An Unexpected Discovery
By: Andrew Drucker
The day began like most others, there was no real commotion
as he sat up in bed. The first thing he noticed was the residual smell of his ex-girlfriend`s
perfume, he thought to himself that laundry was overdue. The beautiful female`s
scent lingered in the fabric. There was an open bottle of rum, lying on the
floor. The carpet had a stain from where the liquid had spilled. He remembered,
last night he bought a bottle after work, since today was his day off. He took
notice of a pile of old short stories, in a green folder on the end table. He
rubbed his eyes and thought about how he procrastinated way too much. He stared
at the ceiling for fifteen minutes or so, his head was still fuzzy from
drinking the night before. Before getting out of bed, he took notice of his
room, in his own sleepy way; then rose to start the day.
His morning ritual involved saying a quick prayer. While knelling and reciting the Lord`s prayer,
he began to question: whether or not it would be a good day. The days, as of
late, weren’t bad, but they weren’t good either. They had been filled with
mostly mundane monotony. When he had
finished praying, he wondered if God would forgive him for last night`s
drinking? He then decided, not to linger on such questions; and headed for the
shower.
Showers had become the high point of his days. He turned the
knob and cold water come shooting out. He jumped in shock at first, but he
meant to take a cold shower (he really enjoyed the refreshing quality). He let
the liquid wash down his body, and roll over his face. He began scrubbing last
night`s grime and dirt away. To him, showers represented a new beginning. He
stood under the cool water, and slowly drifted away becoming lost in thought.
His thoughts were not about anything specific, they were
mostly just blank stares at the rapidly running water. A loud honk, from a car
outside the bathroom window, snapped him out of his trance. Now, that he was
back in reality; he shut the water off, and stepped out of the shower. He was
still half asleep as he grabbed the hanging yellow towel, and began drying off.
His next mission began, as he slid on a pair of gray shorts;
but as he wiggled them up, he realized he hadn`t put on boxers. He shook his
head momentarily, then decided to just free ball. He threw on a green and white
button up shirt, and a pair of black sneakers, with no socks. He figured that
if he wasn`t wearing underwear, why wear socks? Today was his day off and he
wanted to ensure he was comfortable. He also placed his favorite notebook in
his book bag, along with a couple pens he really liked.
Fully dressed and prepared, it was time to decide what he
would do today. He knew he wanted to write, but the question was: where to go,
to write? There were many options, as to where he could go. He could proceed to
any of the city parks, which would be crowded on a perfect day like this; or he
could try one of the billion coffee shops that littered the city, like
cigarette butts. He checked his wallet, and noticed he didn`t have much money
left, after purchasing the bottle last night. “So much for the coffee shop.” He
told himself. He then thought about all the tourist that would invade the park,
and he figured wouldn`t get much writing done; since he`d probably spend most
of the day issuing directions.
In the end he decided that his best bet would be to head to
the pier. There was a large open grassy area on the pier, where he could lay
without much disturbance. The pier was the perfect environment for getting some
writing accomplished. He quickly set out for the pier, and halfway through his
walk he realized he hadn`t had any breakfast. It was about nine-thirty, and
since he didn`t have much in the way of cash, he stopped and bought some street
meat (a hot dog, and can of syrupy brown liquid in a can). He walked a bit
further along at a brisk pace, and arrived at the pier.
The sun shone down brightly, and the fresh air blew
peacefully. He had arrived early, along with a couple skateboarders. He walked
the path that lead to the grass, and found a perfect empty place on the grassy
field. He took off his shirt and settled in. While out on the pier, in the
gorgeous weather, he felt as though he could write for hours. He would often
just sit there telling himself he was going work on his novel. In actuality, he
spent a lot of time free-writing about the sights he saw. He loved to observe
the world around him, and found that it felt more rewarding to just go with the
flow.
Nature was his best friend. He loved trees, and green
things. On this day he stared at and described the grass. He lay on the soft
green earth, and felt each blade against his shirtless body. Most of the blades
were light or emerald green, but there was also small patches of dried tan
grass as well. The grass was compacted and pressed down, from people who passed
over and possibly lay on it.
To him there was always something magical in the grass. It
reminded him of himself. No matter how much he felt walked over and beat down,
he (like the grass) continued to grow. It was uniform and similar; but still
each blade was an individual, and had characteristics all its own.
He wrote, for about an hour, carelessly and oblivious to the
world around him. He would pause on occasion, and take notice of the newcomers
which joined the growing congregation of people on the grass. He would look at
each individual and wonder what had drawn them to the pier today. Many people came
in groups, some to tan together, and others to enjoy nature and a chat. There
were also more than a few which came by themselves, to read, or enjoy the
sights; as they passed their time in the afternoon sun.
He turned back to his book, and began a new page. Putting
his thoughts into words, for the joy of others, is what motivated him to write
in the first place. Writing gave him a sense of purpose. He had altruistic
goals of inspiring others to write as well, but he also wrote simply for the
pleasure of writing.
In his mind he felt like his whole life drove him into the
subject. He had always been sort of a loner and writing seemed to be the only activity
(that he could do well and) that didn`t require company. The same could be said
for his love of reading. He would spend hours scanning and dwelling within the
brilliant pages of brilliant authors. In his heart he always wished he could
join their ranks someday.
He was not arrogant, and despite the fact that all his
friends told him he was fairly proficient at it; he still never felt up to par.
In his mind, being able to write was one thing; being artistic and creative,
was quite the other. Still, as he watched and observed his surroundings at the
pier, he hoped his dedication would pay off. There was always the chance, in
his mind, that if he worked diligently; he could at least become worthy of the
title author/writer.
He yearned for the title more than anything he could think
of. He didn`t want women, or money (although he liked both very much), to him
the only thing that mattered: was acknowledgement as a wordsmith. He pondered
daily how he could take the next step in achieving his dream. It was not as
though he could just wave a wand and make it so.
He watched the other people at the pier, still thinking
about how to accomplish this dream. Time drifted slowly by. He listened to the
water, laughter, and distant sounds of the city. He watched as women checked
out men, and men stared deviously at women. This reminded him of a time when he
would only go to the pier to show off. He still felt a tinge of jealousy when
someone, some man, came and stole away looks from him. He laughed it off inside
and remembered that his job was now to focus on his purpose.
Watching the interactions, incited a thought. He began to
scribble away, joyous that he had an idea. In order to gain attention and recognition
his writing, his words would have to be beautiful. His creations would have to
be attractive and pleasing to the eye, to keep eyes, on it. He needed to use
descriptive words and elegant evocative word structures to draw others in.
He looked up from the page and took note of the young
children running around. They were full of joy and completely carefree. There
seemed to be little purpose to what they did, however upon further observation
he noticed each child had a purpose. They ran around frolicking, and sought to
increase pleasure. They were on an innocent playful quest to have fun.
He knew immediately, his creations would have to do the
same. They would need to seek innocence, and be playful. At first they should
seem to be nothing more than writing for the sake of writing, but in truth they
should serve the goal of creating pleasure. He remembered he had never read a
great story that was boring.
He smiled and took a break from his work to make some more
observations. The sun was slowly drifting along, as he listened to the seagulls
and pigeons calling out to each other. He felt like something was coming to
him, he just couldn`t put his finger on it. He wondered how this could help to
create something beautiful, a story others would enjoying reading. Ideas
bounced around in his head, and then the sight of two pigeons sparked a
conception. The two birds pecked away at some leftovers of a sandwich, and were
enjoying the tasty meal together.
He thought perhaps, he could compose stories that people
would enjoy sharing with each other. He would attempt to create works that
people would want to show to others. Stories that weren`t built only for a
select group of intelligent individuals, but that made it possible for a wide
audience to enjoy.
He was happy that his writing was moving along. His
attention shifted from his writing, to all the beautiful women at the pier. He
was always a lover at heart, and found something beautiful about each woman.
There were such a variety of lovely ladies, which came in all shapes and sizes
on the pier today. Some many pretty faces, and perfect races. The magic was
that every woman he looked at had something particular, that made her seem
beyond beautiful.
He thought about his early works. He thought of how
freestyles lead to poetry, poetry lead to short stories, and short stories
birthed (his current pursuit) novels. He tried to connect these women to his
words, and the idea sprang on him. He would create beautiful compositions that
encompassed a variety of all these elements. He would try and blend the
stylistic beauty of many genres, to fine tune his art to perfection.
The people on the pier, were depleting rapidly, and the day
was beginning to wane. The moving crowds and optical stimulation, made it hard
for him to focus. Through all the sights a new one encompassed his perception.
He looked off in the distance, and saw two lovers embraced in a passionate
loving kiss. They seemed blind to the rest of the world. They were lost in
their own blissful ignorance.
He would incorporate these values into his craft as well.
The tales he would tell needed to be filled with love and full of passion. They
would be about reality, but a place where other could escape to and forget
about stress. They would be a space on a page where a person could forget about
pain and unimportant objects. They would be works of pure adoration. The symbols
being read would beg for connection. His stories would have serve the purpose
of: encompassing the audience`s attention, and if only for a moment making them
blind to all else.
He heard, the sound of skateboards, as he completed the previous
thought. The sun had begun to shine in bright orange, as it does when it`s
preparing to set. He remembered that the skateboarders had arrived early along
with him. They had spent the entire outside practicing their tricks. They
rolled along all day, focused on perfection. They would try the same tricks
repeatedly searching for success. Sometimes they would land the trick and
sometimes they`d fail, but they stayed focused on making small improvements the
entire time.
He realized he would have to be equally as dedicated. He`d
use the same tricks over and over again, making minor adjustments here or
there. He`d focus on what he had learned, from reading the works of other great
authors. His constant practice and devotion would be the key: to him finding
the correct formula to create his evocative stories.
He paused his progress and momentarily feared he wouldn`t
find a source of new inspiration. The very idea of having to halt his journey,
made his spirits feel low for a spell. He scanned from left to right searching
for a new spring of serendipity. He hung his head, as nothing could be found.
When his eyes returned to looking up, he noticed the disappearing sun shining
and glimmering off of the ripples in the river. He also took notice of the
endless motion within the water.
He realized that the next ingredient. He began writing, and told
himself he would have to focus on creating an endless stream of syllables. They
should glimmer and shine, and be reflective while full of light. The creations
would be bright, warm, and welcoming. The movements would be small (like tiny
ripples), and each passage (taken on its own) would be barely noticeable; but
once combined they would become undeniably alive, and full of motion.
The day was spent and he sat up watching the last rays of
the sun. The grass was almost entirely empty, and all left to be heard was the
low groan of the wind. He thought about how much progress he had made during
his time writing. The light was giving way to night, and he thought about the
pile of stories in his apartment that were still awaiting revision. He began
collecting his things and was about to place his notebook in his book bag; but
realized he didn`t even write what his new story would be about. He flipped
through the pages of his book and looked for an observation. He hadn`t made any,
in regards to, what his story would be about. In anger, he threw the notebook
down, and began smoking a cigarette. He hadn`t smoked one all day, but he felt
frustrated. He told himself he had wasted another day off with pointless
observations.
The nasty fumes rose into the air and he tried to ponder
about what he could possible write about. He took another drag, and smiled. The
nicotine relaxed him. He picked up his notebook and looked through the pages
again. Sitting in the grass, he realized that he had a perfect new short story
idea. All the pages he had just wrote provided him with: an unexpected
discovery.
-Fin-
By: Andrew Drucker
