Short Stories

A couple of short stories that came about just by chance. Sometimes I have a need to write out. And then these stories are created. They mostly link to one of my pictures. Whenever I work on my picture, the plot of the story emerges in my head. Sometimes I have no choice but to try to write it down on paper. So I thought if anyone would like to read it. Let me know what you think on my social media.

...probably dreaming...

She's probably sleeping

The morning sun warms her dark hair.

She feels a soft warmth on her arms.

It reminds her of candy floss from her childhood.

She doesn't remember anything specific.

It's just a fleeting memory.

Just like a breeze caressing your face.

And the smell of the flowers is as strong as the perfume she got.

She doesn't even know from who.

The perfume was more revenge than a gift.

And the grass rustles softly.

She doesn't want to believe it's real.

And is it actually?

She feels that she is not here.

Maybe another dimension

She chuckles.

She seems to be floating above the ground.

The grass that should tickle her feet doesn't actually tickle her.

The sky is colored yellow and is so bright it hurts the eyes.

The birds in the treetops are chirping over each other as if they have nothing else to do as if the birds were mocking her.

"But what should I envy?"

"That they eat worms?"

She doesn't laugh now.

She's actually frowning a bit.

All those feelings are starting to get a little uncomfortable.

They get under her skin.

Her clothes are as light and comfortable as silk.

She feels every seam.

But another sensation catches her attention.

There is a forgotten tear in one eye.

A tear is always useful.

Although it cuts a bit.

Tear like glass.

She thinks.

And then hovers over the alley with a foul odor.

She's probably dreaming.

The rings on her hands grow heavy like shackles.

They drag her somewhere down to that stinking beauty.

And she feels something on her legs after all.

They are drops of dew that have not yet been evaporated by the sun.

The silhouette of a heron appears just above the horizon.

It brings back more memories for her.

She used to see a heron.

Every day at the same time.

She sat on the porch with cup of coffee and a heron flew over the city.

Exactly where the church tower ended and horizon began.

Daily...

"Habit."

She thought

"Routine."

Only once did the heron not appear.

It didn't even fly the next day.

And another day.

And another...

Why is she remembering this now?

Why now?

"Stupid heron!"

What does that have to do with it?

Because at that time someone left.

She's probably dreaming.

They don't pull her rings.

It's just one ring.

The most important one.

It's the ring.

Yes someone left.

What to do when your routine breaks down.

This must be a dream.

"The stupid birds!"

One bird rises as if in protest and circles the tree to pick a better spot.

Of course it doesn't stop mocking her.

The ring begins to slip.

"I hate it!!!"

"I'll just let him out in the grass and it'll be fine."

But it doesn't work.

She doesn't want to give it up.

"Damn!"

Another memory.

"But I don't want those damn memories anymore!"

Some memories hurt.

And some hurt a lot.

And then there are those which bleed.

And the ring slips.

Now she feels someone's breath on her neck.

And it tears her apart.

The bird claws at her heart.

And if she could move would turn back and run to her routine and wrap herself in it.

Like she wraps herself in a duvet every Sunday morning and waits for him.

He will wait for her to wake up as only he does.

Breath on the neck which smells of coffee.

And after which she wants to live laugh and love.

But he won't come.

And the heron won't fly.

And the ring falls down.

And it gets lost in the grass.

Nothing will ever be the same again.

She's probably dreaming.

"Now the tear is useful to me."

She says to herself.

And she sheds a tear.

She lets it go.

She gives up on it.

And all the sadness with it.

"Goodbye"

But she is a little sorry that she doesn't have more of them.

But she doesn't need more.

It's just human vanity.

Yes she doesn't need more.

It is the last tear.

She wakes up to a new morning and smiles at the world.

She smiles like she hadn't in a long time.

She cries for life.

She wants to take a deep breath.

She wants to be happy.

...the worst day...

When I buttoned up my black shirt in the morning, I knew that it would not be the happiest day of my life. But I had no idea that it would be one of my worst days.

I cleaned my shoes a little more and then decided I could go. "I'm ready," I say to myself, almost out loud. But can anyone be prepared for such a thing? I still had time. I don't like having to wait; but I also hate arriving late somewhere, especially when something is expected of me. I wasn't feeling very festive – not even in these shoes and this coat, which I only put on for exceptional occasions. I feel kind of used, kind of pale, black and white, blurry...

He was a colleague. On Friday, exactly a week earlier, we had talked about what he would do at the weekend. We were complaining a bit about things at work: how we do it every time. How everyone here at work does it.

And now here I was standing at the entrance to the house of sorrow. Inside, a drama was taking place in which he had the main role. Under normal circumstances, I would just be here as an extra. But today was not normal. "Damn," I cursed quietly. I imagined myself giving my speech to people in a church. "Why had I agreed? Why did it even have to be me? I cry even when I watch fairy tales. Damn! DAMN IT!"

It was about time. An Irish funeral is perfect. It breaks everyone down to atoms, even the biggest tough guy. It just grinds you up like a piece of meat. A long wait for loading the deceased. Unbelievable. Last Friday you were talking nonsense to someone and today they are lying here not answering. Cloudy, light rain. The lament of the bereaved. My first tears. My heart was pounding like I had drunk two Red Bulls. Long waits and waits and waits. And to top it all off, the church bell tolling.

Bing...

An incredibly long ten seconds of silence and…

Bing...

We finally moved. A long crowd of "extras" trailed behind the car with the coffin. Mario, my colleague, was a good guy. I know, I know… it's great. But you know what? A lot of people go to good people's funerals. And this gets a person. I was among the first. An advantage? I don't think so.

Bing...

That bell is crazy. I feel like I'm going crazy.

Bing...

We walked down the main street and cars stopped. Customers and employees came out of the shops along the main street. Some shops had their shutters down.

Bing...

I recognize friends, acquaintances, colleagues, former customers among them. Only now do I realize how many people I know here in town.

Bing...

In front of the church, while we were waiting again and listening to the bereaved, their funeral ode, I was very sad. I met other acquaintances and cried like a little child. Some shame has gone away.

In the church, things went well. I sat aside and waited for my part. They seemed to have forgotten about me. I was a little relieved. But as happens in my life, I am not spared anything. Maybe I deserve it; maybe someone is just testing me. I even get more. The parish priest apologizes to me, saying that they hadn't known about me and that I would get my moment at the grave. Oh great. I thought I would collapse there. I really wanted to run away to somewhere far off. We moved again. Car, crowd of people, rain, shops with people on the street and…

Bing...

-"That crazy bell again!" It was the worst of all.

We reached the cemetery. The priest played his last part. The women cried; the guys cried; I cried.

Bing...

The priest finished and it was my turn. I should have spoken at the very end! "What?"

Bing...

I went for it. I talked and cried. Tears in the eyes, wet glasses from the rain. I held on to the microphone stand. Lump in the throat. Damn and those bells!

Bing...

Somewhere in the middle, I realized how my knees were shaking and that I couldn't control it. For a moment, I thought I was going to pass out.

Bing...

I finished and everything fell out of me. On the way home, after thinking for a while, I realized that it was not me, but the survivors who'd had a bad day. Mario was a good guy. And even if he hadn't invented the light bulb or a cure for cancer, I still think that a lot of people will remember him.