Tyler Nals's Blog: Tyler Nals - Posts Tagged "struggling-writers"
Brilliant Misery
For any struggling writers out there, the short story below is for you:
Brilliant Misery
A jagged stone strikes my left cheek with a painful thud, its pointiest edge cutting through my skin to reveal my scarlet humanity. The voices are too many for an approximate count, but based on the endless hooting and hollering, there must be hundreds. No. Thousands! At least it’s impersonal. To be judged by many isn’t nearly as hurtful as being judged by one close to your heart.
“You’re a pathetic excuse for a human being,” a woman scorns.
I don’t look back to view her facial characteristics. Why should I? So I can be like her, judging without all the details? But I still imagine her face as drawn and pimply, her eyes drooping so low they secretly desire making love to her judgmental tongue. I can’t look back anyway; I’m doing my best to duck and weave to avoid the onslaught of rocks, trash, and foreign objects being thrown in my direction from both sides. All I can do is continue down this shameful narrow dirt path, searching for an escape that I feel is right but everyone else knows is wrong. Despite the narrow and straight path provided, I feel lost in this rat race often referred to as humanity.
“You should be supporting your family, you useless scum!” a man shouts from behind the veil of the crowd. “If you want to write stories, write your obituary!”
I lift my hand to my mouth and find my bottom lip sliced open and dripping blood. I don’t remember being hit in the mouth, but this has been such a lengthy journey of pain and false hope that I can’t recall all the jabs and harsh strikes.
“I’m so sorry, Nick!” my wife shouts from somewhere in the crowd to my right. I want to refocus my attention in that direction, but it’s clear she’s given up on me due to my failures. It’s understandable.
“Off with his head!” an eager man screams from the left. Once again, I don’t bother to investigate.
“A waste to society,” an elderly woman says plainly, as if she knows this to be an absolute fact.
A shirtless and obese man wearing creased trousers cuffed at the ankles rushes from the crowd and toward the path of my dismay, his belly and breast fat shaking more violently with each step. I should find it humorous, but it’s a frightening sight, more so when he clenches his fist and yanks it back in preparation for a forceful thrust to my gut. I lack the energy to defend the attack.
“Upph!” I utter involuntarily prior to spewing blood and saliva. I then drop to my knees in defeat.
The crowd roars in celebration as the obese man rushes across the path and escapes into the faceless and oh-so-human crowd. Hope is as evasive as love and warmth – until I spot a familiar object sitting at the end of the path.
The book has already been opened, but I feel like the blank pages want to hug me. The silver fountain pen beside the book possesses the most attractive figure I’ve ever seen. If I can make it there I’ll be safe, but I don’t know if I have the strength to crawl 10 yards on battered, bloodied, and ever-weakening hands and knees.
“Keep going,” a steady male voice whispers from the front of the crowd to my left. Despite it being a whisper, his voice is clear and crisp. It’s at this point I realize that everyone else in the crowd will eventually turn to dust with no legacy or meaning. And this time, I turn to peek at who possesses this calming voice.
His dark eyes stare back at me with hope and understanding. His black parted hair with one part heavily outweighing the other doesn’t fit today’s standards, but that’s what makes me trust him. The bags under his eyes indicate he’s passionate and hardworking. His black and greying mustache shows me he’s wise. And the white scarf covering his neck tells me he also fears being a victim. His black greatcoat hides any more clues about his identity, but that’s not a concern to me. I seek an ally, not a name that potentially provides a distant and frail link to acceptance.
Regardless of his identity, his presence provides me with enough strength to crawl to the open book. Why? Because he understands completely, and I suddenly feel as though I belong.
Once I arrive at those two blank and inviting pages, I pick up the silver fountain pen and stare back at the crowd. Everyone is now still and silent, watching me with great hope and anticipation.
“Take us away from our misery,” the mystery man states with calming persuasion. “Write us something brilliant.”
“I shall.”
The End
In case you missed it: He's lost because he's not a conformist and is judged by those who are. However, those same people need an escape from their miserable lives, which can be provided by the writer.
btw, you might recognize that ally in the crowd if you look closely.
More stories like this in Twisted Sick and Mindful of Tricks.
Brilliant Misery
A jagged stone strikes my left cheek with a painful thud, its pointiest edge cutting through my skin to reveal my scarlet humanity. The voices are too many for an approximate count, but based on the endless hooting and hollering, there must be hundreds. No. Thousands! At least it’s impersonal. To be judged by many isn’t nearly as hurtful as being judged by one close to your heart.
“You’re a pathetic excuse for a human being,” a woman scorns.
I don’t look back to view her facial characteristics. Why should I? So I can be like her, judging without all the details? But I still imagine her face as drawn and pimply, her eyes drooping so low they secretly desire making love to her judgmental tongue. I can’t look back anyway; I’m doing my best to duck and weave to avoid the onslaught of rocks, trash, and foreign objects being thrown in my direction from both sides. All I can do is continue down this shameful narrow dirt path, searching for an escape that I feel is right but everyone else knows is wrong. Despite the narrow and straight path provided, I feel lost in this rat race often referred to as humanity.
“You should be supporting your family, you useless scum!” a man shouts from behind the veil of the crowd. “If you want to write stories, write your obituary!”
I lift my hand to my mouth and find my bottom lip sliced open and dripping blood. I don’t remember being hit in the mouth, but this has been such a lengthy journey of pain and false hope that I can’t recall all the jabs and harsh strikes.
“I’m so sorry, Nick!” my wife shouts from somewhere in the crowd to my right. I want to refocus my attention in that direction, but it’s clear she’s given up on me due to my failures. It’s understandable.
“Off with his head!” an eager man screams from the left. Once again, I don’t bother to investigate.
“A waste to society,” an elderly woman says plainly, as if she knows this to be an absolute fact.
A shirtless and obese man wearing creased trousers cuffed at the ankles rushes from the crowd and toward the path of my dismay, his belly and breast fat shaking more violently with each step. I should find it humorous, but it’s a frightening sight, more so when he clenches his fist and yanks it back in preparation for a forceful thrust to my gut. I lack the energy to defend the attack.
“Upph!” I utter involuntarily prior to spewing blood and saliva. I then drop to my knees in defeat.
The crowd roars in celebration as the obese man rushes across the path and escapes into the faceless and oh-so-human crowd. Hope is as evasive as love and warmth – until I spot a familiar object sitting at the end of the path.
The book has already been opened, but I feel like the blank pages want to hug me. The silver fountain pen beside the book possesses the most attractive figure I’ve ever seen. If I can make it there I’ll be safe, but I don’t know if I have the strength to crawl 10 yards on battered, bloodied, and ever-weakening hands and knees.
“Keep going,” a steady male voice whispers from the front of the crowd to my left. Despite it being a whisper, his voice is clear and crisp. It’s at this point I realize that everyone else in the crowd will eventually turn to dust with no legacy or meaning. And this time, I turn to peek at who possesses this calming voice.
His dark eyes stare back at me with hope and understanding. His black parted hair with one part heavily outweighing the other doesn’t fit today’s standards, but that’s what makes me trust him. The bags under his eyes indicate he’s passionate and hardworking. His black and greying mustache shows me he’s wise. And the white scarf covering his neck tells me he also fears being a victim. His black greatcoat hides any more clues about his identity, but that’s not a concern to me. I seek an ally, not a name that potentially provides a distant and frail link to acceptance.
Regardless of his identity, his presence provides me with enough strength to crawl to the open book. Why? Because he understands completely, and I suddenly feel as though I belong.
Once I arrive at those two blank and inviting pages, I pick up the silver fountain pen and stare back at the crowd. Everyone is now still and silent, watching me with great hope and anticipation.
“Take us away from our misery,” the mystery man states with calming persuasion. “Write us something brilliant.”
“I shall.”
The End
In case you missed it: He's lost because he's not a conformist and is judged by those who are. However, those same people need an escape from their miserable lives, which can be provided by the writer.
btw, you might recognize that ally in the crowd if you look closely.
More stories like this in Twisted Sick and Mindful of Tricks.
