(SHORT STORY) The Fog

Both time and love had left the young boy, sitting in his room, Friday evening. He sat alone, his mother fast asleep, his father gone on a journey that lasted forever. He wondered what to do, his homework was done and the allure of his stories had faded.

The phone had wrung just two minutes ago. It was his friend Samuel. He probably wanted to play a board game or two, but really why bother? Samuel was draining to be around. He loved being around Samuel, but the time at school was more than enough.

A rough, damaged voice squeaked from the other room. It was the young boy’s mother, screaming at him to go to bed. He turned off the light and didn’t make a noise. He did not fall asleep though. Too much to think about.

He always felt guilty that he hadn’t spent more time with his poor mother. He knew that she loved him very much, and that his mother must be worried about him. He hadn’t left his room in 6 hours. He hadn’t played the piano in months. But he was too tired to do anything about it. It was either tired, or sad. He couldn’t decide.

His room was a mess, and he hated himself because of it. It always bothered him when things were not right or when things had not gone to plan. Plans were in the hatching everyday in his juvenile brain on how to fix it all. He would go to the gym, he would save some money, he would make more friends. But every night it knocked on the window, he would let it in.

It was the Fog, his dearest friend in life. It made the young boy feel important, like he had a purpose, like all life would be dull without it. All they would do- all they would ever do, on stormy nights and rainy days, is sit together, in their room, and enjoy eachother’s company. The young boy would open the window, and it would fill the room. He would open his mouth, and the Fog would fall into his head. His eyes rolled back, his muscles stiffened, his problems were fixed. All the knowledge he ever needed, all the pleasure he would ever need to obtain, the Fog provided.

Today he decided he’d float away with the Fog, never to the return. With a gust of fateful wind, the young boy rose to eternity and died never living.

(One page stories) An elderly mugging

 

On Monroe Street, Jason waits patiently for his next victim.  A procession of wood workers, linemen and other inscrutable tradesmen parade by his alley, but his net is not hoisted for them.  He has a certain breed of fish to catch today; aged, flopping carp.  He had established his trade many years ago on Elm, forcefully taking dollar and dime from any man, woman, or dog with loose hanging currency.  After many unfruitful days on Elm Street, as well as constant police intervention, the business was moved to greener pastures, to Monroe Street, where he mugs old women every day.

An ancient woman passes his corner.  It strikes him odd, as the woman did not move with fleeting pace, as so many do while in the neighborhood.  This woman moves throughout the detested street as if a thousand eyes were watching her and she cared not one bit.  Perfect prey, perfect surroundings.  He pounces.

Jason springs from his alley with his beating stick in hand, and a hungry conviction, to harass the woman into submission.  He forcibly taps her knees, sending her to the ground at once.  He mutters his words of business; his threats, his insults, his leverage on her money.  But she responds not with her wallet, nor with her lips, but with a line of sight.  Her eyes posses less fear than a king in a castle, as if her mugger had fell flat on the biggest joke in the world; and this violates him, and his eyes inflame with fear she failed to possess.  And the joke produces a crowd.

Out from the tributary  streets comes a militia of elders, equipped with nothing less than handbags and walking sticks.  A storm brews and torments the solitary criminal. Strength came in numbers as countless old timers bludgeon the salesmen with their respective wares.  His whole is bruised and broken, but still they batter on in unyielding camaraderie.  His cheek fills with sour blood as business carries on late into the night.

(SHORT STORY) Arthur- a king

(SHORT STORY) A drag on sunset