Writing & Creative Writing

Day #1: Sincere apologies

I picked up some tulips for her because she was fond of them.
However, as I transported them from the shop, they withered with alarming rapidity. Unnaturally so.
Shades of orange and brown took over the petals with each momentary glance, as though my confused gaze hastened their demise.

They were a pitiful sight upon my arrival, echoing my inadequate apologies.

She took them but didn’t truly accept them. It reminded me of the nuance: were the tulips really for her, or for myself? I didn’t even like them one bit.

Perhaps I should have bought single malt smoked whisky, my apologies might have seemed more genuine, paradoxically.

I wasn’t empathetic with my actions, but now I was certainly pathologically pathetic.

Image credits: https://unsplash.com/@kate_gliz

Day #2: Looking for purpose

It was a fine day, the cicadas were debating as you would expect and the sun was filtering through the tall trees. It was just yesterday that we realised we had lost the little calf, we counted the whole herd three times but none of them brought it back to the herd with the others.

We still can’t fathom how that happened, the fence was intact all around the ranch. We didn’t check the patch of trees because the herd normally stays away from it, as if there were some sort of bovine curse that they are trying to avoid. As the day aged and got tired of all the pesky debating, we started drawing conclusions in our heads, pointing fingers outwards, as you do.

The following morning we expected more of the same, still in the red for a calf. Secretly, I counted the herd again and again and one more time.

“Bullshit!” I exclaimed, acknowledging that we were now missing a cow as well. “Oh, coffee this morning is going to be bitter for the others, oh well, for me too I guess” I mumbled as I approached the edge of our land that borders with the patch of trees where I normally go to, you know, connect spiritually with nature through the cycle of water.

As I moved to head back, I cursed “Bullshit!” again, as my boot met with an all-too-familiar squish. Unusual, though, was finding such a mess this far from the usual paths.

I saw an opportunity, maybe our gassy friends ventured this way for more than just, spiritual connection with nature. I was onto something, yes, more fertilizer, but this time I dodged it. Following the trail of footsteps, I came upon what looked like a family reunion.

There was the calf, tailing the cow towards what I assume they perceived as the illusion of freedom, a fight against fear of the unbeaten path, or both.

Image credits: https://unsplash.com/@anniespratt

Day #3: The lighthouse

I was hired for the job because of my experience; I grew up around a lighthouse. My grandfather lived in one, and I did as much as I could to gravitate around that guiding light. He was a very strong man, not necessarily in physical terms. Though I’m sure he was stronger than average. He built an empire, set his four kids up for success, and loved his wife until her premature death. Then he retired to a place close to what he loved the most: the sea. There, he spent his days reading all sorts of books and telling his grandkids stories about everything and anything. He always said goodbye with a touch of melancholy, perhaps counting down the times we had left to spend together, increasing the probability that it was the last time we saw each other.

Why was I hired for a lookout tower custodian job? Because I would have done it for free? Or because of my history that I certainly couldn’t share with just a CV and a couple of interviews? Isn’t it the same for any job? What changes, maybe, is what’s on the plate for both sides, until an agreement is reached. As in most commercial transactions, one side loses. But I didn’t care about losing; I was measuring my success using my own balance sheet, with my very own units of measure. Gibberish to anyone else but everything to me.

I was finally going to be able to meditate, work on my side projects, finish writing the book I started years ago, practice fasting seriously, get into calisthenics, read my pile of “must-read” books, and do some very much-needed digital detox. I knew it was all pointless. Nothing was going to cure me from the cancer I was diagnosed with five months ago. Opting for surgery would have meant a life ending in hospitals, surrounded by the sadness of my loved ones. Self-exile was more liberating for everyone. I’d rather be remembered for the man I was, knowing that I still had a purpose despite my grim destiny. At least I will have tried to honour the name of my hero and strived to live a life with fewer regrets.

Image credits: https://unsplash.com/@jerrykavan

Day #4: Lost in and with Alleys

I’m at a loss for my current location. What was meant to be a short stroll has turned into a perplexing loop of the same streets for at least twenty minutes. My cell phone has no signal, and even GPS fails me. Perhaps the towering buildings that hem in these narrow “Vicoli” are to blame.

My “wifey” and kids are likely waiting, probably imagining I’ve wandered off into my own past. Which I did. I grew up here, knowing every alley and corner as intimately as the back of my hand. I remember where my father’s house stood, literally where he was born, where Argo, his loyal dog, would bark joyfully, and where he played as a child.

But now, where is everyone? The streets are deserted, punctuated only by a plethora of “For Sale” signs so faded that the phone numbers have nearly been erased by time and weather.

A red ball suddenly comes bouncing toward me, followed by a little boy, with his grandmother, I suppose, trailing behind. She’s shouting, breathlessly, taking short pauses “Slow down! You’ll trip on a sanpietrino! You’ll hurt yourself! That man will give you the ball. Ask him. Say ‘please.’ Be a good boy!”

I stop the ball and hand it to the polite child, who thanks me and dashes back to his grandmother. She steps closer, scrutinizing my face, almost touching me and asks in our familiar dialect, “A chi sei figlio tu?” It’s a question about lineage, one I was often asked as a boy in these very streets.

I can’t help but smile. Despite the signs of decline, there are still families here, pulsing with life, one generation softly passing the torch to the next through simple acts like chasing after a ball and the hyperactive child.

One day, the meek may inherit this place, or perhaps they will simply become a part of its labyrinthine memory.

Day #5: AirbnBaby

Mumma and Dadda are not around; I hear them chatting in the other room with a lady they called a baby sitter.
Pfft. If they think I’m going to just sit down with her, a perfect stranger, while they go out and about without me, they’re utterly mistaken! Mumma is wearing heels, that’s the sign that tells me that they are about to abandon me. Temporarily, yes, but still.
They told me to sit and play here with my trusty toy, the block set that doubles as a little chair, so I can sit like adults and play pretend. I’ll never understand why they do this sitting thing so much. Isn’t it much better to just run around all the time?

I also have my new favourite book, the “Encyclo-something.” It’s full of things I don’t understand, all seemingly unrelated to each other. It’s beautiful, but after a while, I have so many questions that my head hurts if I can’t ask them to anyone. I’ve already had my dose of headache for today. It’s time to unwind.

But… I’m somewhere new today, in this place adults call “Airbabby,” or something like that. I need to know more. What is this thing with a weird yellow plate and a stick next to it? And these other plates? Daddy looked at them the way he does when he eats a steak or when he looks at Mum sometimes, especially after a glass of that dark red water that’s not for kids.

I’m intrigued. Oh, wait… this thing has switches, like the ones we have at home! I must try all of them!

As I flip the bigger switch, the plate starts spinning. “I love spinning,” I think, as I do a couple of spins myself in solidarity. The stick moves gently and starts caressing the plate. It reminds me of Mum telling me not to slap Dad but to touch his beard gently instead.

Suddenly, loud music starts playing. Is this the reward or punishment for my mischief? I run away just in case, anticipating the “Evelyn, no!” that Dad will inevitably say, well… roar like that lion I saw on the big screen.

Peeking from behind the sofa that’s made me invisible, I see them all looking at me, smiling broadly with twinkling eyes. The lady says something and uses the word “cute.” Okay, maybe I like her after all.

Mum takes Dad’s hand and kisses him. “I have to join them!” I think, running as fast as my legs can carry me towards them. I hug their legs and say, “Up. Cuddle.”

I take their faces in my hands, and I join them together as I look closely at the extra kiss I’ve triggered, then I pull them both towards me, and they kiss one cheek each. “I love yaaa,” I say. Twice, to perfect my pronunciation. They seem to like that. I like doing things they like… well, except for not touching weird stuff in weird places. But that wasn’t me, was it?