One has to start somewhere. I’ve been thinking about writing a short story for a while, and this thinking has been accelerated since joining the ‘Soaring Twenties Social Club’ Discord (which has similarities to the ‘Modern Creative Collective’). And sure enough, a few days ago, something came out.
It’s the first piece of fiction that I publish. It’s not long. It might not be good. But it’s the first step into a new and exciting territory for my writing. I want to thank Charlie, Andrew, James, Betsy, Vita, Ivan, and Marthe for reading it over and giving me their feedback. It helped a lot, truly, and made the second draft a lot smoother than the first. So, here it is:
He opened the white door to the balcony. With a robe draped against his bare skin, he went out in the temperate summer air. It was early, but already bright for the hour. From the fourth floor, he had a decent overview of the street. Two transverse rows of apartments were running like a grey corridor for several hundred meters. On the opposite row of his, a little park acted as the only deviation. In addition to the fresh air, it was that he went out for. It had caught his attention from the day he moved in.
He watched the little green pocket for a few more seconds before he went inside. Then he walked over to a big antique desk, and started to write on the laptop that was turned on and had Word up and ready for him. “It feels good to watch something you like. You don’t even have to interact with it, other than experience it from afar. It’s enough. It’s enough for me.”
He opened the door to the balcony. Wearing only his robe, he went out in the temperate air. It was early, but bright for the hour. He looked out over the street and followed the grey line in the direction of the well-known park. Upon arrival, he watched it for a minute while taking a few deep breaths in the fresh summer air. Then he went inside and sat down at the laptop which was made ready for the day. “That which is familiar is good. You don’t need anything new and special, because a routine is your friend in getting things done. It’s enough. It’s enough for me.”
He opened the door to the balcony. Wearing only his robe, he went out in the temperate summer air. It was early, but bright for the hour. He moved his eyes along the grey walls, anticipating the green pocket of happiness. But instead of a slow buildup, his eyes were forced quickly to the side because it caught something in the periphery. There was something unknown there, something which was disliked instinctively.
He stared intensely towards the park, and tried to catch up to what his senses had alarmed him of. He grabbed the railing, and with a firm, trustful grip, he leaned outwards in the direction of the park. And then, like a wave crashing into his consciousness, he discovered it. Barely visible from the balcony, there was a person, laying under a tree. Yet, it was clear enough to see that this figure, most probably, was lifeless.
He quickly backed into the apartment. He looked around while his thoughts bounced in all directions. Spotting the laptop, which was ready to receive its daily words, he went over to it. Then he sat down, sighed, and wrote without hesitation, “Everything is ruined. I won’t be able to write tomorrow. It’s too much. It’s too much for me.”