Today I published my own writing.
As an assignment for my Creative Writing class, I’m giving a gift to all my readers: a slimmed-down version of my short story. Does writing a story on your own blog count as publishing? No. To make it a little more manageable for online reading, I’ve cut out all the beautifully worded descriptions and some important information necessary to the storyline. Kidding! Enjoy it my babies...
The Pamphleteer
Percy listened to his fish tank’s filter running, barely audible amidst the melodies. It had been months since the tank boasted any residents; it now stood forgotten and empty, save for a thick coat of algae that covered its contents. The rocks, the glass, the No Fishing sign; it was just as well there were no fish, for such an infestation would be grounds for animal cruelty.
Percy paid his rent and still had enough left over for a sandwich every day, but no one knew where that money came from. It seemed most of his days were spent only by sleeping in until late and sitting on the fire escape staring into distant fantasies until it was time to sleep again. He often played an acoustic guitar, but everyone in that neighbourhood did and no one was making any money. In fact, he was on his way home from playing guitar and singing into a microphone at a tiny bar in the back of an electronics store when he got the news.
Percy had always thought Armageddon warnings came from beards and robes, poorly drawn signs, ringing bells. But this one came from none of those, and he was completely taken aback. He had nearly dropped his guitar case as he jumped, jolted from city blindness and a world of his own, a hand and paper slapped into the middle of his chest.
“The world is ending in three days,” offered the man on the street.
“Thanks pal,” said Percy as he tried to continue.
“No really,” the man insisted as he pushed Percy back, hand and paper still sticking to his chest. He looked at Percy, his eyes hard and unyielding, without trace of doubt or madness.
And now in his bed, although the sunlight had long disappeared and his eyes were closing, he thought of the man. He rolled over and flipped on his bedside light, grabbing the pamphlet from the floor and studying it yet again. No matter how strange this warning was, Percy found himself scared more by its hopelessness. The page offered no solution or salvation, just a statement that confirmed the man’s words and Percy’s worst fear: it was official; the world was ending in three days. And now he was supposed to fall asleep?
* * * * * *
Percy saw something wonderful. A pretty Asian girl was getting on to a bus as he passed the station, the sign shouting to him that she was headed to Boston. He thought of going to talk to her, but what would he do? Stop her from leaving? Don’t go, I need you! Or ever worse: get out- you’re going to Boston? I’m going to Boston! That only worked in the movies, and even then rarely, and the instigator always had some distinguishable characteristic that Percy felt he was lacking.
So he had walked on, past the bus station and the Dumpster outside that often attracted the city’s lowest, back to his apartment and a better block of town. He turned down the back alley that suddenly opened to his right. Skulking around puddle and garbage he walked back to the fire escape, which he knew to be rusty or broken or something; either way always pulled down and stuck. Up the ladder to the stairs, this was almost as quick as the normal man’s route he usually took. On the fourth floor however, he stopped, hesitated, completely innocent, when his eyes misjudged and his foot slipped off the first step. As he reached to the wall to steady himself, he gave a glance, which quickly became a look, through the window into the apartment in front of him. A woman stood by the far wall, wearing only one of those too-large shirts with buttons that you assume to be her man’s, painting the wall a fresh coat of light blue, and doing a poor job. Her long legs flicked out gracefully from under the long shirt, both already dotted with spots and specks of paint. Percy had always wondered if he could paint such a beautiful scene, but he never had the supplies.
* * * * * *
The sunlight was unforgiving; this room had too many windows. Percy nearly smacked the woman standing behind him with his guitar case, ungainly, but for once not because his mind was drifting. He swiveled his head and squinted his eyes to close out some of the bright. The line in front of him moved slowly, frustrating and terrible, Percy thought he was going to get his license renewed or was waiting to ride a rollercoaster. Finally he reached the ticket counter, after having several quarter-hour intervals of queue time to doubt his decision and support his decision and choose his time and count out his money, so it was only a moment before he strode confidently away with his ticket to Boston.
Outside on the sidewalk it seemed the porter was only helping old women stow their cases beneath the bus, so Percy opted for independence and waved off the boy’s halfhearted advance to assist.
“It’s alright sir, but thank you!” his tone conveyed his glee. The bus revved and ran as it stood on the drive, while Percy’s heartbeat raced to match it. He opened his bag one last time before sliding it aboard, checking to see that his watercolours and brushes and photographs of flowers would not be crushed if the boy should happen to be careless. Satisfied; he boarded, the whooshing doors closed behind him and he found a seat near the back to nap in. He only had two days left, and there was so much to do.
