Small story 7

His first thoughts after waking up were scrambled, a mess. Partly because what he was looking at was confusing him, partly because of the massive headache, and partly because he didn’t know what the hell was going on. The first thought he remembered was:

“Toto, I've a feeling we're not in Kansas any more.” Which was both impressive and embarrassing to him.

He wasn’t from Kansas, but right now Kansas would probably feel as much as home as anything. He was surrounded by green. Lush, vibrant, all-encompassing green. Vegetation the likes and amounts of which he had never seen before. Now, in and of itself this was fine, really. The problem was, a moment ago it had all been a desert.

There were other things missing. Some houses, to start with. A train of Humvees and a squad of soldiers too. And of course the insurgents, the explosions, the gunfire, the shouting and screaming.

 

Maybe he was still on edge because he had just been in the middle of a firefight, or maybe he was on edge because he was no longer in that firefight and he didn’t know why, but when he heard someone move behind him, he instantly turned and raised his rifle.

“Colburn, dude… Trent. You alright, man?”

The man walking towards him was his Team Leader. He looked pretty beat up, but otherwise fine. He was removing his helmet as he approached, revealing his blonde hair, which was wet with sweat and strands of which were clinging to his forehead. Trent lowered his rifle again.

“What happened?”

“Dunno, man,” the Team Leader replied. He was looking at his helmet. It was black on one side, as was his face. Explosion. “Last thing I remember was Buck screaming ‘get down’.”

“Yeah, me too.”

Trent looked around again. The green was still there. No sign of any sand. The grass they were standing in was almost waist-high. Trent ran his hand through it, half expecting it to simply pass through the blades of grass, like in a dream. He was probably still knocked out cold from that explosion. Or dead.

 

Suddenly they heard cries of help. The voice sounded familiar. They couldn’t see anyone, the grass was so high, but they headed towards where the voice was coming from.

“Buck? Buckley?” the Team Leader shouted.

“Over here!” a hand was reaching up through the grass, waving back and forth. It was right by them – if he hadn’t made any sound, they’d probably have walked right past. Trent and his leader headed for it.

Small story 6

She was sitting to his right, across the table. He thought she was telling a story, but wasn't quite sure – he wasn't really paying attention. He was watching her. She was smiling, laughing, as she told her story. It was a beautiful smile really, but he hated it all the same. The others were also laughing. Apparently it was a funny story she was telling. Had she looked at him, she might have noticed that he wasn't laughing. But she didn't look at him. Not a glance. Obviously she wasn't talking to him.

In a feeble attempt to divert his thoughts elsewhere, his subconscious made it clear to him that he liked the table they were sitting at. A dark, thick, lacquered wooden plate, that looked like it had been there for ages. For a moment he thought about how old it was, and how many people had sat around it. He imagined men with top hats and walking sticks and women in corsets and large dresses coming here, a long time ago. He wondered how many glasses of beer had been served on this table. It was a welcome distraction, but alas, not one that would last very long. His mood was too dark now.

Maybe she had finished her story now, he didn't know. No one was talking at the moment, just laughing or smiling or taking a sip of their beer. The guy opposite him said his name as he put down the glass. This guy, a friend, wanted to hear another funny story, and wanted him to tell it. He put on a bit of a smile (if you could even call it that. It was a pitiful attempt) and shook his head, looking down. The friend persisted, but he shook his head again and said no, and the friend had to tell the story instead.

He looked away. He was sitting at the end of the table, at the corner. He could see the exit from his seat. It was dead ahead, nothing in his way or anything. “Clean exit,” he thought.

The story was about him. It was something he had done, something funny. She was looking at the storyteller, he noticed. Then they all laughed, when the story was finished. He looked at their smiling faces with disgust. They were telling him how funny he had been. Another friend, sitting to his right, patted him on the back and told him he was awesome. That was it. He had had enough. He didn't want their adoration, he didn't need their funny anecdotes.

“I'm not awesome,” he began, “I'm completely fucking normal, just like everyone else.” He paused for only a moment, and continued before anyone could respond, at the moment when their smiles had already started to fade, but before they would break out into laughter again. “And its all shit. You do the best you can, and sometimes that's just enough to keep it together, but most of the time it's just shit.”

They didn't burst into laughter now. That had been averted. Maybe a chuckle or two of shock.

“Dude, are you alright?” one of them said, and then lowered his voice, “We're only on the first beer...”

He had begun it now, and there was no going back. He couldn't have stopped it, even if he had wanted to.

“I'm so sick of this... fucking social interaction!” He was going fast. He had to. But it was making it hard to find the right words in time, and he struggled with the sentences. Maybe his meaning would be twisted, but at the moment he just didn't care. “So sick of these rules, this expected way of behaving, it's so rigid, and square, and just... so fucking predictable! Let's all be nice little boys and girls and act the way we're supposed to, and no one gets hurt. Fuck this, and fuck you guys – I'm going home.”

He got up and put his jacket on. She looked at him, a mixed look of disbelief and worry on her face. Just like all of them. Just like he knew it would be.

“You haven't even finished the beer I bought you,” she tried. The glass of beer was half full.

“Yeah, sorry ‘bout that.” He opened his wallet, got out a bill and sort of flicked it towards her. It was more than enough to pay for a new beer.

Her expression changed. It was more angry now, or hurt. No matter.

“That's not what I meant – I don't want your fucking money.” She pushed the money back towards him. He was not impressed.

“Yeah you do.” He slid the money back towards her, and it caught in the puddle of water around her glass. He cast a quick glance around the table, at the people sitting there. They were probably protesting, he wasn't paying attention anymore.

As he started to walk towards the door, he noticed the friend he'd been sitting opposite of start to get up. He turned to face him and held up his hands in a demonstrative manner.

“Don't... come after me. You guys just sit here, enjoy yourselves, get on with your lives, and do not follow me. Really.”

As he disappeared from view, she didn't know what to think. She wasn't sure she'd remember after tonight, but she still made a mental note of talking to him about it the following day.

Small story 4

He stood on his balcony and surveyed the city that lay sprawled out before him. Water vapour formed small clouds each time he exhaled, and if he exhaled through his nose, the vapour would form two trails downwards. One could entertain that he somewhat looked like a dragon, blowing two trails of smoke from its nostrils as it scowled its prey. But he wasn’t scowling. Rather the opposite, in fact. He was in a fine mood, and although his vest and shirt – which he had rolled up to his elbows – didn’t do much to keep him warm now that it was getting colder, he paid it no mind. His mood was too good to be bothered by mere temperature. Besides, he enjoyed the cold.

“It’s getting to be that time again now, Gringham,” he said, not turning to look at the man who was standing behind him. “Time to pull out the scarves and gloves and coats. To bring in the firewood. To close the window when you go to bed for the night.”

“Yes, sir.” said Gringham.

The man smiled as he stood there, looking at the city, looking at nothing in particular.

“I do enjoy the winter,” he continued, “Wonder when the first snow will fall.”

He twirled his moustache round one finger. If he had to be honest, his moustache could have been twirlier. He was already a striking man, even for his age. Or perhaps especially for his age. Well, he was striking by any standards, really. Anyway, he was striking, of that he was sure. His very appearance commanded respect, and he was fairly certain that even if he had not accomplished all the amazing things that he had throughout his life, people would still treat him like a leader of men, merely because of his looks. But his moustache could well have been twirlier, and this thought put somewhat of a damper on his mood.

Men like him do not stay down for long however, and soon enough these thoughts were replaced by memories of winter.

“You remember that time we went to the pole, Gringham?” This time he turned slightly, if only to hear the reply better.

“Yes, sir.” said Gringham.

The man looked like someone who could have been to the pole. Either of them. Or both, as was actually the case. Gringham did not. Scrawny little Gringham. With the thin, red hair, and the deep furrows all over his face. Gringham was certainly not striking. You’d probably rather want to forget him after seeing him. He certainly looked like he had experienced much, but he did not look like he would survive a trip to the pole. Either of them. Or – as was the case – both.

It was getting cold, and dark, and it was time to get inside. The man took a last long look across the city which, as the night encroached on the day, had lit up in a myriad of small lights. The man rested his arm across Gringhams back, grabbing his shoulder firmly, brotherly.

“Let’s get some tea and reminisce, eh?”

“Yes, sir.” said Gringham.

Small story 1

“I swear,” said the man, “It was like I made a knot that wasn't really a knot, and I knew it wouldn't work, but then it did. But then suddenly the knot was an ordinary knot, a working knot. It was like Reality shifted, or something.”

The man was resting on one knee, and had moments before been bent over, in the process of tying his black shoes.  Now he was resting an elbow on his other knee, which was, like the rest of his legs, covered by his black pants. On his upper body he wore a black t-shirt under a black sweater, and an all black jacket on top. This attire went well with the sunglasses he had yet to put on, which had a black frame. He peered over at the woman in his bed who was sitting upright, turning to look at him, still halfway under the covers. Her pale skin was almost lost between the sheets and the duvet, but the fiery red hair that cascaded from her head down along her back made her quite noticeable, and in no danger of getting lost.  She had a sort of amused, befuddled look on her face.

“Right,” she said, “I'm sure it did.” She rubbed her eyes. “Where are you going?”

“I'm just going down to the store for a moment, get us some breakfast,” she said as she got up, her shoes tied, “Bread had gone bad.”

“Oh,” responded the man. He yawned, too tired to focus right now. “But wait-“ A thought had suddenly entered his head, and he felt it imperative that he expressed it, for fear of what might happen if he didn't.

“Yes?” Asked the woman, her red hair contrasting violently with the black she was clad in. However, in this particular violence, there was beauty.

“What if I never see you again, as you are now?”

She smiled slightly, and looked at him reassuringly. To herself, she thought: “Well of course you're never going to see me again as I am now. After all, later won't be now, will it?”
But she didn't say this. Instead, she said that she would be back in just a few minutes, and then disappeared through the door.

The man turned back around and stared straight ahead. He contemplated whether he should just get up out of bed and get on with it, but he was fairly certain he had just witnessed Reality shift, and if that wasn't a good reason for going back to sleep, the man was not at all sure what was. As he laid back and rested his head on the pillow, he recalled a story he had once been told.

The story was about a prince in a distant land. It wasn't the kind of silly prince you found in fairy tales or Hollywood movies – it was a proper prince from a proper land. Which was proper distant, both in space and time. And the land the prince lived in was magnificent, unlike any other land that had ever come before it, or would ever come after it. However, all was not well in these lands. For the prince's love had been captured by some sort of beast or other, it didn't really matter. The point was, thought the man as he slumbered somewhere between dream and wake, that the prince's love had the most beautiful, fiery red hair. And then he fell asleep.