First chapter of my short story series about an inept writer who goes on Parisian odyssey to meet the love of his life .
Bong goes the midnight bell, and the bins are being collected.
Many an artist could move to such a pretty Italian paradise and mull over the big questions; where does creativity come from? What is happiness? Why are we here? But, our protagonist’s great concern is why the fuck the binmen come at midnight.
Our hero is sitting in his room, in front of his dusty laptop, puffing on a dry cigarette salvaged from the dregs of his pathetic tobacco pouch. Bitter tasting bullshit.
This being springtime, his double-balcony doors are flung open. He may be celebrating warm Mediterranean nights, but he’s only set himself up to be munched by warring mosquitoes. Red, bulbous bites pimple his legs like leprosy. Itchy, and flaky. Jesus.
Our dear protagonist may not be able to stave-off the pangs of expired tobacco, or the advances of hungry insects, but, readers, this man’s an artist. Physical exertions don’t concern an artist. It’s the machinations of the mind that keep artists exerted. The great glory of creativity, pluming from the untold mysteries of misery past. This man isn’t like one of those suited morons who walk the earth looking for their fortune, he’s a man of depth. Of renown. Of unique intellect. Of peerless courage to question the world around him, and commit his thoughts to paper for others to faint off their seat at the grandiose grandiosity of his one-of-a-kind mind.
This, our hero thought, as he took a midnight shit.
Playing on his phone like a baby, scrolling through the endless shit-stream of nonsense on Facebook, reminding himself of the perpetual stupidity of the modern age that he wilfully submits to on a day-to-day basis. But, it’s ok, he’s an artist. His labours of the mind balance out the banality of social media. It’s his treat. His guilty pleasure. This was his last thought, before finishing up and flushing the toilet.
As he walked down his apartment’s marble-floored corridor, he glanced at himself in the full-length mirror. He’s dressed in his pyjama rags; loose bottoms swinging around his ankles and low-cut top punctured with burn holes bobbing with every step. His hair’s long and straggly, and his beard unkempt, like a homeless lion. He’s a shameful-looking fuck, and he knows it. But, the pride of being a careless artist is enough justification to keep him from taking care of himself.
His room suffers from the same misconception. Books strewn over his desk besides greasy plates, discarded cigarette butts sprinkled like volcanic throw-up and rounds of dust balled up across the floor. His bed’s unmade, and covered in scraps of paper scratched with the indistinguishable scribbles of a mad man.
Visitors could accuse of him lacking self-respect but, ladies and gentlemen, our hero is an artist.
He sits back down at his desk, in front of his laptop. The dustmen have gone, finally. He can continue with his work. This particular piece of work being screenplay 10 of a library that has less legs than a Paralympic Athletics team. Not for lack of quality, as, despite this fool's misgivings, his work has promise. But, what good is genius when it's not shared? He tried to share his work once with the industry, but he merely poked his head into a world of broken promises, compromise and deceit. Commitments he wasn't prepared to bend to. His work is his escape, not his work. Much like his lifestyle; in a lazy Italian paradise where the bins are collected at midnight and people speak like their life depends on it.
So deeply deep are these thoughts, that our moron lights himself another cigarette. Leant back, he takes this moment of respite to glance up. Something precious overlooking proceedings. A picture of a brown-eyed belle peering up from a coffee table, smiling warmly. Nutty brown hair tied in a loose bun, her lips glinting cherry-red, and her eyes. Her eyes. Those pupils may give her the pleasure of sight, but they give him the pleasure of breathe. Pools of warmth, accented by jet-black lashes that lend a glow that might've been dug up from the ancient minds of the mad men who looked up at the sky and saw God. Her hands, bathed in sunny rays, hug a coffee cup with casual contentment. Her slender body, eased by the peace of a day-out with a soulmate. She's untouchable and, when he looks at her, so is he.
Overcome as if by some kind of opiate, our long-haired artist darts forward and taps away at his laptop. Eyes puffed with inspiration and smiling like a jackal, he's had a breakthrough. He's discovered something, and so have we. That picture is more than just romantic memorabilia. It's a weapon. A weapon of a writers' armoury as powerful as a pen. A teary snail-trail slithers down his cheek. Sniff, snivel. Tip, tap. Look up. Sniff, snivel. Tip, tap. Look up. Ad infinitum. This is a war of attrition. Taunting himself with love-lost to tease out work of feeling. Of pain. The ground needs deep tectonic movement to shake its surface, and so does man.
For such profundity, our man rewards himself with a quick ball-scratch.
He looks up at again, at his brown-eyed belle. In truth friends, this image is only an axis to turn onto another. Another cast to memory. One far more potent than a picture. One so doughy that he hates himself for having it. One that's sent away in waking hours, but comes knocking at lights-out. The mind never forgets. A man is only a man.
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