this is the beginning of a short story i began writing one night this past winter. it is somewhat autobiographical, with some ficticious elements thrown in. the story doesnt really get going just yet, but i recently rediscovered the pages on which i had written these words and thought i would give it a shot.

anyway....

These words were written to document a singular person's pitiful and painful existence on one particularly cold and unforgiving night. The only prior knowledge you need is that this person lives only for his family and close friends, and would glady give his life if such a gesture would somehow bring happiness to theirs. But think not that he is disturbed or suicidal; he merely has a continuous and desperate desire to see that those who he cares for always come first.


This story will enlighten you to the truths that I speak of. And unfortunately for our young protagonist, the tale will also shed light on a betrayal from one of those he holds so close. One of the few that this man lives for... and one he would have glady died for. But enough of this morbid talk of death and sacrifice, for they have no place here. This story is about life, about holding on when hope seems to have faded. More than anything else, it is about friendship and its mysterious power to heal even the deepest wounds. Or at the very least, its ability to stop the bleeding.

The man's name is Jack. Jack is young, still in his early twenties, and as many would say, still has his whole life in front of him. He, however, sees it differently. Jack has lived for more than two decades already, and carries with him the experiences and memories of a turbulent life. Having faced wasted potential, unceasing family troubles, and bitter loss, he understands what life has to offer to those brave enough to reach for it, and what it can mercilessly take away. He knows that it is not his place to deal pain to others, for they have endured it already... or will come to know it before the end. He envies no one, because regardless of riches, social status, or even luck (which he regards as fiction) he knows that we all suffer. He sees it all around him. His neighbor, for example, whose business tactics led him to great fortunes and the ability to retire at the age of thirty-five, lost his wife to cancer the year before. Jack's close friend had buried her only child just weeks ago. In the news, people lose their loved ones everyday... and Jack sees all of this. Worse than that, he wishes he could change it. He is not so pretentious as to think that he could stop death, but he longs instead to alleviate the pain that loss brings.

As a child, Jack read a book called 'The Giver.' The premise of the story was of a boy who 'felt' for the entire world. No one in the boy's society grieved the passing of a friend or loved one, nor did they feel the elation of bringing a new life into the world... the boy felt these emotions for them all. Jack himself fears his own death, but only because he worries about leaving those he cares about behind to suffer alone... the very idea of them crying at his wake and his inability to ever comfort them again is crushing to him. And so he always wanted to be that boy... the one to feel for everyone else. To take away their pain, but without the unfortunate side effect of taking away their happiness. And though such a thing is, of course, impossible... Jack considers his life a mission to comfort others, to bring them happiness, to protect them, and to ease their pain in times of trouble.

These are noble intentions, but they leave Jack doubly vulnerable to his own pain. He dismisses it, for how can he be of help to his loved ones if he cannot even help himself? And so he takes loss as it comes (in all its various guises), allowing himself a bittersweet moment in which to wallow before shifting his focus to those who he perceives to me more worthy of such pity.

This night, however, would turn out differently.

Jack had been home all day, having opted to miss his college classes and try to rest in what he considered an uncharacteristic moment of weakness. However, his exhaustion as of late was beginning to overtake him. Rest didn't come easily anymore, and if it came at all, it was permeated by troublesome dreams. The dreams themselves were of a various and fickle nature. He either experienced his greatest fears brought to life in a grotesque, exaggerated form... or dreamt of the one he desired, only to wake up and find himself cold and alone, her absence suddenly made much more real and frustrating. However, sleep eluded Jack on this evening, and he turned instead to music and writing in order to find solace. He listened to songs that held special meaning to him, and wrote aimless, wandering prose to pass the hours. The songs were about her, at least to him they were, and so were his writings. Though he had some pretty ideas and his feelings were close to the surface, they refused to manifest themselves in words that flowed in any sort of poetic of poignant way. Feeling clumsy and awkward, Jack put down his pen and his worn notebook, and instead turned to the balcony, sliding the heavy glass door open and stepping out into the bitter cold of the evening. The brilliant orange sky, the last vestige of the day's light, was presently fading into the deep blue expanse that heralds the nightfall. With a fixed yet distant gaze, Jack drew a cigarette from its pack and cupped his hand to produce a steady flame with which to light it. His only company now was the wind, which stung his eyes, and the occasional wisp of smoke.

the only trouble with continuing the story is that it doesnt really end. its based on a dark place i was in a few months ago, and not much actually happens after the small bit of action that occurs at the end (listening to music, writing, stepping out for a smoke, contemplating things further). the same thing just kind of repeated over and over for me, and when all was said and done, i had to wonder what i could have done differently. so from here on, who knows. i have an idea of what will happen to the guy, but i hope i'm wrong, seeing as how he's partly me.

This is great. Easy to read. I like the way you start your paragraphs, they tend to be short and punchy, then you follow it up with some elegance. Creates kind of a natural flow.

I would maybe like to see an example of the writing he was creating before going out to the porch.

You seem to use ... when maybe a comma would suffice.

I tend to start short stories then not finish them. Don't let this happen to you. This is a very good start. I look forward to reading the rest.

thanks for your comments! and yeah, i do tend to use the '...' where a comma would be more appropriate. i think i just do it that way because when i read it aloud, i pause for a second longer there than i would with a comma. i dunno, i should probably fix that.

as far as an example of some of the writing he did, check out the thread in this forum titled 'Daybreak.' its very straightforward, its about her, and was written while listening to music in between smoke breaks. only difference is, i dont have a balcony. but part of Jack's character is that he likes to observe, and has an affinity for high places where he can look down upon the world and see it from what he perceives to be a 'safe distance'.

d'oh, i clicked on 'quote' instead of 'edit', thus creating this noob post. i suck at teh internets.

come to think of it, i should have just played this off as a bump... is it too late to do that?

i like it. despite the tiny little self indulgence, perhaps? i know it's hard to write about oneself. oddly enough, the only thing that really bothered me was the glass door on the balcony. Jack did not feel like a balcony guy to me. maybe one of those fire-escape staircases leading to a roof top... and maybe that's when writing really begins, when you don't know what's going to happen until the story unravels itself to you...

actually, this jack guy is waaay nicer than me. i made him more of a sucker than i am; hes always last on his own list, etc. i kind of wish i was more like that... its a great quality to have, but its as much a curse as it is a blessing. or at least that was the idea for some of the things that were going to happen later when i originally wrote this.

oh, and i really like your idea about the fire escape. i was going to have him end up on the roof later, and now i know how he'll get there thanks, dea!

maybe he's too nice to the point of not being real, like Sir Galahad or Jesus... but i want to see where he goes. keep on writing.