short stories I wrote

September


She was still left with a feeling of sadness, although it had been almost two weeks since the event. She still didn’t know what to believe... yet the proof was there, in her very sadness among other things... Her grandmother had passed away and she had no such feeling, on the contrary, she had been waiting impatiently for her death and had been so happy about it... Of course she had felt remorse and had been saddened by her very happiness about the whole thing, yet her instincts had not lied to her – the feeling of hatred between the two had been mutual... as she later found out...
Why could have this writer, about whom she had known nothing one year ago, have chosen to send her – of all people - that dream of falling teeth and also those moods which have caused the design and content of her blogs? Or was it all in her imagination?
No. She went back to check her blogs and stopped again looking at one of the blogs she had posted the night the writer had died. She read the lines from a poem by E.A. Poe she had posted there – and it was all so clear... yet she still had her doubts... but wasn’t that the voice of the writer, announcing her death? Read again, some of the blogs could have been the dialogue between her and her writer hero... and it was strange, as she didn’t believe in paranormal phenomena... Could it have been only a coincidence? Of course, the dialogue was sometimes interrupted by the girl’s own thoughts, but then there followed excerpts from poems and songs through the voices of whose writers the intimate dialogue between the two was expressed... It was as though she had been there with her hero till the last moment of her life and then even after her death...
Had she been chosen for some sort of mission, like to continue on her hero’s steps, or was it simply because her hero had no husband or children of her own to talk to and leave a message during her last moments here?
Or was it again only the girl’s imagination? No, she wasn’t going to talk about this to anyone... They’d think her naïve or lunatic... No... Actually she wasn’t even sure what to make of this whole experience...
She remembered the first time she was told about her heroine. She had been impressed by her courage, her writings and also by her respectable, lady-like appearance. Some of her thoughts had appealed to her, as the writer explained how she valued the opinions of her readers above all, disregarding the reviewers’ critiques...
Last September the writer was still alive... and the girl was wondering whether or not she was going to pass the university graduation exam... and she had not yet come to find out about the writer whose death she’d dream of, as if she were family...
Her life resembled a little that of her writer hero’s, considering that she had no husband or children either and she was completely absorbed in her studies... but of course she was much younger and things could change for her – although she couldn’t see how... She had given up her writing, as she didn’t dare face critiques, and she didn’t consider herself that valuable... She had admired the writer for her strength and confidence... also for her courage... And strangely enough, people she came to know recently appreciated about the same qualities in her – she had never considered herself like that, she had been rather shy and not very confident in herself... But she was young and she had time to change...
About two weeks before her writer hero’s death, she had started those blogs in which she inquired mainly about the meaning of life. She had gathered quotations from poems, songs or short stories and had arranged them like playing with the pieces of a puzzle, adding pictures... And there was one particular song, “Leaving New York” by R.E.M. whose content resonated with the writer’s leaving New York to return to her home country...
She was still confused about the whole thing... She was glad that none of her friends had noticed anything of the kind in her blogs... She believed it would be better to just shut up about it, as it was most certainly a message addressed only to herself personally, if there was any such thing... if it had really been so... if this was really possible to actually happen...
She had spent some days after having found out about the writer’s death looking at photos of her and reading about her life and the obituaries they wrote for her... She felt very sad and even cried a little, though she knew she would have never met the writer anyway... Yet there was this communication by means of thought that took place between them. Two women, one ending her life and the other about to truly begin hers... maybe at the turning point of her life, career, everything...
This had been an opportunity for the girl to think about life and her purpose, what she was meant to be if there was any such thing as destiny and the power of her own will to change her life and to create her own path in life. Regardless of the nature of her experience coinciding with the writer’s death...
After some time she found herself braver than before... and started thinking about the way she abandoned her writings, about how she lost courage in front of supposed critiques, about her fear of failure. Fail what? Who would care? She was never going to become famous anyway... so no one would know who she were and if she tried posting some of her writings on forums and get a few opinions... what did she have to lose? So many other people wrote and posted their writings and if so, why wouldn’t she give it a try?
It seemed as though the writer had given her some of her courage. And even her affection, and protection... She felt this made her special and set her apart from other people. She had an ideal and different dreams than those surrounding her – like her neighbours who looked at her curiously at times as she kept quiet and went on with her studies, while other young people they knew or their children had already married...
But she enjoyed her life as a single young woman – and she wished for a life of adventure and freedom... She now wished to write and she found some new strength and energy arising in her...
So maybe it will only be for herself and a few other occasional, virtual readers... Actually, this looked like enough to her. She’ll just have her own little world and nobody else from her real life will know about it.
The emotional states she’d been coping with before and after finding out about the writer’s death seemed to have quietened a bit. She was afraid she might sink into a deep depression and she didn’t like going to the doctor, be him a psychiatrist. She tried to cope with these feelings by continuing with her blogs, in which she expressed her feelings of grief, then peace which she wished for the writer... It was only her who knew the meaning of the blogs, she only received comments such as, what a nice poem, thanks for sharing... or what lovely pictures... She secretly dedicated her blogs to the writer, vowed to herself to keep silent about the whole thing... and soon she realized she felt peaceful... The psychological turmoil she expressed in her blogs some weeks ago was gone, the grief almost and there were these feelings so serene... which she thought about as being the peace the writer felt wherever she was now...
At times the girl almost felt the writer’s presence near her, at other times she believed a part of the writer will still live in her... but nobody else will ever know...
She thought that one day she might follow in her writer hero’s footsteps. Only she had to grow up a bit more, and finish what she had started. She wouldn’t be afraid to do what she did and it seemed to her she had gained a crazy courage and that she had never felt so brave and fearless...
Her moods kept shifting like the days of that September, sometimes sunny, sometimes rainy and dark...
That morning had started out sunny and she opened her window. She felt hopeful about the future that day and more confident in herself.
It was a different September, not like last year’s, which had been very rainy and she had heard so many news about the floods destroying several villages in some parts of her country.
She was on her way to becoming independent, and this could include fulfilling some of her dreams among some inevitable difficulties. This time she did not feel lost. She felt free. A whole life lay ahead of her, and she could do with it – in some aspects - as she pleased.

Choice


I’ve always known that in my room there was a door and a window. I’ve always had a choice. It has always been my choice to exit by the door.
Had it been so only to put a check mark to yet another convention?
This world is full of conventions and if you break some rules you risk getting kicked out of it. If this is what you believe you want, think more than twice. Because once kicked out, there’s no way back.
I look out the window and I see a garden. It is a neighbour’s back yard. I can see it clearly from the third floor. Had it been higher, things would had probably been different.
In my dreams at night, I’ve gone out by the window several times, ‘diving’ into the garden in the summer bright sun. The fall had always been too short. And I’ve survived each and every time, finding myself in my bed. Perhaps that has also been my choice, because during the fall I tried to fly every time, but I could not keep myself in the air. I went straight to what would have undoubtedly been a clash with the garden’s ground, and as I became aware of it, I regretted my hasty act. Apparently I’ve always had the opportunity to change my mind and therefore my own fate.
Also, I’ve always known that there were knives in the kitchen. Maybe I was not brave enough. But more certainly I chose to ignore knives in the kitchen and open windows as ways of exit. Because the exit would have meant another entrance, into another world about which I know practically nothing. Nobody actually came back from there to give a detailed account of it, to describe it. We can only imagine how it’s like, but that does not make it so.
‘Did ever the thought of committing suicide occur to you?’ was a question in the stupid questionnaire the psychiatrist gave me to complete. Had I answered ‘yes,’ I would have been put in the category of mentally sick. I was glad I checked the ‘no’ answer, as I was told that this thought of suicide indicates an unbalance, an actual problem, a lack of normalcy in man.
I have actually thought about it, but you can never admit this to these people without having them judge you as ‘sick.’ Yes, I have thought about it, but I have made the choice to live. It’s all about the reality in your mind. Those dreams have presented me a virtual situation and I was given a second chance every time I regretted my action.
In some dreams I stepped on the window sill and opened my arms and I could actually fly! I never fell. I thought in this dream, ‘I hope nobody will find out what I’m doing now. Because if they did, they’d think I want to kill myself and that is not true.’ I flew over gardens and forests and buildings. It was summer. It was sunny and bright. People in this dream would say that a human flying is impossible, that I’ll just fall and break my neck trying to do it. But with the thought of suicide completely out of mind, I could fly effortlessly. Psychological reality is what matters. Choice takes place in your own mind, maybe in some sort of discussion with yourself.
Then I found myself in the swimming pool. After jumping into the deep water. And I thought, it’s just like jumping off a tall building, only you don’t regret it. You land comfortably and pleasantly in a soft mass which pushes you towards the surface. During these moments I feel free. I move so naturally in the water, I’m not afraid of it. While swimming, I look into the waters down me and it’s a little like flying... For the sake of moments like these life deserves to be lived. On my way home I pass through the park. It’s a bright summer day and I walk feeling so happy in the heat. I’m so glad I’m still here, I think. All the world seems to be smiling... And yes, I want to return to the swimming pool next morning!

There Is A Choice


She was never going to do what she liked with her life anyway. They were all making plans for her future life and she felt trapped. The life she wished for was no life in the others’ opinion and she had given up trying to explain her point of view, she was not taken seriously, they said she was young and that may make her happy now but later she’d regret her decision.
She was fed up of hearing her parents complain about their neighbours every morning, of the cooking smells on the hall and in their house coming from their neighbours, of the flower petals falling on their windowsill now and then... And she herself was fed up of hearing the animal-like sounds the children of the neighbours who lived one floor higher made while leaving for a walk or returning home... She had had enough of hearing her parents complain about the neighbour next door who would sometimes during the day put on music loudly, as he was feeling depressed by his wife’s having thrown him out and being left without seeing his child... and yet he would often bring women to his appartment, and of course put on music...
She was actually fed up with her neighbours and the neighbourhood herself.
Not to mention about her mother having to go once a week to do shopping for an old, sick friend of the family, who was not getting out of his house for some years now... But he kept her mother stuck to her chair and talking to her about his life, repeating himself very often, not listening to what she’d say but just something like lecturing her, for more than one hour at times...
Then there came endless lectures from her father about her being naïve or not mature enough and the like... which she hated...
She would have wished to become famous... as a writer... one day... to visit some countries so different from hers, like Malaysia, China, Iran, or Arabia, where people dressed differently and lived differently... to have adventures... But had she told this to her parents...
No, she wouldn’t have liked a peaceful life, where she’d have to act the same parts over and over.
Oh, and she was also fed up of some relatives on her father’s side who lived in a far-away part of the country, with whom she would have liked to break all links. Not to hear from them again. For she’d only hear their asking for money... and she was not willing to give them anything... damn lazy people, profiting from her family and soon to be from herself... She had refused to go there for some years now... and she won’t come over her decision, ever...
For suicide, she was not brave enough. And anyway, she didn’t see that as a solution. She would probably regret it right away if she did it, as those she hated would still be happily living, enjoying themselves, while she’d be a bodiless spirit wandering and wishing to still be alive to do this or that... And she still hoped she might be able to change the life others were planning for her – after all, they hadn’t chained her up yet...