Windows

INSTRUCTIONS: press play on the first video. Let it play for a second or two, then press play on the second video. Then read the story. When you have finished the story, go ahead and let the music finish, because it's a beautiful song and besides, cutting it off ruins the effect. Then turn off the first video, unless you want to listen to it for another hour and a half.

The window is streaked with rain. The sky is grey, and the apartment is filled with a pale light. He stares at the window, for a long time, just watching the people in the city below.  Yes, the city is below him. He may live there, but he is not part of it.

Then, not so much with resolve as with a sense of boredom he puts on a jacket and leaves the room, descends through the building, taking the stairs not the elevator, as he always does.

He emerges into the street. The rain is really coming down now. He doesn’t care. He turns right and begins to walk down the sidewalk, passing other people, hurrying past him on their way home, or to work. The rain streams through his hair, but he is undisturbed. He looks up at the side of a building on the other side of the street, the rain coursing down it in sheets. It looks like a giant mirror, reflecting the sky and the other buildings, making each side of the street a glimpse into infinity.

He bumps into a woman, who was attempting to shelter beneath a magazine. She drops an armful of belongings.  Silently she begins to pick up her purse and all the other things women carry on rainy days. He is surprised that she does not say anything, ask him to watch where he’s going, that sort of thing. Eventually she gets everything together, and stands up, giving him a look understanding, a look that says long  deep things about how humanity is built on companionship, and then leaves, fading away slowly into the white haze that makes up the whole city.

He enters a café he knows of. It’s early November, and cold. The man behind the counter knows him, and knows what he’ll have. The coffee is already almost done by the time he reaches the counter. He hands over the money, smiles in thanks, and sits down by a window. Everyone else in the café is reading, or thinking, or listening to music on headphones. The only sound he can hear is the rain hitting the window, which is very much like the window in his apartment, only bigger, and thicker, he thinks.

When he’s done the coffee he steps back outside. The rain feels like ice after the warm café.  He crosses the street and walks back toward the direction he came from, looking in shop windows and pondering the thought of buying an umbrella. He passes one store in particular that causes him to stop for a moment. It is a store that sells toys, old ones, some beautifully painted and crafted. He looks in for a moment, and then continues.

When he sees his building across the street, he looks up again. He sees the same effect he saw earlier, that of a huge mirror spanning the street. He sighs, and is about to cross the street and go inside, when he stops. He slowly raises his head. The building is not reflecting the street and the other buildings, but something else entirely. He sees an ocean, he sees a frozen waste, he sees a night sky with unfamiliar constellations. He turns around, half expecting to see the city gone and that he is alone in a strange place.

The other buildings are still there, and when he turns around again the vision is gone. Bewildered, and yet somehow not as surprised as he should be, he quickly crosses the street and enters his building. He takes the elevator upstairs.

When he reaches his apartment he returns to the window. But this time he looks through it differently, the way one looks at a television set: interested, but not completely convinced. “I think it’s going to rain for a long time”, he says, and draws the blinds.

Music: Comptine d'un autre ete, l'apres-midi (Rhyme of Another Summer), by Yann Tiersen

The Last Begining

     Just a bit of flash fiction, take with water throughout the day and do not operate heavy machinery while under its influence.

     Well, if you must know, it began about fifteen years ago. There  was this one guy named Jim, I think you’ve met him. Anyway, he had a job just like everyone else, and, just like everybody body else, he hated it. I’ve told you about jobs, right? Good. But the important thing is the one of the main reasons he hated it was that he worked miles and miles away from where he lived, and he would get stuck in traffic every day as he was driving home. Have I told you about cars, and traffic, and all that? I thought so.
     Well like I said, he would get stuck every single day, he hated it, he hated it but he was convinced there was nothing he could do about it. Now, you don’t know him very well, but Jim is actually a really cool guy, really creative, you know? He plays the piano, I think you’ve heard him. So I guess he just couldn’t stand to be put in the same, stupid position as everybody else. And one day, he couldn’t take it any more.
     What he did was, he got out of his car. Right in the middle of the highway. I few people noticed, but I think the were too depressed to care. And he climbed onto the trunk of his car. This is all true, remember. And then, he jumped onto the hood of the car behind his. Must have given the guy inside a heart-attack. And then he ran up the windshield, over the roof, and onto the trunk, and then he jumped onto the hood of the car behind that one, and he just kept running. I don’t know where he wanted to go, I don’t think he knew himself. But then a funny thing happened.
     I was in one of the cars he ran over. And I actually got out and looked around. And I could see him running, over car after car. And somehow, I understood what he was doing. And I climbed onto my car, and ran after him. A few people started to see us coming by now, but they couldn’t stop us. And then a few more people started getting out and following us. One of them was Dylan’s dad, Mr. Starkey. And there was Susie’s mom and dad, except they hadn’t met yet. And Lyle’s mom, and Mary’s mom, and Mister Jackson, and a few others. We were the first. And then a few more people started following, and more, and more, until there were hundreds of people, charging east down the highway.
     And that was the beginning of how we got here. I’ll tell you more tomorrow. Go to sleep now.

The Waiting Opus

I just entered this story in a writing contest. The prize for second place is a Barnes & Noble Nook. The prize for first place is a Nook, $500.00, and a professional review of the story. If I win second place, I think I will regret that I did not win the review, more than the money. Go figure.

     I began in Venice, when the old man happened to hear an accordionist playing on the streets. He was only a poor busker, not even very talented. But something in those jaunty rhythms inspired the old man. At that moment his search was over. Quickly, he departed for his home in Munich; and set to work on me.

     For years he labored, trying to shape me into what he knew would be his masterpiece. He would spend weeks at a time finding variations on my theme, or deciding that my fourth movement would be thematically similar to my first but tonally different. For the first year he concentrated mainly on my melody, fleshing it out to a total of six movements; for the next year, he focused more on my arrangement and instrumentality.. The remaining years I am not sure of, as the old man was not well.

     For a time it seemed as if I would never be finished, my strings seemed to defy the old man’s every attempt to make them swell in just the right way at the end of my second movement. But at last, four long years after that afternoon in Venice, I was complete, a monument to creativity and perseverance. But he was weak from working so long, and for some reason believed that no one would accept me, that they would laugh at him and reject him. Exhausted, depressed, and angry, he soon lost all his hope, and quietly passed away It seemed I was doomed to be a lost masterpiece, a pure idea that would be forgotten before I could be missed.

     However, this would not be the case. The old man's house went to his son, a talented pianist. He found me stuffed in a desk drawer, between other, scattered scribblings. His musical mind soon realized I was no half-finished project of his father's, and he began studying me.

     He got some paper, and began copying me down onto it, but on two lines instead of many. Sitting at his piano, he played various parts of me, which re-awoke the desire I had given up on, the desire to be, with nothing between me and the world.

     When he had finished, he flexed his fingers, and played me as a whole. Words cannot describe the feeling, to flow from his fingers, to the piano, and out into the room, spreading throughout the house, into every crack, every keyhole! It was, by nature, an imperfect arrangement, and I knew this was not my true form, but I was content.

     Anyhow, he was very pleased with me. He began including me in his performances, and soon I became a favorite among audiences. But still I felt incomplete, and was beginning to tire of this compressed existence when one afternoon, the young man met one of his friends in an art gallery. He said “That piece you've been playing, the new one? I really like it, and I was thinking, maybe you could get somebody to orchestrate it; I just think it might sound better. What do you think?” The young man smiled, and said he would see.

      About a month later it was time. The audience was gathered, the performers practiced, the instruments tuned. A few minutes ago a the directer made a speech regarding me and the old man, saying that “Who knows? One day this could be one of the great classics of music!” Well, perhaps so. It doesn't matter, nothing matters now except that the conductor is walking up to the podium, and my wait is over.

Another evening, another cafe, another man, another mystery.

    This is another story by me that friend of mine. DON'T PANIC.

It's Raining.

 Outside the café, it might have been raining. Inside, there definitely sat a young writer named Miles. The thought that it might have been raining had just hit him, and it delighted him. I can hear it raining, he thought, but since it’s night, I can’t see it through the windows. So how do I know it’s actually raining? What if someone is trying to elaborately deceive me?
     Miles looked down at his coffee, which he had just got. I’ll try to figure out if it’s raining or not by the time I’m done my coffee.
     So, what does proposition A (That it’s raining) have in its favor? Well, he reasoned, that I can hear it, that it was raining when I came in, and that there is no obvious reason that someone would want to make me think it is raining.
     And what about proposition B (that it’s not)? I can’t see it, taste it, feel  it, or smell it, and it would be easy to fake a rainstorm for someone who can only hear it. Miles sipped his coffee. He was taking logic at college currently.
     Suddenly a man rushed inside. He was drenched. Ah, Miles thought,  very strong evidence for proposition A. With growing excitement, he realized that if proposition B was true, then here before him was the deceiver himself! Why else, he thought, taking another sip, would someone create the illusion of coming in from a downpour?
     The newcomer took off his raincoat, laying it on the back of his chair. He ordered a root beer (a surprising choice for someone who has just come out of a rainstorm). Miles stood up, walked over and said “Excuse me, I’m taking a survey, would you participate?”
     “Sure”, the man said, shrugging.
     “Alright”, said Miles, sipping his coffee. It was now halfway empty.
     He asked a few of the standard survey questions, pretending to record the man’s answers in a notebook. Really Miles was taking notes on his personality: calm, slightly grim, possibly an actor, etc. Finally he asked “Now, if you knew that someone was trying to convince you it was raining when it wasn’t, why would you think they were doing it?”
     The man looked surprised, then said “Well, I guess because he’s nuts.”
Miles noted that he had inserted a gender, his own. “Certainly”, he replied, “But even madmen have reasons, mythical or not, for their actions.”  Miles took another gulp of coffee.
     The stranger thought for a moment, then said “Well, I would say that he picked me at random, just a stranger, and fooled him into thinking it was raining just to show him that the world isn’t as stable and certain as we think it is, and that would mess up my sense of reality.” He said him instead of me, Miles thought.
     Again sipping his coffee(Which was almost gone), Miles said “Yes, but what if you were a writer, wouldn’t that idea give you an inspiration, for a story? And thus be a favor?”
     The stranger considered this, then said, “No I don’t think so, because if I’m a writer then I deal with things that aren’t real, so I probably already question our perception of what is true. This might plunge me even further into those waters.”
     Miles stood up, thanked the stranger for his time, and went back to his table, thinking. The man had seemed to want to put himself in the position of the deceiver, but that could be a coincidence. And he had a ready response to the victim being a writer. All in all, the evidence seemed to point towards proposition B. And yet… it seemed so unlikely, and why on this particular night, when the idea entered his mind, would he act? That seemed a bigger coincidence than anything the stranger had said. He got up intending to ask one more question, but the man had just left. A draft of rain smelling air wafted in as the door closed.
     Miles finished his coffee. His decision was proposition C: that it was impossible to say for sure. He walked to the door, but did not go through yet. He knew that once he went through he would know. Was he prepared for the shock, or disappointment? I could stay awhile longer, he thought, maybe get another cup of coffee, try to work it out again.

     Miles took a deep breath, and walked through the door.

     Back inside someone said “That guy’s gonna get soaked out there without an umbrella.”

Without Troubling to Read the Inscription

A friend of mine wrote this story a year or two ago, submitted it to a couple of writing contests, and lost. Dejected, but still hopeful, he turned to me and asked if I would post it on my blog so that all who wished could read it. Naturally I could hardly refuse. So here it is in it's entirety, by my friend Timothy, whom you can follow on his blog: "Magus Mirificus".
Without Troubling to Read the
Inscription 
     I’m a magician, but I’m not the magician. I’ve seen the magician though; in fact, I’ve seen that particular role passed on from one to another. Here’s how it happened.
One evening, a few years ago, me and a bunch of the other guys went downtown to this diner. Lots of magicians go there to hang out, exchange new tricks, and stuff like that.
The reason we would come there was because Tony Slydini, probably one of the best magicians ever, used to hang out there. He was retired. He would come there almost every night, just sitting at a table in the corner, and he would leave really late, a lot later than any of us. About once a month one of us would walk over to him and show him some new trick we had, trying to fool him, but of course we never did.
Well, that one night, we were all sitting at our usual spot, a few tables away from  Tony’s corner, and I hear the bell above the door ring, and I look over. And this kid walks in, probably about twelve or thirteen, and the screwy thing was, he was wearing a top hat, and a suit, and he looked for all the world like a magician, but one from years ago, when magicians actually dressed like that.
Now, this kid looks around for a minute, and then walks over to Tony’s corner. I’m watching, and through all the waiters and leaving and arriving customers, I can see him talking to Tony, and then he sits down.
“Guys, look at this”, I said, and everybody turned around to look. We could see the kid taking off his hat, and setting it bottom up on the table. Then he starts picking up some napkins…
“He’s doing magic!” I said.
“And you know what else?” one of the others said. “He’s doing ‘The Paper Balls in the Hat!’”
“He’s right!” I said.
“But that’s Tony’s trick!” somebody else said.
So, the kid does the paper balls trick, and then Tony starts clapping, and then the kid takes something out of his pocket. By now we’re all watching as closely as we can, and someone says “It’s a deck of cards,” and then, a little later, I say “He’s doing ‘The Helicopter Card!’” which is another Slydini trick. And he does two more tricks: “Slydini’s  One Coin Routine,” and “The Slydini Silks,” and we’re all laughing our heads off, but Tony and the kid didn’t notice.
Well, after the silks the kid did one last trick. Now, right about now all the other customers started to leave, so we really didn’t get to see this one too well, but we all agreed on one thing: it had to be an original. Each of us were professional, working magicians, and we’d never seen anything like it; it was some kinda combination card and coin trick, and they kept jumping around.
I said what we were all thinking: “That’s a new one, isn’t it?”
Well, after that, the kid stood up and bowed, and Tony clapped, and said something and handed him some money, I think, because the kid walked over to the counter and bought an ice cream soda. And then Tony got up, walked over to us, smiling, said “Good evening, gentlemen,” in that beautiful Italian accent, and then walked out the door.
Well, we all rushed over to the counter, of course. And we all threw questions at him at once, and eventually he said “What’s going on?” And I said “Do you know who that was?”
“Who?”
“The guy you did magic for; it was Tony Slydini!”
The kid just sat there for a moment, looking like he‘s just seen Houdini vanish an elephant. Then he said “But all those tricks I did, they were all Slydini tricks, the paper balls, the helicopter card,…” Then he got that look again. “That was Slydini?”
“Hey, was that last one an original?” I asked.
“Yeah, yeah it’s mine.”
After a pause, somebody said “Well, did he like your trick?” And the kid said “Yeah he said he liked it…”
“And?”
“And then after he handed me the dollar, he said…” Then the kid got this big smile on his face.
“What did he say?!” we all shouted.
“He said, ‘By the way, how did you do that last one?’”