The Council of Forgotten Matters

There was a reason silence spread in the room: There really was nothing to talk about. This council was not convened on its strength of resolving issues, nor on custom or tradition. This was an emergency. This was a council meant to discuss urgent matters long forgotten.

The room was large. The old tapestry was revealing -- revealing damp walls stained with droplets of brown mud. It was badly positioned too; one could see the patterns being superimposed with little subtlety or taste for perfection. Of course, there was also a table. To its left side was a large window. The landscape behind the dark and dusty curtain was painted. It wasn't real. It was a painting of a disfigured forest in dark red and green. There wasn't much of a point in this, but perhaps it helped the members of the council focus on the absent matters at hand.

'The first matter of the day is...'

Silence erupted, shattering the brief noise of announcement. Then, a second disharmony: a council member coughed without permission. Everyone turned their heads and looked at him. He straightened his tie and with a silent gulp pretended to re-concentrate on the conversation.

Looking at the ceiling, one could tell that this was a very high room. Stretching hundreds of miles above them was a painting of a starry sky. The thick paint, corroded by the eternal rains outside, was causing the trees on the window to defoliate. An imaginary breeze swayed them back and forth. Silence.

'The first matter of the day is...'

The council convened on daily basis. And it was always for matters they could not remember. Matters known and seeking solution were always postponed. It was the fear of matters unknown that hastened the room with a visceral air of urgency. Yet, matters forgotten -- regardless of how pressing or important they might be -- were impossible discuss.

On days like this, silence could go on for hours on end. An occasional cough, a sneeze; sometimes the loud voice of the minute-keeper would remind the rest that the first matter had not yet been discussed. What was the first matter of the day?

'The first matter of the day is...'

No one could remember.

Behind them and slightly to the left, the fireplace was going cold. It was always going cold, because it's fire was also, like the window and the ceiling, painted. It was a simple painting of charred coals -- barely keeping a dying fire going. It was a reminder for everyone in the room that they had better remember something before freezing in this doorless chamber.

'I remember now!' 

Who dared break the silence this time? What kind of deluded sycophant believes in memory of things forgotten? The council members looked at each other with suspicious eyes. Anyone could have done it, but no one took the blame. Outside the window the trees were looking ominous. Disfigured. In dark red and green.

The window burst open, and a silent breeze crept in.

On the table, someone painted a picture of the warming sun.

But it surely wasn't enough.

This short story was written and edited in August 2011.

This original work by Amadeus In Denial is licensed under a Creative Commons (Attribution Non-Commercial Share-Alike 3.0) License. All work created 2006-2011.

Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at  http://musingsofavisionary.blogspot.com/p/creative-commons-notice.html.
 

The boy with the violin

A special someone had once asked him to tell her a story, so that she could sleep. She was listening to a song he had written and she wanted a context through which to understand it.

So he did.

There was a boy in the story. Standing alone on a small island, holding a violin. It was alone, with no one to talk to, and nowhere to go. The boy would just stand there, and play.

But this is not how the story begins.

The story begins with a cave.

Once upon a time, in a place far far away, there was a cave. Dark, moist. It had no entrance, and it had no end. It was an outwordly place meant for creatures of another world. The human eye could not see anything, but if one could go there and stand still, eventually they would be able to catch glimpses of sounds echoing in the distance.

These were not real echoes. They were, themselves, creatures of the dark. They were the lifeless notes of silence, dwelling in the cave. Once in a while, they'd become aroused by the distant sense of motion, and they would burst back to life. Slowly. One at a time.

Yet what was once a feint glimpse, would build up into audible sound. At first it was impossible to tell whether the sound was music, but, given time, there was definately music in the cave. Long simmering hisses would transform into bowed strings or plucked chords. Streams of air would be transformed into voices and sound.

And suddenly, the dark cave would light up in a weird dim light, as if stars had shone inside. These lights would move, slowly, following the sound; becoming part of the sound.

One of those lights was different. She was not like the others. She did not know how she came to be in the cave, or where she was going. She did not know what she was, or if she had ever been anything else. She decided to follow the slow movement of lights, crying and singing in this weird symphony of murmurs.

The cave was long, and it kept going only in one direction. There was not a fork in the path. Just a long, straight line, leading seemingly nowhere. It might have taken centuries, but the long path was endless, and the motion perpetual. Entranced, she'd follow and follow the lights surrounding her. And as time passed on, more and more lights would join up and their song would become more and more audible.

She also tried to sing, but she didn't know if she had a voice or if she could be heard. But sing she did, in an attempt to sound just like the others.

Their long journey may well have been eternal, yet she could sense that something was changing. Through the ages, she could discern a sound that was not of their own. A sound coming from elsewhere. A gentler, more refined sound. But, as soon as she could catch that sound, she would lose it. Feint as it was, the symphony of lights often overpowered it.

This sound from elsewhere became her obsession. Slowly, she started immitating it, to avoid losing it among the other sounds. And as she sung, she grew brighter and brighter. Until eventually, she was able to light up the hole place by herself.

They were not in a cave any more. The light shone and she could see that they were in an infinite lake. In the middle of the lake, there was a small island in which only one person can fit.

And on that island, there was a boy holding a violin.

At last, she could listen to the source of this divine music. Yet the boy didn't seem to notice to her.

She tried flying next to him, lightly tapping on his fingers. She blew in his ears. Singed to his song, lusted for his affection and recognition. But to him, it was as if she was never there.

Disappointed, her light started growing dimmer and dimmer, and her voice disappeared into dark.

There was a cave, but she wasn't there anymore. Nor were there any other lights. Just pitch black darkness, moist and scary.

The boy with the violin stopped playing, as there was no longer any star to give him inspiration. He sat there waiting, perhaps eternally.

'Are you there'? Her voice broke the silence between them. It had gotten colder, and he hadn't said anything in a while. She was still waiting for him to speak. Yet it was clear that he was miles away.

She tried staring into his empty eyes, reflecting the stars.

'Is that boy happy now'? She asked.

Startled, he looked at her, breaking his silence.

'Only when she comes back', he said, 'if she ever will'.

'Let's go back inside. It's freezing.'

This short story was first told in person, to someone special, in 2008. It was re-edited and updated in August 2011.

This original work by Amadeus In Denial is licensed under a Creative Commons (Attribution Non-Commercial Share-Alike 3.0) License. All work created 2006-2011.

Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at  http://musingsofavisionary.blogspot.com/p/creative-commons-notice.html.

The little girl and the wooden umbrella

It was a cold morning in Hestatt Town. A soft, chilly rain was falling from the musty skies, hitting the pavement head on, splitting into tiny droplets like haze. Street sellers were shouting to prise the attention of passers-by. Rice, tomatos, cucumbers, aubergines, carrots. Against the pale complexion of the morning's greyness, the colours felt like a natural attempt at oversaturating this common street. And there she was, holding her small wooden umbrella, walking amongst and through the passers-by; unseen.

Most umbrellas are made of plastic or some light aloy, to accomodate those carrying them. They have a waterproof membrane, to protect them from rain and the elements. Hers was wooden, like a toy construction, and instead of a waterproof membrane, it had a sheet of paper covered around it. On each end, she had painted something with blue and red ink.

But the water drops were staining the paper, discolouring the ink and washing away the paintings. On one corner, one could still tell the picture of a small animal -- perhaps a dog. It was running across a sunny valley, towards a small hut. The other corner was already washed away. Perhaps it was that she had not drawn something precise on it, but all one could tell was a messy blot of ink. From an angle, you could say it looks like a butterfly. Then again, almost anything looks like a butterfly from a certain perspective and in the right kind of mindset.

Emily -- that was her name -- was not a normal girl. She was a freisthaar; a spectre of winters yet to come. And this is why she could walk through the street sellers and the passers-by unseen. At most, they could probably sense the breeze, or a sway in the winds. A déjà vu. A feint memory or a tiny voice. But most wouldn't notice. Except for Anton. Anton noticed Emily, because he could see the wooden umbrella with the paper membrane. At first he thought it was a game: An umbrella, connected to some unseen rope, hovering over the street. But then he realized that no one else could see the umbrella. He tried to move closer, but it was hard to navigate around the swarms of bystanders and passers-by.

The light rain had turned into a windier storm. The drops weren't larger, but they came more often, and wind would throw them at Anton like needles. It was the sort of rain that soaks you all over, whether you have an umbrella or not.

Yet Anton followed the wooden umbrella, until he lost track of it.

He was at a crossroad. On one end, he could see the docks -- bells chiming in the wind. On the other end, there was a valley, with a hut on top. Ahead there was the town clock, more passers-by and more shouting street sellers.

Instinctively he took the way towards the valley, perhaps not noticing the little dog barking to his left. Whether he caught a fleeting glimpse of the car coming from behind is hard to tell, but then again, his eyes were fixated on discovering the wooden umbrella. A thump; then shouts. Screams. A break in the pattern of this small rural town.

Emily looked back, but only for a moment. She waved her hand, as if to say goodbye, then disappeared into a new corner, heading for the docks.

A drop fell on the little dog painted on her umbrella, washing it away and turning it into a blot. From a certain angle, it almost looked like a butterfly. Then again, everything looks like a butterfly from a certain perspective, and with the right frame of mind.

This short story was written and edited in August 2011.
 

Notice: It has come to my attention that some website has reposted my short story 'The girl with the wooden umbrella' without permission. I would like to explain, first and foremost, that I am an avid supporter of endorsing and helping creativity in people. I am against 'copyright' notices, and I do not believe that any person owns the work they produce. Instead, what we produce, as artists, humans, engineers, scientists, belongs to humanity as a whole. But there is a fine line, and when someone attempts to usurp another person's work without proper permission, referencing or acknowledgements, then this goes against such notions of creative commons. My work is free and open for everyone to read, use and make the most and best of. It is not however open for direct or indirect exploitation of any kind, including passing it on as your own in order to make money. If you need to re-post something from this blog, feel free to do so -- I am happy that you care about it in the first place. But please, say where you found it, give a link to the original blog and cite the writer or the writer's pseudonym. That's how simple it is. The same rule goes for any derivative work. If you create a work directly based on something you read here, make sure to tell others about where you got the original idea from. All work contained in this blog is considered under a non-commercial creative commons license of attribution and share-alike ethos. 


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This original work by Amadeus In Denial is licensed under a Creative Commons (Attribution Non-Commercial Share-Alike 3.0) License. All work created 2006-2011.

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The Room of North

The great elephant boss slammed his heavy hand on the table of negotiations in the Room of North. Suddenly, a breeze swept the room causing every skeleton to crumble. Perhaps of their own accord, or simply due to sheer force, everyone nodded their skully heads in agreement. The boss' demands were absolute. Those who could not stand the pressure had to succumb pronto. Falling apart, one bone after another, small echoes distantly repeated shattered the otherwise perfect silence.

 

It was always days like this one. Cold, breezy, unfriendly. Sitting — one next to each other, they were spaced apart so that each of them could tell the reactions of the associate on the opposite side. But not the boss. No one was allowed to see the boss. Crackling hands, sniffing noses, occasionally a cough to remind of the terrible weather outside, everyone was waiting for the boss to begin the negotiations. They kept waiting in a newly afforded silence. And, surely, they must have waited for a long time, but -- luckily for them, they couldn’t tell a moment from an eon.

They were all dead after all.

The matter was pressing. They had to agree on everything and nothing, and the veracity of nothingness in comparison to eternity. The great elephant boss disagreed with himself and this caused a huge controversy at first. But since he was the boss, no one was allowed to disagree with him.

 

Each of the skeletons was allowed one constructive question and one misleading question; but they had to conceal them so that the boss could not tell which is which. This was designed so that all decisions of the boss could be taken in a sort of democracy, although his regime was that of an absolute autocracy.

The first skeleton raised his skeletal finger and while pointing at the ceiling, asked: ‘Is this ceiling facing North or South?’

All skeletons remained silent and confused, until the boss broke the silence with his deep and vociferous voice. Laughing he pointed to the same ceiling and said: ‘It must be North! Since we are in the North Room, the ceiling points North!’

The skeleton, not allowed to answer his own question, moved on to his second question. ‘If one person has only two good choices, and another person has three bad choices, which person would you consider to be more free?’

The boss took some time to respond to this, before admitting that it was a difficult question to answer. Apparently, three is larger than two and he fancied going with that option, since more choices led to more freedom. But the opposite could also very well be true: Fewer options could very well be a beneficial thing towards freedom. Eventually the boss decided to break the skeleton apart, because the question was unanswerable. And the boss absolutely despised questions that no one can answer.

The second skeleton moved to the front, and muttered his first question: ‘If we have two laughing oranges, and one of them is rotten, which one is truly happy?’

The great elephant boss took no time to respond to this. The fresh orange was the happy orange, the other one was simply laughing out of necessity and spite. There is no happiness in rot and decay.

The boss’ answer saddened the skeleton, which was already way past its prime. Its remains were so old that it could no longer remember whether it was a boy, or a girl,  once upon a time. He thought it was a boy, because at nights he could dream of playing hide and seek with the other boys in a distant town. He let a feint sigh. When these bones were on human muscle it must have felt brilliant to move about with such animal energy. Despaired, it went on to ask its second and last question.

‘Considering rot, is rot a bad thing when you take into account that penicillium rot is a product of it?’

The boss, confused and angered by the inappropriate manner of the skeleton, removed one of the ribs and broke it in two. He then pointed his finger towards the last skeleton and reminded that a decision had to be made this very night. This matter could not be delayed any longer, because the end of the world was coming.

The third and last skeleton stepped up and questioned: ‘My friend is my friend and your enemy is your enemy. This is the way of things, this is the way of cosmos. Correct?’

The boss, seeing nothing wrong or mischievous about this question, nodded along, impressed by the immaculate reasoning of the skeleton.

‘If that is so, following the same rule of relativity, this is the Room of North and consequently there is another team holding decisions in a Room of South’, the skeleton said. ‘It is therefore imperative to understand that whatever decisions will be taken here tonight will be local and partial, and might be opposite or even inconsequential to any other party coming to meaningful political decisions elsewhere. Correct?’

The great elephant boss destroyed the last skeleton, not because the question was hard, but because the answer implied further questions or an answer by the skeleton; something which was not allowed.

He then proceeded to bang his elephantine head on the wall, splitting the fake tapestry into two. From the other side, he could see the Mirror of the Universe, the world in which everyone lived. He opened the door and headed south, to reconvene discussions with a new set of skeletons in the Room of South.

This post was originally published as a short piece in early 2008. It was re-edited in August 2011.

This original work by Amadeus In Denial is licensed under a Creative Commons (Attribution Non-Commercial Share-Alike 3.0) License. All work created 2006-2011.

Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at  http://musingsofavisionary.blogspot.com/p/creative-commons-notice.html.