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Why do I get lost

Published on December 2016 | Categories: Documents | Downloads: 11 | Comments: 0
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This is a short story I have written some time ago (2008) and I would like to hear some opinions.I know that it still needs a little work, especially in repeating words probably and maybe some spelling here and there, but I would specifically like to hear what you think of the story in general.If received well this would become part of a little book of short stories I am writing (have written more but published none, not on Scribd, nor anywhere else).Drop me a line :D

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Content

Why do I get lost The freshly cut grass I was sitting on was only just beginning to lose the moist feel of an early morning awakening. The soft glisten that nature possesses and reserves only for those who stroll the early hours of daybreak. With the sun slowly rising over the city it was already a comfortable twenty-one degrees and I just got my large coffee from the coffee shop around the corner of my apartment. As I settled down against the old elm I took out my MacBook, started checking my mail and took a sip of my coffee. First, as usual, I had to struggle through the 37 new mails I had received in the mere five hours that I had slept. This meant sifting through all the junk mail, mail I didn’t want to receive, but which at some point I would have to read and reply to, and the mail I simply chose to ignore from all the relevant or would be relevant mails. After having winnowed through I was left with exactly 3 new messages. One I had sent myself as I often did when I didn’t want to lose something in the chaos that is my mind and life. Another was a warning from my work saying that I after all had to work this Friday night, the night that I was planning on spending with you. And last but not least a mail from you. As always I felt a sudden shudder of anxiety and excitement. A shudder I shouldn’t allow myself to feel but which I often let slide for the sake of feeling a little bit better at such a time. I took another sip.

What would she have written? What is she going to say? Will I like it? Won’t I feel depressed by it later? Should I even open the mail? Should I even be wondering all of these wonderings? Should I even be writing about it now? I took a sip and wondered. After pondering for a little while I came to the conclusion that it would be best to start working first and read the mail later so as to removing all possibilities of feeling dispirited before I even began. I got back to my MacBook after having stared at the couple sitting at the bench across from me for to long. They started moving uncomfortably since the first noticed me staring. Of course I wasn’t staring at them but I could hardly walk up to them and explain the reason for me staring was because I was in love with you. It will undoubtedly be fun to see their reaction. I love to agitate people into doing things they normally don’t do. Try to get a rise out of them, make them think and act outside of their “normal” peripheries. I would keep looking at them while putting my MacBook away. Stand up; keep staring at them while taking another sip and then slowly, but with very purposeful steps, I would advance to them. They start to scuttle a little; she knocks over his cup of tea on the bench and all over his pair of Sunday trousers. Normally he would have gotten cross with her for ruining his trousers and these specifically, but because of the slightly maddened look in my eyes, he lets it slide. He starts to think of any way he could protect his girl, but

he knows that he is a coward even though he served in the war. Still he feels he has to do something if it were only to protect his image. She on the other hand seems less scared than he, but that could be because her man fought in the war and killed all those enemy soldiers while rescuing his entire squadron of certain annihilation by the coming tank that he, the hero, single-handedly utterly destroyed by placing his last bullet in the exact right spot. Or so she thinks. Only a few decisive strides to take and I take another sip of my coffee maddening my look to such a degree that I might as well have come walking straight out of the asylum on the far side of the city border just over hills. My phone rings, but I just let it go and take yet another sip. Lovely trick, that maddening of the eyes and quite simple really. You just have to stare at one point as if that point is the most important thing in the world to you and nothing else, except for you and that point, exists in the world. You then widen your eyes but not all the way open and try not to raise your eyebrows to much. You are a loony, not someone who is wondering all the time. And then the most important part comes into play. You have to smile. And I don’t mean a big and wide ‘here’s Johnny’-like smile, but a small ‘I know something you don’t’ kind of smile. A smile that touches the eyes more than the mouth which only needs its corners raised ever so slightly. I am standing right in front of them and they positively look terrified. My phone rings again, but once more I let it

go and I take another sip of my coffee. It doesn’t matter that the cup is empty; they don’t know it and it adds to the insanity of it all. He shudders and she looks a little stunned. I just keep standing there. She looks over at him, probably in the expectance of some sort of heroics. Silly girl. He waits, she waits and I just keep standing there sipping non existent coffee with my bag and MacBook by my side sitting and waiting. My phone rings again, I let it go. I wonder who is going to step up first. Mr. Captain America over here or his gullible friend on his left. Which door will they pick? Who will be the one to give in first? I damn as well know for sure that it isn’t going to be me no matter what will happen. My phone rings again. I don’t even hear it anymore. It was ringing the entire night also but I put it off. I make a small reminder to myself to check who was ringing last night and what was so urgent as to call me so many times and disrupting my well earned sleep with probably no more than petty indifferences within relationships or some other irrelevant question to life, the universe and everything one of my drunken mates just has to ask me. I take another sip of my non existent coffee while the phone rings again. Not so surprisingly she is the one to speak up. After all someone has to say something and although she expected it to be Mr. Fantastic she soon realized him to be Milksop the Gutless Wonder. Defendant of foremost himself and sadly not of those in need. Not that she needs protection, but she doesn’t realize it. And as my phone starts to ring again she asks me if she could help me with anything.

This was my cue! I start to look at Dastardly as I reach into the inside of my jacket who, as expected jumps up and darts straight for the exit of the park running flat-out into one of the busiest streets in the city. I look back at blue-eyed who is still sitting calmly on the bench and hand her a banana. I wait, sip and ignore the phone. She slowly accepts the piece of fruit and thanks me for. I say, “No, thank yourself”, turn around and leave her there bewildered. The phone keeps ringing but I have to finish the ruse. I go over to the old elm where I sit down under countless hearts carved in the tree, they all contain your name, and wait. The phone rings again, I ignore it and take another sip. I keep staring. She finally stands up, looks back at me once and heads for the city-centre. I sit back feeling quite pleased with myself when I think of checking my phone to see who kept ringing so irritably but so well suited for my little wile of the mind. I check my missed calls and realize that all of them were attempts by you to reach me. Even the last that stopped ringing only a few seconds ago but which I ignored because I was so set on finishing what I had started. I had to finish the story I had just written. I must have heard the phone somewhere when I was typing about Mr. Fabulous, Ms. Credulous and myself; the Loon, the Jester, the Fool. I returned the call while cursing myself. I got your voicemail. Only a beep was there. It said nothing. I hang up. I checked my messages. You had left seven. You asked me to call You asked me to call

You urged me to call You begged me to call You begged and pleaded me to call You cried and begged me to call You told me you loved me. I dialed your number. A beep. There was nothing.

Alexander van ‘t Hooft - 02-01-08 ©2008

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