Some short stories written by me, indulging into the depths of daily life.
And as the light grew while darkness fell, Taylan would soon wake from his slumber. For verily, his alarm clock knows best. And slowly, at the inevitable time, his alarm clock strikes as though hell was breaking loose, and no man would be spared. In great haste, Taylan fought valiantly against his will to sleep, and reached the depths of the alarm clock, and will all his might, it was though through a divine intervention, he has ceased the chaos. He exclaimed to the world "Only 5 more minutes...". And so, the time space continuum snapped, and 5 minutes passed in 30 minutes. As the great man woke from his slumber, he was infuriated, and with all his might bellowed "I don't want to go College" and even though no question was asked, no answer was given....
It’s been 5 years since the winter cold. Now as then a beast approaches, stalking, savouring the meal to come. It wasn’t fear that gripped him, but a heightened sense of things. Its eyes glared as though time had been trapped on a never ending journey through the bosoms that this world has to offer. Destruction is all it has seen. Battered. Weary. Dead. As the fiend approached, he noticed a small book titled “Shaylabuwa” in his pocket, and upon opening it, searching for an answer to the simplest question, his eyes lit up. His lips trembled, and as though there was no mountain higher he bellowed out, not in fear, but in shock: “Who the **** wrote this ****?”. And then from then on, it was proclaimed, it was never to be seen by another, and when the simplest question is asked, he will get what is his right.
So he came to the place he has been many a time before. He walks in the same way he has done a thousand times before, sits down, pulls out a cigarette and lights it for a thousandth time. The sharp yet satisfaying clink of his lighter can be heard by the dead. The very fabric of reality trembles. Just enough to notice. He inhales. His eyes were closed. The place, home, abode, call it what you may. For him, home was were he laid to sleep when the time came. It was decrepit, it always was, the hand of another had not touched the walls nor the floor. That is why it was so pure. He paid no notice of the works of art that occupied the spaces around him. Art is only art if it is appreciated, if not, what is the difference between an empty canvas and the Mona Lisa? He didn't think much of Lisa. He mumbles an old folk song. The one about a young man falling in love with a fair maiden. It always was so. So much repetition, he had grown bored of it, but if he didn't remember it by mumbling, he would forget it and run the danger of hearing it sung. He exhaled.He had a curious relationship with his coat. Unlike most people, he wore his clothes. His clothes did not wear him. Enough time spent sitting. He stood, beside him a mountain, beneath him nobody yet above none either. He was alone. He didn't rank, label or care. That way he is always somewhere where he cannot be reached. Soon nightfell, the stars came up and the sun fell to his slumber and let the other stars have their turn in the sky. Comfort was decanted. It was time to rest after a long day of living.
It was as though the world had stood still. In one collective moment of truth, time froze. Its final war had been won: With it self. And so, as he passed through the night, unaware of his demise, wondering. Waiting. Hope, it is best served unaccompanied. And then, as all hope seemed lost, all faith in the world glaring back at him for one final time, it came to him. As though God himself had answered his silent prayer, the sun was born again. The sun rises and falls like the kingdom of men. Even the mighty must fall, and fall it did. A sheet paper gently entered his mind. His thoughts were at sea, awe-struck by the words that his body was soon to experience... As his mind stayed nor grounded, nor air borne. Beyond him was a vast ocean of nothingness, behind him a sea of sand belies. It wasn't he who controlled his thoughts, and his mind grasped the concept, that this isn't a dream, nor was this reality. It was his mind who controlled his body. The body filled up with void, contemplating. It was not the darkness that gripped him, nor was it the light that saved him. It was nothing. A feeling nor death nor life. It was as though time had frozen. Not for the world, not for God. Time had frozen for him.
He has been walking for centuries, the ground hurts as he treads softly. That night he dreamt of being at peace, it was a nightmare. His boots gather dust from the trail, he does not mind too much, it shows where he has been so he does not clean it. His face is as worn as the leather on his boots, he does not mind that either. His scars from battle and love alike he displays proudly, for those make me who I am, he says. His scars of circumstance he does not like to show, he does not like the idea of bending down to the will of chance. His hair follows him slightly, slowly dancing in the breeze as he walks with his hands in his pocket. Yes, all in all a half man. Rarely does a man die whole, rarely does a man die filled with happiness. Men die with contempt in their heart. Contempt at the universe, contempt at their loved ones, contempt at chance. ‘Why?’ is the question, he does not plan on asking the question just so silence can be spat in his face. He is too proud. So he forever lives.
Credit where it is due: Naimul Chachu and Fahima for telling me to open the thread