My Writers Circle

The Coffee Shop => The Gallery => Topic started by: NothingName1 on June 13, 2018, 02:58:55 AM

Title: Something Tragic
Post by: NothingName1 on June 13, 2018, 02:58:55 AM
Something tragic had happened to a man.
The first tragedy being, the man had found himself to be a man. He had never asked to be such a creature yet, he was, and that was a great shame. He always cursed his luck at finding himself to be a man and not, for example, a king eider, or a daffodil. Daffodils don't fall in love, they don't pay bills, and they certainly don't find themselves entangled in passionate affairs—yet, here he was, standing on the edge of a pier, contemplating suicide.
And we may argue, a man, by his nature, does not suddenly find himself on the edge of a pier contemplating a leap into the unknown, if it were not for additional tragedies, which so hook, and weigh upon his soul, the greatest being: love. And so, this man being afflicted with that common madness to the extreme, is at present, working his body around the rails, so as to face the sea for his final leap. And, though a storm rages, washing the pier in a sea-algae drenched film; every ring and rail, singing out to his touch, threatening to cast him out into the raging sea prematurely. He wondered why he clung so desperately against the forces, and whether this signaled he hadn't the nerve at all.
   “Oh, be quiet!” he cried, the rain stinging his eyes. “You've done a terrible job narrating me, you bastard. Haven't the nerve? I'll show you haven't the nerve! And what's is this about daffodils and not a word of Anna...”
   For a moment, the man—Sam, considering the poor narration so offered him, and cursing his luck, contemplated stepping into the great, gray oceanic swell which belched up above the foundation piles, almost sweeping along the length of the pier's broad walk. Christlike, both arms grasping; he stood precariously beyond the outer rails.
He peered outward at the terrible power of the sea; a dancing, crashing admixture of grays and whites. A painter's palette swirled into dead colour; sinking, smashing in all directions. For some reason, unknown to him, he searched the sky for sight of the moon.
   “Tell them about Anna, you bastard!” he cried out, though the rain staggered his cry filling his mouth with a salt wash, and he cried again, choking: “Anna!”
   So, I should perhaps tell you this man, Sam, was a mechanic. Yet, he always believed he was something more than a mere mechanic; he so strived to understand all things; educating himself, as he believed, above his peers, in all fields and disciplines. There was a madness to this. As when he found himself madly in love, with a beautiful intern named, Anna; who displayed every sign of reciprocating his interest; he, possessing such little self-worth, sought answers for his feelings in his books. They had determined, Anna, was the product of a mental aberration, and she was nothing more than a 'limerent object'. Satisfied then, that psychologists had long ago categorized his infatuation, and excess of emotion, as a mental illness. He proceeded to spurn Anna, for his, and her, own well being. For, as he reasoned: “If her affection for me is a delusion, and my infatuation continues to grow. Then I will be hurt a great deal in the end. And her, by my actions also—best put an end to it now.”
   “Yes, that will do, but that's not all. We don't have time. Just hearing it again—I hate how you narrate it. Fuck, if only it wasn't too late. I didn't invite you to narrate this. You're just like those bastard books. Why don't you let me speak? Why don't you all ever let me speak!”