novel

stories, Writings

The Stained Man – a short story


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It’s a solemn morning for the man who is busy pouring his coffee down the drain.
He is mad, for all he can see is the stain, the stain on his white shirt which, in his mind, represents his life.
He mutters to himself as he watches the rain trickle down the window pane; “I’m nothing but a stain on a white shirt. A blob that no one likes, something that sticks out and can’t be left unnoticed. A freak in a heap of normalities, stiletto heals and formalities.”
He makes no attempt to wash it off, instead he unbuttons the shirt, letting his belly hang out over his suit-pants and tosses it on the floor. The phone rings and reveals the name of the person calling, “Samantha Miller”.
“Not today Samantha. Not today,” he whispers as he puts his phone into sleep-mode.
What Samantha, his boss of 15 years, doesn’t know is that Bob Litter has remained by his sink, overlooking the apartments in front of him, for 2 hours. Ever since he mindlessly stained himself with coffee he has been standing there, contemplating, letting his workshift start without him for the first time in, well, 15 years.

“Bob the Blob”
“Hey Bob, did you litter yourself?!”
“Bobby the Flobby!”
“Bob the Sob”
“Litter is Bitter!”
He acts it out, imitates the voices of the past and the now, all the disgraceful nicknames that have poured over him throughout his life, in school, at work, at camp. Samantha says they are uttered from his co-workers with love and sarcasm, that they would never have done it if there were an ounce of seriousness to them. He finds that hard to believe.
He is fat, he is bald and he has dark circles around his eyes, hanging like bags of the sickly skin which a nearly dead elderly person acquires.
“They are right. Somehow they’ve made me believe it. Turned me into it. Turned me into the stain I never knew I was. I will die anyway, might as well get on with it. When death seems more fun than life, it has to be the right choice, right?”
No one will answer him, for he has no confidants, he has no wife, no husband, no children, no friends, no living family, except from a cousin he’s never met, he is alone. In retrospect I can see how it happened, that he involuntarily chose loneliness, he let others get to him and beat him down inch by inch. He lost his fighting-spirit when his long-sought-after ex had a miscarriage and she left him. It was during the time when he still had hair, was less fat and had just landed his job as a banking official, when life was fun.

He picks up the white shirt with a coffee-stain on it and puts it on again.
“I should die as the stain I am,” he says a he laughs and sobs, laughs and sobs in a spectrum of indecisive emotions.
His index finger reaches around the trigger of the gun that has been lying in front of him since he went to get it just after the stain arose. He is disturbed by the flashing light from his phone, it reads “Samantha Miller”. He takes the gun and shoots the phone, two shots, glass flying, metal cracking, one shot, Bob is dead, blood flying, no one is crying.

It actually pains me, as death, to see this. What a lonesome soul, what a beautiful mind that so few got to get to know. What I know though that Bob didn’t know, is that Samantha Miller called him, not to bark at him for being late but for getting the door code to his housing estate.
For outside his whole team of banking officials awaited him to leave for work. How wonderful they looked in their suits, party-hats and colorful helium-balloons. Today was Bob’s 64th birthday. Wait, something is happening. The police has knocked down Bob’s door, Samantha Miller has called them in sheer concern for the man who has never been late for work.

The police finds the man on the floor in his kitchen, seemingly floating on a stain of blood.

– J

Writings

Last hour of a 21 year old


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There it goes, this life of mine. Second by second, minute by minute, hour by hour and all of a sudden another year has passed and in that realization is nothing more but the now.

This year I’ve been treated with many new humans in my life, experiences – both physical and mental, I’ve lost my grandma, and I have ventured out on yet another journey in my own mind.

A journey which holds many questions regarding love and who to love, what to do and how to do it, follow impulses or be logical, be brave or be a coward, float in the moment or affect it, be modest or be blunt? 

All I know now is I appreciate being a thinker, needless to say I don’t need answers to everything but I appreciate the questions. They push me forward, challenge me and may make me draw elevated conclusions and decisions that would not have occurred if I didn’t think so much about…everything.

I also dare to say I know that following intuition and inner sayings is difficult in a world made up of structures and social norms, even more so than I thought before.

I’ve also started on a novel. I’ve started on many but this one is different. It plays out in my mind and lasts longer than two pages, maybe 300. I write on it, in one way or the other, a little everyday, I collect experiences and sayings which boil down into entering the book.

I long for film-sets, acting and the craft of filming. I’m starting to think that my fourteen year old self received a (quite apparent) hunch of what I want to do in life.

Life- Long -Lessons –  Not letting my own stress affect my loved ones is key, because without them I am lost. The Holy Grail which is communication is another life-long lesson this year. Knowing that I am good as I am, sometimes even better than good, even when I feel alien. Giving energy to others without having any will give me more. Getting inspired by my family and act upon it. And more thereto. 

The seconds will roll by, hopefully for a long, long time, because I am eager to live every one of them.

Goodnight, forever, 21 year old me.

 

Writings

The Habit of Writing / Growth of a Character


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I set a goal for myself this summer – ‘write a story, longer then you’ve ever written before.’

I’ve had an idea which has been luring in the back of my mind for a while and when I decided to put it into words, it simply felt right.

The past year I’ve acquired the habit of writing something ever.damn.day. Whether it’s a diary-page, a small poem, a short-story, has not mattered. What I wanted was for my writing to become habitual. To make the urge to write a constant. It’s easier to write when inspiration flows from within, but I know writing is not easy, and my main goal has been to go beyond the “need for inspiration”. To find a place where I write, without judging myself and constantly reminding me of “it’s better that you write something useless than not writing at all”.

The articles and reportages on authors I’ve read, all state the same one thing when the interviewer has asked what their key to writing is – “sit your ass down and write”. 

What differentiates an author and someone who wants to write a book? – The author actually writes it. 

I have not come especially far – although further than ever – but the success is not within the amount of words, it is in the growth of the storyline and the characters. For the first time in my life I see my main character in front of me. And wow what a feeling. I know how she will react to different situations and what her thoughts are on those happenings.  Thanks to consistency and stubbornness my mind has learned how to put the story-pieces together, and trash the ideas (my darlings, if you so will) which are of no use.

It is an incredible journey I’ve embarked on and I am in ecstasy to see where it will end.