An Unexpected Discovery
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-girlfriends` perfume, and he
thought to himself that laundry was overdue. The beautiful females` 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 the bottle after work, since today was his day off (he figured, he
wouldn`t have to worry about a hangover at work). 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 (or if God was still even
listening at all)? 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 came shooting
out. He jumped in shock at first, but he had 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 do without his boxers. He threw on a green and white button up shirt,
and a pair of black sneakers, with no socks. “If I`m not wearing underwear, why
wear socks?” he said aloud (though there was no one else there). 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
tourists 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 eaten
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-carbonated 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
troubled sections of 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 vegetation. On this day he stared at and
described the grass in his writing. 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 free-writing on a new page. Putting his thoughts into
words, for the joy of others, was 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 a sort of
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 famous
authors. In his heart he wished and hoped 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 (Author) 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; marked by a church bell in the distance, echoing softly in
his ear. 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 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 off his petty selfishness inside, and remembered that his job was
now to focus on his purpose (to serve others, through writing).
Watching the
interactions, incited a thought. He began to scribble away, joyous that he had
a new 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 them. 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. The kids 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 verbal creations would have to do the same. They needed to pursue
innocence, and be playful. At first, they should seem to be nothing more than
writing for the sake of writing, but they should reveal a goal of creating
pleasure and beauty. He recalled that, he had never read a great story that was
boring.
He smiled and took a
break from his scribbles, to make some more observations. The sun was drifting
along, as he listened to the seagulls and pigeons calling out to each other. He
felt like a conception was coming to him, he just couldn't put his finger on
it. He wondered how these birds 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 the companions
and acquaintances. He wanted to write stories that weren't built only for a select
group of intelligent individuals, but stories which made it possible for a wide
audience to enjoy.
He was happy that
his introspective, reflective writing was progressing. 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 drifted off into
dreams 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 the women on the pier to his words, and an idea sprang on
him. He would create beautiful compositions that encompassed a variety of all
these elements. He would attempt to blend the stylistic beauty of many genres,
and to fine tune each piece of art to individual perfection.
The people on the
pier, were depleting rapidly, and the sun 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 two lovers 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 also a
place where others could escape and forget about stress. The stories would be a
space on a page, where a person could forget about pain and unimportant
objects. They would be works of pure adoration and hopeful imagination. The
symbols inscribed upon being read would beg for connection. His stories would
have serve the purpose of: encompassing the audiences` attention, and if only
for a moment, making them blind to all else.
It came to him that,
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. It would be the way to unlock to the correct
formula to create 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 the scene 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,
this observation was the next ingredient. He continued 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. He reflected 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 hadn't even
written what his new story would be about. He flipped through the pages of his
book looking 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 now he felt frustrated. He kept
telling himself: that he had wasted another day off, with pointless
observations.
The nasty fumes rose
into the air, as 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
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-girlfriends` perfume, and he
thought to himself that laundry was overdue. The beautiful females` 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 the bottle after work, since today was his day off (he figured, he
wouldn`t have to worry about a hangover at work). 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 (or if God was still even
listening at all)? 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 came shooting
out. He jumped in shock at first, but he had 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 do without his boxers. He threw on a green and white button up shirt,
and a pair of black sneakers, with no socks. “If I`m not wearing underwear, why
wear socks?” he said aloud (though there was no one else there). 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
tourists 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 eaten
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-carbonated 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
troubled sections of 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 vegetation. On this day he stared at and
described the grass in his writing. 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 free-writing on a new page. Putting his thoughts into
words, for the joy of others, was 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 a sort of
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 famous
authors. In his heart he wished and hoped 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 (Author) 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; marked by a church bell in the distance, echoing softly in
his ear. 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 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 off his petty selfishness inside, and remembered that his job was
now to focus on his purpose (to serve others, through writing).
Watching the
interactions, incited a thought. He began to scribble away, joyous that he had
a new 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 them. 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. The kids 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 verbal creations would have to do the same. They needed to pursue
innocence, and be playful. At first, they should seem to be nothing more than
writing for the sake of writing, but they should reveal a goal of creating
pleasure and beauty. He recalled that, he had never read a great story that was
boring.
He smiled and took a
break from his scribbles, to make some more observations. The sun was drifting
along, as he listened to the seagulls and pigeons calling out to each other. He
felt like a conception was coming to him, he just couldn't put his finger on
it. He wondered how these birds 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 the companions
and acquaintances. He wanted to write stories that weren't built only for a select
group of intelligent individuals, but stories which made it possible for a wide
audience to enjoy.
He was happy that
his introspective, reflective writing was progressing. 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 drifted off into
dreams 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 the women on the pier to his words, and an idea sprang on
him. He would create beautiful compositions that encompassed a variety of all
these elements. He would attempt to blend the stylistic beauty of many genres,
and to fine tune each piece of art to individual perfection.
The people on the
pier, were depleting rapidly, and the sun 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 two lovers 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 also a
place where others could escape and forget about stress. The stories would be a
space on a page, where a person could forget about pain and unimportant
objects. They would be works of pure adoration and hopeful imagination. The
symbols inscribed upon being read would beg for connection. His stories would
have serve the purpose of: encompassing the audiences` 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.
It came to him that,
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. It would be the way to unlock to the correct
formula to create 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 the scene 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,
this observation was the next ingredient. He continued 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. He reflected 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 hadn't even
written what his new story would be about. He flipped through the pages of his
book looking 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 now he felt frustrated. He kept
telling himself: that he had wasted another day off, with pointless
observations.
The nasty fumes rose
into the air, as 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
