Hey guys
This week has been a bit of a struggle. I’m finding that every now and then these current circumstances pull me to deal with things that takes away energy from getting some writing done. I wrote but minimally this week, more free writing than work on Pantheon. Don’t think I wrote more than 2000 words this week.
I wanted to share a short story I wrote, as part of my goal for this half of the year which was to write seven short stories in total. Let me know what you think.
James is reading a book, sitting on his wooden chair in the corner of the living room. To his right, a long Persian window, a couch and coffee table against the far wall, adjacent to the hallway door down at the end of which is the only bedroom in the house. The kitchen, a pragmatists relief, is built along the wall facing the window. The ensemble makes the living room feel peaceful and homey, a good place to wallow in the warm light of the midday sun and let the mind and body rest, tender to the flock, enjoy the book you’re reading, or just watch the dazzle of the sun.
James can’t remember why, but the book says the sun isn’t real.
It’s about an ordinary house, arranged like so, built in an everyday neighborhood, under this everyday sun, with an everyday man living in it, the protagonist, Tim. Unfortunately, the author takes certain liberties to Tim’s detriment, liberties which make the story intensely fascinating.
He lives by himself, for the most part, and James thinks for the most part because Tim is heavily entangled in a relationship with another character, the antagonist, who lives with him but who is not… really… there. There is no exposition of the antagonist, no physical presence, no descriptive mannerisms nor timbre of voice. Only numerous pages of dialog neatly bowed in quotation marks.
James finds the story utterly captivating, and Tim, a riveting protagonist.
Tim is intellectually sharp, quick witted and with an avid tenacity for discourse. The discussions are endless, one after another, between Tim and the antagonist.
It only makes sense, in balancing things out, the author writes Tim as emotionally irrational, with an innate tendency for the chaotic and what can at best be described as out-of-body attacks. For all James knows the antagonist could just be a figment of Tim’s imagination, although the author never says as much.
Coming back from the warm light of the midday sun, James rests his eyes on the cover of the book and thinks, I wonder what he’s doing.
If you take the living room as a reference, Tim’s bedroom was at the other end of the house. It was built along the same wall as the kitchen, with only the bathroom and a short corridor separating them. Right in front of the bathroom there was another bedroom, about the same size as his, and that was it.
His was modestly furnished. A double bed, a short night stand and a small studying table by the door. On sunny days like this he would lie in bed, his head hanging over the edge, with the curtains drawn, and watch the sky. The days he could let go for long enough, he would sail adrift on the seething blue ocean. Those moments were islands of peace and tranquility from his daily caregiving routine, and today, he let himself wallow in the wonder a little longer before getting up, which had to be soon. There was Dr Steins appointment at 1pm.
Tim wondered if the other bedroom door was open, whether he was already sitting in his wooden chair in the corner of the living room reading his book.
Whatever the answer, Tim kicked the bedsheets off resolutely, closed the curtains, put his clothes on and headed towards the living room.
“Good morning,” he said walking in, making for the kitchen.
“Good morning Tim.”
“What are you up to?”
“Just enjoying the day. Isn’t the light beautiful?”
“Yea, it’s nice,” he agreed, filling the kettle with water and sinking two pieces of bread into the toaster. “There are no clouds in the sky. Its super clear.”
“How wonderful. Did you sleep well Tim?”
“I feel rested, so I guess I slept well.” He waited for his toast. “I've been lying in bed for the last few hours looking at the sky.”
“Splendid.”
The toaster clacked. Tim smeared butter on both pieces, turned around and lent his body on the kitchen counter. “When did you wake up?”
“Oh, I don’t sleep Tim. I have no need for it. We’ve talked about this before, no?”
There was an imperceptible pause in Tim’s eyes as he bit the toast. Well I guess we’re starting early today, he thought to himself. Every day was held together by a thread, and the question was not if it would unravel, but when the unraveling would begin.
Avoiding the thread, Tim asked, “Did you hear the thunderstorm last night?”
“Yes. It was quite a spectacle. I felt as if in a dark sepulture.”
“It woke me up at one point,” Tim said, taking another bite of his toast. “I thought about checking up on you.”
“I appreciate the sentiment but that would have been unnecessary. I was reading a book quite fitting for the occasion.”
And another bite, “What were you reading?”
“A work by Thomas Aquinas. Do you know of him?”
“I think so. He’s that monk philosopher from Italy, no?”
“Quite right. He was a 13th century catholic philosopher who contributed greatly not only to the dialectic of monotheism, but also to western philosophy as we know it.”
“Something like that,” Tim replied neutrally, comforted by seeing the thread go untouched.
“There are some verses in the work which Aquinas dedicated to one of his teachers, the monk Bernadino, and the doings of the last few years of his life. The monk downed the robe of a hermit and retired himself permanently to his room in one of the Vatican’s towers. Posing no threat either to himself or others, he was left in peace, his recluse understood as the final part of his lifelong spiritual journey. In his last few months, he stopped admitting people to his room, and took meals inconsistently. All that could ever be heard were long hours of conversation balanced out by days of dead silence.”
“Aquinas was deeply touched by his teacher, and in trying to make sense of his spirit, he wrote, “Spiritual salvation lies in hearing that which cannot be heard.”
Ok, Tim thought, we have to start the day now before he sinks too far into his story. He turned and placed the butter knife in the sink, the butter back in the fridge and grabbed his last piece of toast. He walked across the living room into the soft midday light, in front of the wooden chair, crouched down on the floor and placed his hands gently over the cover of the book.
“James, listen to me,” he said softly. “You’ve got to stop reading so much and try to sleep more. Sometimes you let these stories get into your head to much. Remember what Dr Stein said about believing the books you read? Now, go get ready. We have our appointment with him at 1.”
Rising to his feet Tim took the last bite of his toast and headed back down the hallway to get their coats and shoes.
James smiles.
He stops reading, his eyes drawn to the soft light casting shadows over his hands. The room breathes peacefully again.
Tim is such a fascinating character, James thinks to himself.