Tag: Fiction

Ask yourself why you love literature, he said to the students in the room. Ask yourself why you’re devoted, what’s brought you here to this room.

He paced. The room was silent.

I love literature more than any other form of art because it is most often the tale of the Everyman, he said. It is language, yes. It is storytelling in its purest form, yes. I love it for these things. But most of all I love it because of the Everyman.

What do you mean by Everyman, a woman asked.

The Everyman, said the man in front of the room, is you. It is me. It is the ordinary man or woman who lives in extraordinary times. Just like us. The Everyman is the character in the work, moving through it, making decisions, performing routine tasks, assigning obligations to him or herself. But the Everyman is also the composer of the work. Man must have firsthand knowledge of the Everyman in order to narrate him. The Everyman is also the translator of the work. Man must speak the language of the Everyman in order to translate him. The Everyman is also the great liberator of the work. Man must have a notion of the Everyman’s captivity in order to free him.

The room was silent. The students watched the man pace slowly in front of them, back and forth.

For years I’ve toiled as a sculptor would, drafting by hand and chiseling away the stone to fashion my life into a work of art. Until the project is complete, the sculpture lacks shape and context and appears to be its very antithesis. The art appears to others, perhaps even those who know the sculptor most intimately, to be disorganized madness, ripe with error, a mess, a living joke. It is human to stumble. For when he is not sculpting, he drinks too much, he is easily distracted. But he finds solace in knowing that his mistakes are wrought of temporary moments of weakness rather than complacency, indifference, or obstinacy.

Is it so uncommon for a man to will himself to become something more than himself? His enemies are numerous; they wish passively to destroy him, to fashion him into the antagonist of the common man.

*

Loneliness is crafty, it infiltrates the fortress of solitude, poisoning the seer’s sense. Zarathustra, lend me your wisdom and experience, provide me with the strength to bear the weight of my fellow men and women.

—I prefer to crack my window when I write, particularly in the winter months, in the dead of night the sounds of the city soothe me, the sounds of the city guide me down into my cellar of self reflection, exactly where I need to be in order to examine the shadowed recesses, to peer down into the hidden places where no light nor exposure exists, where all things go to remain unobserved. These are the very things I’m looking to discover, secrets, the crawling, slithering forms of the mind, this is where they live and the open window on the wall behind me helps cast light upon those forms to send them scurrying, to upset their patterns of concealment. I don’t know why or how the sounds of the city can bring me such clarity during my ritualized introspections, particularly when the city I live in the world I live in the walls I live in are bathed in violence and grotesquery, all attitudes of famine and indoctrination and injustice. Wind, insects, vehicles, midnight pedestrians, distant sirens, rain, gunshots, screams, howls, silence—all of it like some cipher upon the door to those sacred inner spaces, allowing my entry.

There is a voice in my head as I write this. The voice tells me to stop writing, to keep writing, the voice tells me to look away. Focus, the voice says. Beyond the golden arch of your soul is the tired old man, the tired old man you’ll never be, the voice says.

Afterward, she stroked the long scar on my chest like she might stroke the skin of a snake. She touched the scars on my neck and abdomen, and I held her misshapen hand in mine. We allowed the other to explore our defects because that’s what they were for. Our imperfections can’t help but tell others and even ourselves who we are. Though she was alarmingly fit and shapely for her age, her naked body betrayed her years, as our bodies eventually betray us all.

Will you stay with me tonight? she asked.

I said I would and then retrieved the cups from the floor.

My name is Anya, she said.

It’s perfect for you, I told her, and we lied there drinking until the brandy in the bottle was gone and the sweat on our skin dried and likewise became part of the past.

You want things to be different. You want to live in a world (imagined or unimagined) where wickedness doesn’t always prevail, where neither socialization nor prejudice breed conflict. For human beings do not understand each other, which would be acceptable if they would only accept it. Human beings fail to understand their role in each other’s lives just as they fail to understand their role in relation to the world — while the Earth quickly and rather seamlessly adapts to drastic change, mankind does not. And that failure to adapt, to subvert the destructive element inside us, presents a demise that appears more imminent each day.

(Written for publication in The New Collective for Inquiring Journalists)

The Democratic City of Budapest welcomes all refugees with hysteria and perpetual movement, as if both were one and the same or as if one needed the other as its lifeline. Boats full of visitors and eastward refugees come gliding into this old dual city on the mighty Danube which, if reports and old photographs are accurate, has been largely unaffected by the great quake and its years of aftermath. Vessels of all types and purposes move across the surface of the water, which appears to be relatively clear and pure, millions of people move harried about the assorted ports set up categorically at the city’s edges, and the city itself seems to move erratically and en masse with the news of Senator Mayberry’s election victory in Zurich. Already many citizens of this city have begun their self-pronounced “frantic exodus of shame” eastward to the open arms of the Democratic Port City of Bucharest where President Sobo has said he and the people of the port city “would welcome the Hungarian people with open arms, as brothers and comrades.”

The city churns with refugees from Prague and the Republic of Vienna who, like the loyalists of Budapest, fear the delicate balance of European power has shifted into the hands of the west.

Still thousands in the Democratic City of Budapest have rejoiced at the news of Mayberry’s victory, and thus, the apparent stranglehold in Europe now commanded by the POG. Supporters gather in front of the Országház parliament building each day waving blue and white Zurich flags or large banners stitched with the POG symbol while the Hungarian loyalists threaten across the street with flags and banners of their own. The city’s security police watch the conflict poised on horseback, fully armed, but no serious violence has yet been reported.

Budapest’s President-elect Farkas has not addressed the people of his city publicly since the news was reported out of Zurich. He is thought to be preparing a statement with his closest aides inside the Országház, but his office has refused to comment on his current whereabouts. Farkas’ absence has worried many of the Hungarian loyalists and has appeared to strengthen the resolve of the POG supporters, who seem to double in volume everyday.

The tension in the city is as real as the clamor, but the weather is pristine. As sunset darkens the sky behind the Országház with hues of orange and purple and red, a frayed tri-colored Hungarian flag whips about from a third-story apartment window.

Because what happens to all the things that never get written down? What happens to all the notebooks and pamphlets that sit empty forever, throughout the span of this world and the next, what happens to the people who never get photographed, their stories untold? What happens to the undocumented percentage of our lives, the moments and memories that go unrecorded? I’ll tell you what happens to it all: It doesn’t exist. If we don’t exist in history, as a name in a notebook, as a face in a photo, as a voice on a digital recording, we don’t exist at all. How could we? There is no evidence of our walks through rainy downtown streets at dusk, no evidence of the love we feel even when we shouldn’t, no lasting record our labyrinthine dreams, no evidence of our battles, our scars, the relationships we’ve built with emotion and skin and courage. The present is only a condition of the future, Jennifer. I need to write everything down because I don’t know who I am. Whoever I am, whoever this person is writing in his notebook, I want to live on, I want my experience to have meaning, I want to be remembered, if only to one person, I want to prove that I exist or once existed. I want my life to have a defined purpose, and I want to fill that purpose with significance. It doesn’t matter how long it takes, how many notebooks I fill, whether you’re reading them or not. Nothing matters anymore at all because someone will read this notebook someday or maybe one of the others I’ve habitually filled with words and sent off to a childhood friend that either moved away or died years ago.

The day was gray and overcast. I had to deliver a small parcel in a neighborhood on the north side of Edmonton when I heard the nearby shots. The neighborhood had recently become a locus of gang activity and I knew it, pedaling through reluctantly, but it was particularly quiet that day until I heard the shots. I immediately plunged the bicycle into some roadside brush, scratching myself up and landing awkwardly on my right side. My memory becomes a bit vague after I fell off the bike but I remember that the package had been opened by the security police and then re-sealed before I came into possession of it. I don’t remember the name of the recipient of the package but I remember it was a woman who had begun teaching at the new college there in Edmonton, an intellectual with supposed subversive leanings, a focus of the local security police. I craned my head over the brush to see where the shots may have come from and there was a man near me dressed in all black. He even had a black mask covering his face. The man jumped out from behind a parked sedan with a silver pistol in each hand. He fired three or four rounds down toward the other end of the street and then he darted back behind the sedan. I tried to see who he was firing at and what sounded like rifle fire was returned to the man behind the sedan, tearing a chunk from the vehicle’s passenger side.

I thought I might be able to crawl out of the bushes and get my bicycle and ride out of there. I thought that maybe they would recognize my navy blue uniform and let me go, let me ride peacefully out of there, how stupid of me, and just as I got the bike upright with a leg astride it a bullet sung past my neck and then another ricocheted off something behind me and buried itself into my shoulder, knocking me off the bike. I felt like I’d been punched by an ape. I felt another shot explode into the ground near me and I remember thinking that whoever shot me must have thought my uniform was black like the gunman’s. The pain welled up inside and right before I passed out my eyes focused on the parcel and the name printed on the label and I realized I’d been delivering it to the wrong address.