climber3201
07-21-2009, 02:39 AM
Hey everyone,
This is my first post, and I want to share a short story that I wrote a couple of years ago. Below is my original rough draft. I plan on revising and expanding it, and I would greatly appreciate any comments.
From a world of scarlet skies, from a time of tragic trials came Francis Balder. He appeared not unlike any other man. His home appeared not unlike any other home, but within its walls lived Mr. Balder, a man certainly not like any other man. From early on this one Francis Balder, for this was the name of all males born under the dehumanizing, Unifican regime, had always felt a growing seed of rebellious resentment. As Mr. Balder paced unevenly in a restrained defiance to the rhythmic step of the mindless populace, he could not prune his unacceptable thoughts, which branched exponentially faster as the light of truth fed their growth. For one solid year, his appointed occupation as gardener in the city park led him haphazardly across a bridge which spanned the threshold between the authoritarian, single-minded streets of the hopelessly bleak, gray city to the conversely lush, beautiful expanses of grass, trees, and flowers whose random budding and varied colors, shapes, and scents seemed to direct a decidedly mocking glare across the bridge toward the city. Each day as Francis crossed this portal into his preferred reality, he paused in the center of the bridge, but not the exact center, for this act, it seemed, would harbor an eerily repulsive significance. Here he would ponder his existence, evaluate his life, and discuss with the wind the motives and models which should rightfully govern him as a creature of nature, not as a man. The birds sang out to him to abandon the misdirected world of men and to fly among the doves and robins in an earthly, righteous life of contentment. As his conferences with his feathered companions grew ever more insightful and comforting, he began to understand the means by which the birds had sheared the tethers which had once bound them to the earth. From the elevation of the bridge above the rippling stream below, and the sharp stones filling its depths, he felt as if the sky itself called out to him. It beckoned for him to recall his teachings, to leap, and to fly. Submitting to the will of this limitless master, he slowly, methodically climbed onto the bridge’s railing, raised his arms, released a sigh and a smile of culminating relief, and launched himself skyward. His eyes sought the endlessness above, his arms groped for the tangible matter hidden beyond, and he plunged toward the rapids below. The sky shone haughtily, royally red as his helpless body collided violently with the cold, jagged river bottom. The water trickled by, scrupulously washing away the remains of the late Francis Balder as the birds sang a sweet melody and the flowers blossomed quite regretfully.
This is my first post, and I want to share a short story that I wrote a couple of years ago. Below is my original rough draft. I plan on revising and expanding it, and I would greatly appreciate any comments.
From a world of scarlet skies, from a time of tragic trials came Francis Balder. He appeared not unlike any other man. His home appeared not unlike any other home, but within its walls lived Mr. Balder, a man certainly not like any other man. From early on this one Francis Balder, for this was the name of all males born under the dehumanizing, Unifican regime, had always felt a growing seed of rebellious resentment. As Mr. Balder paced unevenly in a restrained defiance to the rhythmic step of the mindless populace, he could not prune his unacceptable thoughts, which branched exponentially faster as the light of truth fed their growth. For one solid year, his appointed occupation as gardener in the city park led him haphazardly across a bridge which spanned the threshold between the authoritarian, single-minded streets of the hopelessly bleak, gray city to the conversely lush, beautiful expanses of grass, trees, and flowers whose random budding and varied colors, shapes, and scents seemed to direct a decidedly mocking glare across the bridge toward the city. Each day as Francis crossed this portal into his preferred reality, he paused in the center of the bridge, but not the exact center, for this act, it seemed, would harbor an eerily repulsive significance. Here he would ponder his existence, evaluate his life, and discuss with the wind the motives and models which should rightfully govern him as a creature of nature, not as a man. The birds sang out to him to abandon the misdirected world of men and to fly among the doves and robins in an earthly, righteous life of contentment. As his conferences with his feathered companions grew ever more insightful and comforting, he began to understand the means by which the birds had sheared the tethers which had once bound them to the earth. From the elevation of the bridge above the rippling stream below, and the sharp stones filling its depths, he felt as if the sky itself called out to him. It beckoned for him to recall his teachings, to leap, and to fly. Submitting to the will of this limitless master, he slowly, methodically climbed onto the bridge’s railing, raised his arms, released a sigh and a smile of culminating relief, and launched himself skyward. His eyes sought the endlessness above, his arms groped for the tangible matter hidden beyond, and he plunged toward the rapids below. The sky shone haughtily, royally red as his helpless body collided violently with the cold, jagged river bottom. The water trickled by, scrupulously washing away the remains of the late Francis Balder as the birds sang a sweet melody and the flowers blossomed quite regretfully.