short stories

Sleepless nights spent mindlessly lullabied by the dark whispers of his consciousness could only last so long, he thought. Tomorrow’s a new day anyways. But as he tried to drift off, away from the crashing waves against the sandy beach of prominent emotions, the current pulled him back to shore. Tossing and turning, using every ounce of his energy to keep his boat afloat, time becomes nothing more than a mindless sensation, as minutes turn to hours and those hours turn to day as the sun rises once again. 

Bags under his eyes, he gets out of bed, unwillingly, but accepting of his defeat. He walks into the bathroom and turns the shower tap on. As he undresses, he has a look in the mirror. Haunted by the ghoulish bags under his eyes and the visibility of his skeleton, he sheds a tear. It’s almost as he’s diseased, and he is, but not medically. Emotion plagues his mind as he steps into the shower, ready to repeat a day of a nonchalant attitude to repel the emotion he’s shielding. 

As the tide changes with the sun rise, the crashing waves turn into a soft oscillation, and he gathers himself and prepares to set out once again. As he sets off into the horizon, he stops suddenly. An fleet is waiting. He can’t continue.

He makes himself a meal- he can’t eat. His stomach churns. He’s hungry. But the fear of rejecting his meal is too much for him, as he sets his food aside and gets back into bed. The armada has arrived. He stands atop his raft, trembling out of fear, as the armada send him back to that shoreline he resents. He can hear his people shout to him as he nears the coastline, “Come back! We miss you!” they shout, but he’s not interested. Instead, he sits on his raft, pondering a return, but unable to reach a concrete decision.

He decides to crawl back into bed, and as he drains out the melancholy music, he’s left alone with his thoughts once again. He reminisces the days he’s spent exploring the city he called home. The countless adventures and endless conversations he’s had with… them. But they’ve since left, with no armada waiting to watch for escapees, since they were first. And now, he’s left alone, battling return or an armada of merciless ships. In bed, on his raft, he wonders if they still think of him.

He didn’t do anything that day. Laying in bed, wondering, hoping, wishing, he spent the next hours in and out of his consciousness and watched the tides change in his mind. And then it was nightfall. He gets up and looks out of his window and stares at the city lights, tears falling like rain on a soft spring day, and that’s what it was. A gloomy day, but flowers and trees on the streets and pavements below dancing as they sway with the wind and the petals and leaves boogieing with each drop landing soft on them. It gives him hope, but it’s not enough for him as he crawls back into bed. 

Daydreaming, well, night dreaming, but without sleep, as the thoughts of something better falsely allude to a positive mind state. He thinks it’s all deja-vu, on an endless cycle until he can find the courage to escape the armada keeping him at bay.

It really is. Nights pass, weeks go by, timid, without faith in himself to escape, he goes from raft to city, from city to raft. Always planning, never committing, and missing what made his city so perfect.

By now, it’s summer, and he gets on his raft once more. He finally had the perfect plan to escape. But, frail from his bad habits and deteriorating health, his efforts left him laid out on the raft, without energy to get up and begin his voyage. As he looks into the summer sun and fades into darkness, he wonders if they still think of him. 

They had only met last autumn, but they said their goodbyes so soon, and as the world went from grey to black, he let out a breath- the flame in his mind shrinking into a measly ember.

Them
For them, it was another cold, rainy, winter day. Lacklustre and lethargic, with nothing seeming inviting in the outside world. Better to just stay inside, where it’s warm and safe. Comfortable, not so much, but that’s what they feel as an enigmatic feeling swarms the pair as they talk about the weather, unbeknownst to them that the small talk would be anything more than that. It’s become an almost daily occurrence, sometimes only simple pleasantries exchanged, whereas  other days the emotional pot spills over.

One
For One, the comfort and warmth doesn’t come from the inside of their home. It comes from the other. One awaits a message as they rub their eyes when the sun rises, and carries the growing warmth from the sun as their daily emotional baggage. Anxious, allured, anticipating the that first message awaits them as they arise to a view of an awning, dripping from the storm passing above their roof. Some days there’s a gift waiting, at least that’s what One likes to call it. Other days begin with an awkward abyss, an eager expectance left unfulfilled. As of late, there’s been plenty gifts, but, with more gifts, a sly sentiment creeps in.

The sentiment turns to feeling, the feeling turns to emotion. A warm buzzing envelopes One. It’s what everyone searches for, lets go, and reminisces. It can’t be. One didn’t think it was possible. It’s too late now. That rainy day brought was more than a downpour of rain. Realisation sunk in for One, and as the downpour turned to flood, panic tried to raise a white flag in its tattered fortress. 

Surely, this can’t be. The fortress would not hold, as the army of emotions swarmed the panic to raise a red flag over the pink battlefield. It’s much too late now. Swimming in the flood, One reaches the surface and gasps for air. Gasping, fighting for breath, the the victors of the battle spread over the battlefield and began their settlement, and as that happened, the floodwater was funnelled into the gutters and the flood subsided. One takes a look outside, seeing that the rainfall was nothing more than a storm, and the grasp turned to a snap of reality. It’s over.

Them II	
The small talk took a pause. With water subsided, there was not pot to boil over. Lingering emotions caused silence. A few reaches for a conversational flame were met with gusts of simple responses blowing out the match. Hours passed, with dialogue exchanged every now and then, truly only when situations required. The clock kept ticking, the match continued to fizzle out. 

As the clock struck midnight, one knew it was time to call game on the day. Typical to them, since everyone needs to sleep, but aggravating to One. As the clock struck midnight, the quadruple zeroes symbolised the emptiness One felt. As the clock struck midnight, another day had passed. And, as with each day, it felt like a day of missed opportunity, as emotions overwhelmed One. Aggravating to One, but typical for them.

It always felt like something more was only one question away.