Cup next summer…Henry I thought extremely highly of you (even though you once played for the scum of London, Arsenl) and I believed you to be a more respectable footballer, but clearly, I was wrong. You are just like the rest of the cheating footballers out there. You are a disgrace and a charlatan and I wish horrible things on the French national soccer team (and to think it was but 4 years ago I felt for the French, who were cheated by a shameful Italian team)…You are a worthless cheat Thierry Henry, you and your shameful/dishonorable/contemptible French national team.
I’m sitting here staring at the cover of “Revolutionary Woman” The Autobiography of Kathleen Clarke
…Things aren’t looking good
…I also greatly appreciate intelligent people, long half drunk conversations about pretentious assholes, & any & all forms of art (&/or artistic creativity)
Whether it’s the alcohol running through my veins or not, I haven’t felt this sorrow bleeding inside of me in quite some time.
This sorrow burns in me and I am simply feeding the flames…Though I thought these feelings long gone, I now realize that they are merely dormant. They are ready to rise up and dance with the passion of an evil waltz without a moments notice… When I awake this will all be but a memory, but it is now that I am feeling this, and it is now that it cuts me so deep…
Ah, memory, the downfall of the unyielding; Like the splinter in the hull of the Syracusia or the blister on the toe of the giant.
- I decided to used the "chat" post link to post my normal "text" because...
- It looks pretty interesting and I wondered what my post would look like
- Any way. I'm thirsty, and no that isn't a metaphor, but by George it could be!
- I spent most of my evening last night sipping beers and smoking cigarettes in my
- Best friend's garage. He, another friend, and I spent quite a serious amount of time
- Talking. And it was glorious.
- I need to be spurred on creatively.
- I need to find motivation.
- I have to start sorting out my life and realize what it really is that I wish to do,
- In every aspect, not just those that I consider important.
- Whatever the case, I need to get off of this dusty couch, and start living a little.
- Advice for everyone else? Read more books
- Au revoir
I spent a while today wondering why I am neither important, nor do I lead an interesting life. People don’t flock to be in my presence; I don’t have a multitude of friends. I am not surrounded by bright lights and loud noises. I am not interesting. I lack…many things.
I thought about my style of writing for quite some time today as well. I write about depressed individuals, those who yearn hopelessly and have weight upon their hearts. This is the style in which most of my short stories are written. I too long, I long to expand. As you can see from my absurd tragicomedy, I have a love for the “absurd”. I wish to incorporate it more into my fiction.
I will remain staunch on my theory of writing about misery and emotions of that nature.
I just feel that happiness is overrated. It is the struggle to obtain (or re-obtain) happiness, that first glimmer of hope (or complete hopelessness) that is the interesting part. (Regardless of whether or not it be a plausible, or even a logical propensity)
[Sun drops quickly from the sky. Dark lit, appears more barren than before. Leon is sitting on boulder again. Eiric moves over to building and slumps down against its wall.]
Leon: [Runs off into distance; off stage. Yells from side] Hello?
Eiric: I’m right here
Eiric: [Looks around him for a moment] Where you just were.
Leon: Oh! I’ll be right back.
Eiric: [Walks over to boulder. Sits on floor back against boulder.] Why does he leave? There can’t be excitement off to the west, just as there is none off to the east, and I can only imagine, there is none to be found here.
[Leon walks back onto stage. Seeming upset.]
Leon: [Stares at his feet] Well.
Eiric: [Jumps to his feet runs to wall and stands still] Ya know I had a dream while you were gone.
Leon: [Looking towards moon] I haven’t eaten in days
Eiric: I dreamt I was a Lion, or some sort of wild beast. And I couldn’t find any food. I searched and I searched but there was nary a bite.
Leon: I haven’t eaten in a number of days.
Eiric: [Slumps back against wall] This weight, it kills me.
Leon: Why is it that nobody ever comes to see us Eiric? Why do you think that is?
Eiric: [Head down. Unresponsive]
Leon: Poor Eiric. The weight he says. Oh the weight.
[Leon sits back on boulder as Eiric lays against the wall of the building eyes closed]
Leon: What good is night? Everyone just sleeps anyway. There is no excitement, there is no terror, there is no nothing. There is just this. This. What is this?
[Eiric picks his head up]
Eiric: I just had the strangest dream.
Eiric: I can’t remember. [Looks disappointed]
[Leon closes looks up towards stars. Mumbling inaudibly]
Eiric: I don’t understand. [Thinks] I’ve spent a lifetime awake. I’ve spent a lifetime asleep. But I have not spent one second alive. I’ll just remain motionless. Trapped in the throes of sleep and dreams and life…I’ve not spent one minute…[Trails off. Closes eyes]
Leon: Well. Well.
[Both men close eyes and sleep.]
I’m not going to beat around the bush. I’ve been hung over all day and I haven’t done much of anything.
It’s frigid out right now and I kinda wish I had an excuse to just stand outside for some strange reason.
…There are few things that make me happy, but I’m pretty sure one of them is getting mail. I do enjoy that. And god help me; I do love a good festive sweater
I’m a douchebag. I am flawed. I’m an asshole. (Something that rhymes with flawed.)