The cigarette

[Kilrogg_Deadeye]

I actually don't quite know what to call this story, so the thread name will just be a temporary one for now. I like where this is going though, so I'll try and finish it to the best of my lazy abilities.

Enjoy!
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Awaiting

The cigarette. Its dark curly tobacco lit up, smouldered, then was set ablaze, and faded away again. The cigarette was drawn away, and a cloud appeared in the shadowy air, quickly dispersing into the gloom. Then one again, and another. Four, five, six. A seventh for good luck. The butt of the cigarette was tapped, making a few tiny sparks drop onto the wet rotten planks. One was caught in a sudden breeze and flew past the just as rotten railing, to be killed by the icy waters below. Upon the railing the arm holding the cigarette rested, and belonged to me.

“Late. He’s late dammit!” I complained to my companion. The shrug was his reply.

A bottle was drawn from underneath his green cloak. His hand, shaking somewhat from the wind that had now taken hold of the air, unscrewed the cap, downed the whisky, put the tap back on, screw, screw, screw, and put it back from whence it came.

“How did I end up here?” I complained. Nothing better to do right now but to complain, I thought. “This filthy god forsaken city. How I hate it, I really really do. Why did I move, why didn’t I stay, why didn’t I bloody listen to my old man? Could’ve owned a nice little plot of land, found a beautiful wife, have a bunch of kids to be proud of. Heck, I could’ve had it all, and threw it away moving to this stinking $hit hole!” I threw the bottle into the river. A shrug was his reply.

It was really a great companion I had, for he did not speak, ever. I don’t know why, he just didn’t. So I could complain as much as I wanted, explain as much as I wanted, swear and curse as much as I wanted, and he would reply with a shrug which I could interpret as I wanted.

“Here, have a drag,” I gave him the cigarette, which he dragged on deeply, and I could hear the tobacco twist and turn as it burned away. Then the clouds appeared, one, two, “A third for good luck.” Or was that seven? I suddenly realised with a terrible trembling in my body that I could have blown all those clouds in the past in vain (always seven), thinking it good luck when I should’ve done three. Three, not seven. Then my companion threw the cigarette into the river. I shrugged. He had a point.

Tap, tap, tap. We turned around. A figure was taking shape in the foggy darkness. It grew and grew until it stood in front of us, until we reached it to the chest. He was a huge fellow indeed. They had told me about him, some said he was half-ogre. As he stood there it didn’t seem implausible. My companions threw the cigarette into the lake.

“You’re late,” I said with as much of an angry voice as I could manage.

“Doesn’t concern me. I’m just here to tell you what to do,” the figure boomed.

“Whatever. What is the job then?”

“You…”

“You what?” I asked confused

“You…”

The wind was howling now, and I could feel my ear, nose, chin, my whole face burning red. I just wanted to get on with it, get away from this booming giant figure of a man.

“Look, if you can’t just tell me straight, how am I supposed to do it? Just tell me, and I’ll go do it. I didn’t move to this hole just to be given orders like that. ‘You’ what?” I could feel the man getting angry, and through the blowing chilly fog it looked almost as if he grew taller.

“You go down to the pub, there’s a man there,” the man-thing said, “You’ll know him when you see him. He’ll tell you what to do. I must go now.” The man turned around and, before I could ask him what kind of orders that was, his shadow was gone.

“Great, just great. I guess life wasn’t meant to be that easy, huh?”

My companion shook his head. He then began to whistle, that was apparently the only thing he could do, and moved down the bridge, into the darkness. He whistled about late Sunday evenings and lost summer days. I hated those, but he kept whistling about it, so I shrugged, and followed him.

[Kilrogg_Deadeye]

Gren has a row with his father and ponders on the mysterious sentence

“What then?”

“I don’t know,” I said as silent as possible, keeping my focus on the plate next to my elbow.

“Well you must get your mind on it Gren for god’s sake!” My dad sighed.

“I just don’t know,” I said, almost whispering.

“What?”

“I don’t know,” I said, a bit too loud, more than I meant to.

“Don’t give me that tone boy. You’re a grown man soon, act like it!”

“Yeah, yeah.” Whispering again.

These talks came up more frequent these days and I wished they would not. I had no concerns about it for I had absolutely no idea of what to do when I turned 18 the following summer. I lived life on a day-to-day basis, my dad always said. I had no ambitions, no useful aims in life. “That’s what you need my son, aims, it’s what makes life go on. If you don’t have aims you cease to live.” But I did have dreams, I did have ambitions, but nothing I wanted to let him know about. I wanted to write. He would kill me if I said that, I could hear it clear in my mind. “Write?! What kind of aim is that boy? For god’s sake, you’ll live in poverty for the rest of your life!”

I knew my dad’s ambitions. To see his only son make something of himself. A soldier, a knight, maybe even a general. If anything else failed, hell, he’d accept a mage for a son. As long I became something. Something to be proud of I guess. The truth was that I was in no particular hurry to arrange my life, nor did I want to become an adult any time soon. The next summer seemed so far away in mid-autumn, like it would stay wet and cold for the rest of eternity. I wanted to write, that was all I knew. Write about things that I’ve seen, and would see, and felt, and would feel. An adventurer. Those people that went out into that big huge world, visiting amazing landscapes, encountered incredible creatures, experiencing so many different things that I would almost be forced to write about it all. Travel and write. But my father wouldn’t approve of it, I knew he wouldn’t. “You’ll just fail son. You’re no good at it!”

He would be right most likely. I didn’t know if I was all that good at writing. It was my innermost passion, but how do you know if you make something others will like? Not even a fierce black dragon would ever make me show the things I had in my chest, underneath my bed. Quite a collection that was the result of countless scribbles over the many years. Never ever. Because what if I was no good? My life would then truly have no purpose. Ignorance was the better way, at least for now. You could always do it later, always a bit later.

“Well,” my father rose, the soup on his lips dropping all the way down on the table, “time to go. Think about it Greth, please. Sit down for a minute or two and do something productive for once with that head of yours! Sort out your future, it’ll catch you before you can even turn around.” And with that he slipped out the door.

I had just drawn my breath, about to tell him that I did know what I wanted. Write, write, write, but he was gone already. “Write about what Greth for god’s sake? That’s not a life style, that’s an excuse for procrastination! No more Greth, no more! Do something productive for once with that head of yours!”

I thought about a life as a footman. Smelly barracks, $hitty food, living with stupid bastards, fanatic officers. Yup, great life. “Everything comes to the one who works hard Greth!” I could hear my dad shout. I knew what he wanted to see. He wanted to see his son riding a horse, hammer in one hand, holy book in the other, situated in a cold grey armour suit with the Silver Hand on the front. To him my future was already sorted.

“To hell it is,” I mumbled and threw the spoon in the washing bucket.

I went outside, looking up on the surprisingly clear sky. It had brightened up. There was nothing quite like an autumn sky, with its dark deep blue in the middle. It made me wonder what was up there, all the way up in the sky. God? Well, that’s what everyone said, but how could you know for certain? The only proof I had ever seen of a god was in the holy book, and the holy book said a lot of things. I didn’t like most of it, being about revenge and killing of heathens and such. I liked the story about the snake though. Even though I only saw it as a story, it was a pretty intriguing tale of metaphors for humanity’s inner nature. Whoever came up with that was a genius.

After breathing some of the moist air I went in again, up the staircase and into my room. My eyes turned to the paper on my table.

“A bottle” the story began. I had no clue how to proceed, it had just come into my mind from somewhere. A bottle of what? It could be anything. Sometimes dialogues or descriptions would merge together in my head and form the beginning of a story, but this was new. The sentence didn’t mean anything, yet it had caught hold in my head for some reason and would not go away. A bottle of water?

“A bottle of water was picked up by the archmage Hethel Jaaden, the leader of the Kal Tu’in division of Lordaeron’s army. He was clad in a purple cloak with magical golden runes woven into it, and” No didn’t work.

“A bottle of holy water shook above the valiant paladin’s head” I hated paladins.

“A bottle of the darkest blue paint, like an autumn sky, was used to draw the outline of the woman’s naked form. It was the sexist woman she had ever seen, her round breast moving up and down with her tiny breath. She knew it was wrong, but she just wanted to touch the young girl, kiss her red lips, stroke her” Oh yeah, I could go on like that forever, but a mysterious sentence like that deserved a more meaningful story.

“A bottle, a bottle, a bottle. A bottle of a bottle.”

I threw the pen on the floor. My head was empty for good inspiration, so I went to my bed and looked up into the window in my roof, where only the deepest blue of the sky could be seen. It was truly beautiful.

I tried to let my mind wander, hoping it would pick up something from somewhere that could give the bottle content and a proper owner, but nothing came. I hated my imaginations for that. It always worked on the most inconvenient times, while keeping silent when I wanted it to speak. Sometimes it helped when I closed my eyes, and I did thus. Nothing. Not even the smallest hint of inspiration.

“Damn it all.”

I sighed. Nothing.

[Kilrogg_Deadeye]

I know this is a very strange story, but I hope it'll make more sense towards the end. Just...you know...read in between the lines, maybe you'll get my deranged plot. If you think this is too weird for this forum, I'll gladly stop.
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The lamp

The lamp. It shone on the edgy wooden frame of the door, throwing a giant spider web on it, as it shone through the delicate strings that were dripping with small pearls of water. A breeze blew past, making the giant black web on the door shiver in tact with the wind. The wind grew and grew, the web shaking more and more violently, and it began to drip more frequently. The drops grew, forming a small lake on the road underneath, a black dark lake full of the dirt of the city.

The large shadow on the door had startled me so much that I had been unable to move, frozen in front of the door and forced to watch as the horrible thing shook and dripped. Then the wind stopped, and so the shaking went away with it. A last drop slid down the circumference of the web, rested at the tip of it for a second or two, then slowly began to curve, then, splash!, as it hit the lake.

“Holy mother of god, that was freaky,” I said out loud, just to emphasise that the occurrence had indeed been frightening enough to freeze anyone that passed by. Embarrassed by my attack of fear I strode as confident as I could to the door. Suddenly the breeze came back, this time so powerful it blew out the lamp, leaving everything in a thick darkness. I quickly realised that I could no longer see the door, it had vanished into the wall in the dark. I desperately tried to find the handle to no avail.

“Life is just not fair huh?” I turned around, trying to distinguish my companion through the white mist that was just visible in the dark. He agreed.

I searched inside my pockets for anything that could possibly light up the street. My hand explored the many deep holes I had in my jacket, but found nothing but deep emptiness.

Tap, tap, tap. My finger was tapping against something cold and hard. I took it out but could not see what it was through the darkness.

“Any idea what this is?” I asked my companion, throwing it to him.

He studied it for a while, then did something I could not see, but a light flared up in the dark all of a sudden. I breathed out in relief. Fumbling after the lamp on the wall, stinging splinter being caught in my finger as I did so. I found it in the end though. The lamp swallowed the light whole, and once again the street was semi-lit.

The web had apparently gone, so with no further ado I took hold of the door which had reappeared and entered the building.

[Inquisistor7]

Hmm, interesting. I am trying to comprehend the story, and it certainly seems profound. I noticed that Greth complains about his imagination being silent, and I recalled that the companion is always silent. I am probably just graspiing at straws. Anyway, so far the tone of this sory srikes me as being filled with angst. Now, I don't consider that a bad things, especially in a story like this where the level of skill exhibited in the writing is of such good quality.

I will read more if you post more.

[Kilrogg_Deadeye]

I took a long time figuring out the main character's name (Gren or Greth or whatever was just a typical random-typed name till I found a better one). Now his name is Bodig. Sorry for the inconsistency.
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Bodig’s way of choosing and how he comes face-to-face with fate

I looked down into the mess that was spread out on my floor. I took hold of my pen, dropped it, took hold of it again, dropped it again. Whenever faced with a choice, especially a new-chapter-of-life kind of change my mind would always stop. Time itself halted to allow me making my decision.

The very first time that had happened was when I had just turned six years old, the very day in fact. It had been the start of school, and as I stood there, a gnome looking on a giant gate, I had had two choices: run away, never to enter that dreadful place, or to submit to the scary loud noises inside. Dad always said that there was nothing as honourable and brave as walking straight into your fears, not looking back, just walking straight. I’m not brave, and I weren’t brave back then. What got me through, and what has always got me through is to stop thinking. I don’t know quite how, but somehow I’m able to completely stop any though in my mind, almost like time stops as I just explained before. That was the first day I found out how to face my fears. Don’t think. I had not, and I had gone into the loud noises.

The next one had been in front of the church door. Confirmation. Did I really believe in God? My father would pound me into oblivion if I said no. He hated blasphemers, hated anyone who spoke against the Church. My mom sometimes told me that Dad would get into fights over drunkard’s swearing in God’s name. Well, I had entered the church, and said yes, although nowadays I know that I lied.

Then I had stood in front of Tania’s door. What to say? What to do? How to look? How to move? When to say what and how? And the overwhelming question that would push my hand away from the door handle continuously: When to touch? Mom would tell me often how my Father had charmed himself into her life. It had been an arranged marriage that Mom had no enthusiasm in. He had taken her into Traderhaven, a city the once lay a few miles from our home, and by the end of the day she was lost in love forever, as she put it. I had knocked. She was all alone that day, I had carefully chosen the time. I remember nothing of what happened inside except doing all the wrong things, and stood outside maybe an hour later, maybe a million years afterwards, hearing the door slam in front of me.

It was not about entering this time, it was about the mess on the floor and the pen lying on it. I could sign the red paper, saying “yes I want to live as a lowlife foot soldier,” or the blue, saying “yes I want to throw away my existence as a monk.” All the choices I had made in life boiled down to this very moment, and what choices I had! I could run away of course, to wander the roads forever, write about what my eyes would observe, thing that I could only dream of. All I had to do was open my door, run down to the kitchen, take some food, perhaps a bit of money if my conscience permitted, and run northwards, to Traderhaven, or perhaps further, even to Stormwind. It would be easy because it hardly required any thought, just a bit of courage to push me away. These papers had to be filled and signed and I had absolutely no interest in either of them. The hardest of choices are the ones that you cannot overlook, the ones whose purpose lies too far for you to see.

No, I couldn’t run away. How could I desert my family who would need my support when they grew old? When Dad could no longer work in the field, and Mom could no longer stand up to make the food, they would need help, and I had to be there. And after all, they had given me love and a home my whole childhood. Running away would be extremely selfish, not to mention unforgivable.

“Well, that does it,” I said to myself as thought pushed the third choice out of existence.

I opened the door just a Dad was about to knock on it. He looked a bit startled at first, an emotion of his that was new to me, but then resumed his usual massive presence.

“Made your choice yet Bodig?”

“No sir,” I slightly bowed my head away from his gaze.

“Not yet? This is the last evening for pity’s sake! You’ve had the whole damn week to decide. Now look, you go in there, sign one of those papers, and get on with your life!”

“If you’re so concerned, why can’t you just decide?” I asked, an angry tone rising in my voice that I desperately tried to suppress.

“No;” his tone outgrew mine, and he did not suppress. “This is the most important choice in your life which only you can make. No supper until you’ve decided! When you go to bed, I want either a blue or red signed paper in my hand, understood?”

I was silent, just looked away.

“Understood?!”

I nodded, slowly, but with assurance.

Once again I stood in front of the mess. I had no idea which choice would be the better. As a soldier I would be live in constant squalor. As a paladin I would be forced to not think for the rest of my life. Which to pick? Bad or bad? Blue or red? I took the pen, held it tight so as not to drop it. Then I threw it up in the air, right above the papers and closed my eyes. I heard it drop with a thud which meant that my fate was sealed. Squalor or silence? I opened my eyes slowly, squeezing the lids so as not to reveal my fate too quick. Slowly the world grew out of the haze, and then I saw. It lay on another piece of paper in the mess, one that I had forgotten about. I picked it up with trembling hands and saw my fate unravel much too quick for comfort.

[Inquisistor7]

the red and the blue paper reminded me of the movie "The Matrix." Anyway, this was well written as always, and I could really get a feel for waht the protagonist was thinking. as has been the case, however, with this story, events do seem to come across a little disjointed. It is still good, though.

[Kilrogg_Deadeye]

"events do seem to come across a little disjointed"

Then I am succeeding. The main purpose in my writing these days is to do what others wouldn't, although this approach has been tried before I'm sure.

As always, I appriciate comments on the story, it encourages me. I'm glad you kept your promise Inquisitor. I'm very busy in the moment, but I will find a slot of free time soon to write more.

[Inquisistor7]

"events do seem to come across a little disjointed"

Then I am succeeding. The main purpose in my writing these days is to do what others wouldn't, although this approach has been tried before I'm sure.

As always, I appriciate comments on the story, it encourages me. I'm glad you kept your promise Inquisitor. I'm very busy in the moment, but I will find a slot of free time soon to write more.

My word is my bond. I know what it's like to be busy, in fact, I would've posted sooner had I not been indisposed I guess you could say. Well, keep writing; of all the writers on this forum you might get the least feeedback, which is really a shame, since your talents are extraordinary.

[Tiddlywinks]

I love it so far.