Here is a fictional story I wrote from my creative writing class of '09... or was it '10? I can't even remember anymore. Anyways, before you read, I must give a few disclaimers:
A. If you must look for a message in a story that may hint a little too much of giving a message, it is not in any way anti-faith. I myself am a man of faith, though I have not always been one. I know what it feels like to have God in your life voluntarily vs involuntarily.
2. If you must read into the characters more than I meant you to, know that if I was to represent any one of them, it would be the Wizard and NOT ALFRED!! That being said, you are to relate to these characters in your individual way. Destroy the author and read on at your own risk.
III. It is a bit lengthier than my usual posts, so make sure your not in a tight spot for time as you might have a hard time walking away from such a gripping story.
Four: Leave your literary criticisms to the dogs. They are better writers than me anyways.
So, without further adoodoo, here's one of my very first shots at complete fiction:
The
Tale of Ajziou and the Day of Forgetfulness
There once lived an old and wise and
perhaps crazy man who tired of tax collectors and telemarketers, so he declared
himself a “wizard” and straightly left modern society to dwell by himself in
the mountains of Montana. Unfortunately, if one finds himself wise and
wizardly, there is often a congregation who call themselves his “disciples.”
Thus it was that in his quest for solitude, this wizard found himself followed
by a few scores of somewhat dim, yet ever faithful disciples. They founded a
colony cut off from the rest of the world, and when they approached him to know
what the town should be named, he simply sneezed and turned away about his own
business once again. Thus the town was named, “Ajziou.”
Among these somewhat dim, yet ever
faithful disciples was a simple man named Alfred. He was in all senses very
plain, he and his father having lived in a modest hovel and gardening lemons
that they would distribute to the rest of this community called Ajziou. Every
day Alfred would go about his business, following the same routine with carefulness:
awaking before the sun to prune the lemon trees before the morning dew even
dissipated. Then he would make his rounds through the community, collecting
whatever things were necessary to collect in order to maintain a small
plantation of citrus fruits in Montana (which may seem improbable, but do
remember that the town is governed by a wizard, which governing seems to
override any natural laws that were necessary to be overridden). All these
necessities were provided freely by the other community members, for the wizard
had forbidden any financial medium of any sort. In fact, the wizard allowed the
people to live under his watch on very peculiar conditions. He enacted laws and
forbade much of what was common to man, including celebrations of any sort
after the setting of the sun, competitive foot-races, jokes that belittled
one’s mother, and romance of any sort. The wizard attached great shame to the
breaking of any of his rules, and the somewhat dim, yet ever faithful disciples
followed these rules with unflinching zeal.
Alfred
was particularly careful not to be the first caught in excruciating shame,
however painful it might be to him to follow these rules, for painful it was
indeed. As mentioned before, romance of any type was forbidden (for the wizard
considered the world overpopulated as it was). Yet with every daily trip, what
brought Alfred more joy than anything else was his stop at the store of jars of
water, where he would take his allotment of jars of water from a most
interesting hostess. Actually, she was quite plain, but Polluxa, the store’s
hostess, was always there with that special smile she reserved only for the
stalwart Alfred. He never ceased to think of her, thinking that to let her
image escape his mind would take her from him for an eternity, or at least
until the next day when he would collect water from her again.
The
exchange was the same every day, as only a few hours after dawn he would walk
in and give her the same greeting.
“Hello,”
he would say.
“Good
morning,” she would reply.
Then
she would smile, and a very flushed Alfred would concentrate hard on his feet
as he swiftly collected his jars of water and left in a hurry, not even
breathing until the store door was closed behind him. With that gasp of air, he
would smile as well, knowing that there was great meaning to his otherwise dim,
yet ever faithful life. How it tortured him, every day, to see her and avoid
that great taboo of love or affection or passion or crush or any sort of
nomenclature that the whimsical poet would attach to such desire.
This
continued for several years in the community of Ajziou. Every citizen did their
part, and every citizen heeded the strict and arbitrary code of the wizard.
Then one day, the wizard called a gathering of his somewhat dim, yet ever
faithful disciples.
“My
people, gather around and speak not a word, for your wizard wishes to further
impose his knowledge upon you,” said the wizard to his people.
“Years
have passed, and you have been ever faithful to the code that has kept us
in harmony and out of each other’s
personal space and most of all, a very dull and boring people.”
At
this declaration, the people felt to cheer, but resisted knowing the wizard had
mandated silence.
“For
your strict adherence to this code, I seek to reward you and curse you at the
same time. I grant you all a day in which the rules of this community may be
forgotten!”
At
this, the people audibly gasped and looked about, as if the reactions of their
peers would confirm that the wizard had spoken such blasphemy against himself.
The
wizard continued, “Now, I understand that you may have been taught things
regarding inescapable shame relating to the breaking of these rules, but I have
prepared for this as well. I, the most powerful wizard in the land, shall cast
a spell of forgetfulness which will cause you to forget any shame by the time
you rise in the morning for the next day.”
Now
the shock of the somewhat dim, yet ever faithful disciples turned slowly to
interest, then acceptance, then to celebration, and it only took over five
minutes for the people to begin shouting for joy and praising the name of the
good wizard for his merciful and whimsical acts, but by that time, the wizard
had already had his fill of the crowd and was no longer found among them.
The
people chatted amongst themselves now, working up in their conversation a day
full of the most rampant and anarchistic intentions. Only a few hours stood
between them and their blessed day of unprecedented autonomy. For Alfred, there
was but one thought: Polluxa. As he thought about her, he soon found that his
feet were carrying him to that very store in which he had already visited her
that day.
There
he soon stood at her door, wondering how his feet had seemed to have taken him
there without his permission. There he was nonetheless, so he raised his hand
to knock on the door, but hesitated. The day of forgetfulness had not yet been
forgotten, so it was still forbidden for him to approach Polluxa about any
intentions of romance. Then again, he was only going to ask her to set aside
some time for the morrow to… meet. A
simple meeting was harmless enough, wasn’t it?
It
was now late in the evening, and Alfred continued to struggle with this dilemma
when suddenly the door opened and there stood Polluxa, preparing to retire the
night. She was surprised a little by this man on her doorstep, but only a
little. She chose to be shocked by few things in her life.
“Hello,”
he said.
“Good
evening,” she replied.
With
that, she shut the door behind her and walked off toward her house, leaving a
dumbstruck Alfred on the front step. Perhaps it had been the light, but he was
sure she had given him that same smile, only there was more of a hint to it
this time—at least there was more of something, right?
That
fateful day of forgetfulness was born like any other day. At the rising of the
sun, Alfred was already about his work, doing his normal duties as he figured
lemons still had to follow natural laws, even on a day when all canonical laws
were void.
The
rest of the town woke as if on any other day, and the people went about their
somewhat dim, yet ever faithful business as usual. Alfred felt no different
until he went up to the door of Polluxa to collect his allotment of jars of
water.
He
walked in, but before he could say, “Hello,” he noticed there was a dark haired
man there with her. He was leaning against the wall and speaking casually with
her. Apparently, not everyone felt that they had to go about their usual
duties.
At
the sight of Alfred, the dark haired man promptly excused himself and left the
store quickly. Alfred stood there for a moment with a puzzled look on his face
as he studied the floor, wondering what this meant.
“Good
morning,” she said.
Alfred
quickly looked up and smiled, then, without a word, went about his business and
collected his jars of water as usual. On his way out, he was so out of sorts
that he dropped one of the jars for the first time ever, shattering it on the
floor and spilling its liquid contents all over the floor.
Before
Alfred could even react, Polluxa was there with a mop and a bucket, first
collecting the pieces of glass and placing them in the bucket. Alfred muttered
an apology and began to help pick up the shards of glass. The task seemed
impossible, which was comforting to Alfred as he had an excuse to stay longer
in her presence.
“Don’t
worry, it happens quite often,” came Polluxa’s clear reply as they took care of
the larger shards.
Alfred
stooped to place what seemed to be the last piece of glass in the bucket, and
with a sigh of feigned relief, he stood and faced Polluxa. She gave him that
smile again, at least for an instant, and then she had the mop in her hand and
was about her business, wiping the floor and spreading the water out so that it
would not be hazardous to anyone who came in.
That
smile. For once, Alfred returned it, even if Polluxa didn’t notice. With a
great feat of courage, Alfred spoke to her:
“What
do you usually do when you’re done here?”
“Oh,
I clean the store and then just head home to my family. Nothing real special,”
she said as she continued to mop.
“And
is that your plan for tonight as well?”
“I
don’t know, perhaps I will run about after the sun goes down and start loud and
gawdy conversations with everyone I see!”
This
act was surely forbidden—at least on any other day.
A
moment passed, and Polluxa continued to mop and Alfred continued to stand
there. Eventually, she looked up, gave him that smile again, and then went
about her business once more. Once again, Alfred’s spirits soared.
“Polluxa,”
he said, and the name fell awkwardly from his lips, yet the saying of it alone
gave him a thrill that he had never before experienced in his life.
She
paused from her mopping and looked him in the eye, “Yes, Alfred?”
Alfred
swallowed, and then smiled like a drunken maniac, “Why not we spend the evening
together?”
“Why
not?”
Alfred
was puzzled, for her answer hinted neither towards acceptance or denial of his
invitation. He had invited her, right? The conversation was becoming difficult
to recall, and all his thoughts were muddled. He knew his face must have been
absolutely crimson as he began to rapidly lose his stamina for conversations
with others.
He
gave up on his quest, and picked up his jars of water, but for some reason he
mindlessly placed one in the bucked of broken glass and took that up in his arm
as if it was part of his daily pull from the store. He walked out the door, but
didn’t get far.
“Alfred,”
Polluxa called from within the store.
He
turned, perhaps a bit too swiftly as he nearly lost another of his jars.
“Yes?”
“You
don’t need to take that bucket.”
Alfred’s
expression quickly fell. Another dashed hope.
“Of
course,” he said.
“It’s
alright. Why don’t you just return it at sundown tonight. Right here.”
It
took Alfred a moment to realize the meaning of what she had just said, but only
a moment. With a smile and an almost-laugh (the sort of laugh that seems to
escape you when a vast amount of excitement has hit you more suddenly than a
cannon ball to your unsuspecting stomach), he nodded vigorously and said, “Ok.”
In
his excitement, he only dropped one more jar of water on his trip home.
There
were still many hours until sundown. The town of Ajziou still seemed hesitant
to indulge in those activities that it had been deprived of for a few years
now. Eventually, the people began to congregate outside the wizard’s curiously
shaped house—a small cylindrical building with no windows and one door—in order
to seek his wisdom and guidance on this strange day. Perhaps some of them were
even seeking reassurance that their plans were still fair game by the wizard’s
standards, but his door remained adamantly closed. Presently, the waiting
people became restless, and a wrestling match began, followed by a choir, and
then an absolutely scandalous love-making fest, and then by all sorts of
unrestrained anarchy. By the time the sun had dipped below the horizon, the
people of Ajziou were in an uproar that would put any Mardi Gras to shame.
People gathered from all over the town to this one spot directly outside the
wizard’s house as if he lorded over the revelry with his edict of lawlessness.
One
man did not join the congregation, but instead waited across town right outside
the store that distributed jars of water with a bucket of broken glass in his
hand. Alfred went over his plans for the evening in his head again and again,
but felt more as if Death was waiting behind that door than his blessed
Polluxa.
The
sun had already been down for an hour or so when he heard his name.
“Alfred?”
Polluxa called from behind him.
He
quickly turned around to greet her, a bit surprised that she wasn’t inside the
shop.
“Hello,”
he said.
“Good
evening,” she replied, and walked up to him and took the bucket and set it just
inside the door. Then she closed it behind her and turned around and looked at
him.
“Well,
what shall we do now?” she asked.
“Uh—perhaps
we can go for a walk?”
The
next morning Alfred woke up very tired, for he had gotten little sleep the
night before. He hummed contentedly to himself as the previous day’s memories
made his steps lighter and his mood brighter. It wasn’t until he began to prune
the lemon trees that he realized this was a bad thing.
He
hadn’t forgotten! The laws were now in full force once again, and the shame of
the previous day’s activities began to crash down upon him and burn his naïve
little conscience.
The
pruning of the lemon trees became a very difficult task. The thought of going
about the day’s activities and facing the townsfolk became daunting. He would
have to collect jars of water from Polluxa as usual. Oh, Polluxa! How could he
ever face her again?
Eventually,
he found his feet taking him automatically there as they had done for so many
years. He walked in, this time without a “Hello.”
She
did not meet his eye. Instead, she found the floor unusually fascinating today.
“Polluxa,”
he said.
She
looked up. Without even the hint of a smile, she said, “Yes?”
Without
even thinking of the consequences, he quickly asked, “Do you remember?
Yesterday?”
She
looked honestly puzzled, “What are you talking about, sir?”
“Yesterday?
Do you remember doing anything—with me?”
Still
looking puzzled, she shook her head, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“The
wizard’s spell worked for you then?”
“What
spell?”
“He
cast a spell—a spell of forgetfulness, so we wouldn’t remember what we did
yesterday.”
She
gave him a smile, but this time there was nothing special about it, “I suppose
it did.”
Alfred
couldn’t believe it. It seems the spell had worked, just not for him. What had
he done wrong?
He
left the store in a panic and returned home, shirking the rest of the day’s
activities. He huddled in a corner of his house, going over in his head again
and again what had happened, starting from the previous evening up to the
disastrous present.
Eventually
he came up with a plan. He delivered a whole basket of lemons to the wizard on
a weekly basis. The wizard was fond of his lemons, so an early visit should
please him immensely. He gathered a basket of lemons and headed for the
wizard’s home.
He
stood there a moment after he dropped the usual basket of a dozen or so lemons
on doorstep of the curiously shaped house of the wizard. After summing up his
courage, he finally knocked on the door.
Almost
immediately, the wizard answered as he usually did, and with a short “Thank
you,” took the basket, turned, and shut the door as quickly as he had answered.
Alfred
had to sum up his courage again before he knocked a second time. This time
there was no answer. A third knock, and still no sign of reaction from within.
Alfred
was about to leave until he thought once again of returning to his normal life,
bearing that awful shame from yesterday. The thought was more unbearable than
facing the most powerful man in Ajziou, and so he opened the door and stepped
inside.
The
interior of the home was very peculiar. The small circular room was completely
surrounded by glass casing in which there was an aquatic scene, with live
aquatic creatures.
On
the center of the room was a desk, and at that desk the wizard was writing
something, seemingly oblivious to Alfred’s intrusion. Stacks of paper covered
the face of the small desk, as if the wizard did nothing but write behind the
walls of his own home. Alfred quickly noticed a knife on the desk as well as a
glass bottle of some sort of red liquid. Beside the wizard’s desk on the floor
was the newly acquired basket of lemons, and he momentarily paused from his
writing to take one, cut it in half with the knife, and pour some of the red
liquid on it. The wizard began to suck on this decorated lemon and continued to
write for a while before Alfred realized that he was either being ignored, or
the man had not yet noticed his presence.
“Sir...
Mr. Wizard, sir...” he said.
The
wizard looked up abruptly from his writings. “Oh dear, there is someone in my
house!”
“Forgive
me, but I must speak with you,” said Alfred.
The
wizard waited a very long, awkward moment before responding, “As you can see,
I’m very busy. You must say what you are here to say in fifteen words or less.”
Alfred
was puzzled by this, and for a moment began to work his message over in his
head.
“Um...”
“Fourteen.”
“What?”
“Thirteen.”
Alfred
took a breath, and then walked down the steps to directly face the man at the
desk.
“Your
spell did not work on me.”
The
wizard waited another long moment, counting the words on his fingers, before
saying, “What spell?”
“The
spell of forgetfulness. I have not forgotten my actions from yesterday,” said
Alfred.
“A
spell of forgetfulness? Well, I must have forgotten all about it. Remind me
what it was all about.”
“You
promised us a day in which the rules would be dismissed, and afterward a spell
of forgetfulness would cause us all to live on without the shame.”
The
wizard mulled this over in his mind for a bit: “Did I now? Well, I suppose I am
more clever than I remember.”
“Please,
you must help me forget what I did yesterday. I can’t bare to go on with
such... memories!”
“Hmph,”
said the wizard, “If the spell did not work then, I don’t think it will work
this time for you either.”
“Then
there is nothing you can do?”
The
wizard shrugged, “Probably not.”
Alfred sat on
floor and bowed his head in despair. In a moment of seeming lucidity, the
wizard had compassion on the young man, and rose from his desk to walk over and
sit next to him.
“My boy, I
really love lemons with hot sauce. I am old and little else can reach my taste
buds anymore. People may think I am odd, but I am not ashamed of the things I
love.”
“That sounds
disgusting,” muttered Alfred, without raising his head.
“That’s not
the point. The point is that pointy thing that you are supposed to stumble upon
yourself in a moment of rare… undimness. You know, draw your own conclusion
sort of thing.”
Alfred looked
up, “So what are you saying?”
“I’m saying I
like lemons with hot sauce, and this house may not be your ordinary house, but
I think it’s clever and I built it with my own hands, and they all ask me ‘Why
don’t you have a bed to sleep in’, and I assure them that the desk works fine
and I must be practical.”
“Wait,” said
a skeptical Alfred, “You built this place yourself?”
“Why not?”
“You’re a bit
old for manual labor.”
“My boy, I am
a wizard. But the train is running off the tracks. Let’s try to get back to the
pointy thing. Remember, you are having a hard time from shame, yet I tell you
to not be ashamed of what you love.”
“But you were
the one who mandated the laws! You were the one who forbade that which I loved!
You were the one that promised such unbearable shame! How could you say…”
The wizard
threw his hands up in innocence, “My boy, I didn’t force misery on anybody.
Before you accuse me of all sorts of villany, let me tell one thing. Or maybe a
few things. I gave the people these laws mostly so they would stay out of my
hair, and only somewhatly for the purpose of watching strange specimens in a
strange situation. People are very strange specimens, no? Anyways, one law I
deliberately never arbitrated upon you people was the one saying, ‘You must
remain here and abide by my arbitrary whims’, so if you must pin your misery on
me, than by all means leave this absurd community and be miserable elsewhere.
Do spare me and yourself, though. I rather enjoy your lemons. I prefer their
company to most people’s, actually.”
Alfred’s
emotions quickly cooled, and he soon found that he was shaken by this
conversation with the man who he had followed religiously these past few years.
He was shaken, yet strangely comforted.
“I do love
the lemons,” said the wizard, “so do keep up the good work. Then again, you
don’t have to, do you?”
Alfred’s only
reply was, “I’m sorry for disturbing you, Mr. wizard, sir.”
Alfred returned
to his house—his simple house, with his simple father, and his simple lemons. He
asked his father to take over the business of collecting jars of water, not
daring to explain why. His father agreed, but a few days went by and his father
suddenly disappeared, leaving the whole lemon business to Alfred alone.
These
disappearances were occurring regularly now, leaving only the dimmest and most
faithful disciples still in the town of Ajziou. Reluctantly, Alfred returned to
the routes of collections to keep the lemons going, which brought him once more
to the doorstep of the store where jars of water were distributed.
He walked in,
and without looking up, said, “Hello.”
There was no
reply. The store was vacant.
