A Home for my creative outlet

The Future Secretary 

To all it may concern, and, frankly, the beginnings of a young fellow, one of placid dole, came simply to providence with the most unfortunate division of class; and to all that it does not concern—confound it! it shall now be prevalent in your well-being. He, or me (since this is a first-person account: may that tickle your skeptical trust), found himself sitting by the dock watching ebb and flow of the tides which reside head-front and center, a constant beat against the stones turned into sand. And one might say this excessive use of power exerted by mother nature, constantly in tangent with the slow crawl of time, might be deleterious to the residents of this coastal town: too many a times had the strike of Neptune—in the form of great waves— vivaciously destroyed this quaint town. The stores were locally owned, and every face was recognized by one another. While this abstract concept of a unified body, loquacious and arrogant, in the form of a small town, may seem like a bucolic getaway to most, it was a detriment to our subject; he was an outsider, a vagabond. However meretricious this idea of a secluded town boarding insanity and nature turned out to be, he persisted, persisted with all his might and fervor. It was a childlike, idyllic sense of freedom that allowed his small little heart to keep beating against the tumbrels of his ribs: knocking constantly, he withstood. The sneers, the side comments, the berating—these had little effect, but how? On the corner of one of the perceived identical streets—however, this street will be well distinguished as of now—had a special charm: the most perfect lamp that he had ever seen. Its curvature was immaculacy brought to life, forged by the hands of great men. And the color—oh my, the color—was the most perfect shade of purple ever to be enounced to mortal eyes: a royal shade that will forever be dismally under-recognized. But not to this astute chap, for he loved it; he loved the blemish on the top right-hand side; he loved the chip in the wooden stand that had prompted the old clerk to deface the tag with red ink— the blood of defeat; he loved the aging, slowly dying, bulb that would never be changed until someone would emancipate it from the clutches of a haggard dolt to whom was unaware of the perspicacious value of this lamp. He wanted it, and he wanted it badly, but he was never permitted to own it: his status of outsider forced him into submission. Moreover, his wallet did not permit the exchange to occur as well. These all too real facts did not deter his eyes from it: it made its elusive nature more desirable. He could not! He longed! More time would pass—there still was no hope. There is one day he can particularly remember: he was staring at his dream, his hope when a couple had instantly beamed themselves from the moon, and now they stood in front of the shop; you could clearly see that these people were from the moon by their complete chrome attire. It was truly and unruly alien. They flashed their moon dollars forwards and backwards, a blunt showing of opulence, which had made our subject very displeased. Perfuming of wealth, they securitized all objects within the town’s shops until the lady had fallen for a hook: the very same lamp. And as all forward thinkers do, with their hearts on their shoulders, our subject had taken inspiration; he had to do something. It was treasure amongst the common class; it was a sign that beauty did not have be bought. Could he, a man of integrity, a man of the arts, of class, just sit there and see his only message, his only distinction between right and wrong be taken away from moon people. No! he flashed out his teeth for the couple to see, and slowly, with the waning patience of an animal, he allowed his hairs to effervesce from his spine, sides; his face, his place. As this occurred, the claws came out, and with his batesian performance completed, he howled. The couple, startled into disarray, jumped as high as they could: them being from the moon, they jumped really high. “That is the most plebian act I’ve ever seen. Let us take our riches to a new place, a place of fun and happiness.” “I concur, it is due time that we omit ourselves from this planet and return to a plant that holds us to the highest regard.” He started to calm when he looked to his pride, his reason, his morale. A lamp, one of subtle disposition, became holy for a moment, and in that fragment of time, our subject wept. He could not understand why. This lamp had done something to him: it had changed him; he was dependent. There was no need for hope anymore; he still could not understand. Was he in control? Could he be just and reasonable? A crowd started to form around the naked body that was now plastered on the street; parallel to him, his ripped clothes meant nothing. Although our subject looked as if he was human, the crowd thought otherwise: they saw him as a beast, an uncivil hound, the image he forever set himself to be. There was not any form egress, and when he stumbled to his feet, he saw all the limpid eyes toiling with writhing conviction—not the conviction you see at a courthouse, not the conviction you see when your grandmother drones on about her favorite mahjong tile to eat, but the conviction you see when ill-intent is writhing in the air. That was the last time our subject had ever seen the lamp: that was the last time he ever truly lived.

                                                                           *All of this is fiction