June 20, 2008

• [Short Story] Imperfect

  So a part of me wants to write stories for a living.  Only there’s one big problem with that life’s plan. I’ve only ever had four story ideas in my entire life. I mean real meaningful story ideas that I think would be worth writing. Not crap random stuff that floats into my head every once in a while. Four stories that I think I’d care about. Four stories that I think need to be written. And so since I don’t get a lot of practice, I’m not very good at it either.

  Each of them sort of came into my head pretty much full formed and I’ve just been trying to find the will to write them and the skill to do them justice.  So far I’d only written one. That one I wrote the very day it popped into my head and I shared it with only two people. 

  They each reflect a lot of myself. But they are also intersections of
  my consciousness with my understanding of some of the people I know. So
  it makes it uncomfortable for me to share it.  But whatever. This one I think I can share.

  Here’s the second story.

  *********************************************************
  Imperfect
  
  He was old. To look at him that was the only thought
  that would pop in your mind. Old. So very old. Every movement seemed to
  groan with the reflection of a lifetime of motion. To look in his eyes
  was to see a eternity of aging.
  
  The child
  saw him there, sitting on a log in the alley whittling away, whittling
  away with practiced precision. What was he carving, she wondered? He
  was there every day and every night. Whittling away forever.
  
  One
  day the child found the courage to approach him. She walked into the
  alley boldly as can be, false bravado hiding her nervousness.
  
  “Hey mister whatcha doing?”
  
  A grunt. And still whittling, whittling.
  
  The
  child looked around the alley and her eyes soon found a small carved
  wooden figurine. It was beautifully done. Carefully constructed. An
  image of a glorious bird about to take flight. Majestic and brave. Head
  held high. Eyes shining.
  
  An exclamation of
  pure glee from the mouth of a child caused the carver to look up from
  his work. He saw her rushing forward and grasping the little figurine
  turning it over in her tiny hands. Looking at it at every angle like it
  was a treasure made just for her.
  
  He grunted and carved and remembered.
  
  ————-
  
  “The
  king’s shipment has to be delivered by nightfall. That means we’ve got
  unload those crates in record time. We have to be perfect today boys!
  No mistakes”
  
  Fourteen and gawky with his
  head in the clouds. He remembered doing his best. Straining on the
  ropes, using all his strength as the rain poured down all over him and
  wishing more than anything to be some place, any place else.
  
  But
  he doesn’t remember how or why the ropes slipped. Was there a
  distraction? Did he just forget to hold on. Did the water slick his
  hands too much? He’d worn gloves just like everybody else. And nobody
  else dropped there’s. Nobody else.
  
  The
  tumbling barrels rolling and bounding about he remembers. He remembers
  seeing the two boys leaping into the frigid bay waters to avoid being
  crushed. He remembers his father and his elder brother
  jumping fearlessly into the water to rescue them.
  
  And he remembers standing there, staring at his hands too shocked to move. Helpless and failing.
  
  No one was hurt. No one had yelled at him. No one had beaten him. They’d all studiously ignored him.
  
  And then later that conversation he overheard between his mother and his father.
  
  “We were lucky. The King didn’t void our contract and nobody was hurt. But that boy, I swear, he just doesn’t know how to apply himself to anything.”
  
  “Oh don’t be ridiculous.”
  
  “I
  don’t know, Molly. It’s not just this. I don’t expect him to follow in
  my footsteps. But how will he make anything of himself the way he is?
  He spends all his time in his room doodling away on those drawings. He
  doesn’t know how to focus to hunker down and get to work. What’s going
  to happen to him as he gets older?”
  
  “You just leave that boy be Bill. He’ll be fine.”
  
  And that long despairing sigh had followed him right up to his room where he’d cried himself to sleep.
  
  ——————–
  
  “Did
  you make this?” The child exclaimed. She stood right before him now
  hands coupling the little figurine eyes shining with delight.
  
  “It’s beautiful!!”
  
  Those eyes were painful to look at. He was too old now. The light hurt his eyes.
  
  He
  gestured with his head though toward the direction of the corner of the
  alley.  Her eyes followed the course of the gesture and alighted upon
  stacks upon stacks of carved birds each majestic and exquisite. Each
  an image of a bird in flight or about to take off. Each beautiful in
  its own way.
  
  The child rushed over laughing in glee picking through them examining each in kind, eyes alight with wonder.
  
  “They’re amazing! Can I have one? Pleeeaassee.”
  
  He
  nodded absentmindedly and tried to ignore the nuisance fluttering
  about in the corner of his work space. He continued to carve. But his
  memories were harder to ignore.
  
  ————————
  
  He
  had presented his masterpiece. A carving he had spent almost a full
  year on. It was a stylized representation of of the dragon that appears
  on the King’s crest with an image of the King and Queen riding on its
  back in full majestic glory.
  
  His friends
  had all told him it was beautiful. They had said surely this time it
  would be enough. Finally, he’d graduate from the academy and be
  accepted into the King’s court as was of the royal artisans.
  
  The
  sharp eyed man had examined it slowly. His face expressionless. Going
  over every line and curve with precise and measured examination.
  
  Finally he spoke.
  
  “It is far superior to your previous works. Adequate.”
  
  A long pause. Hopes raised. Maybe it would be true! Maybe he hadn’t done it all for nothing! But there was more.
  
  “But
  here at the royal academy we require more than adequacy. We strive for
  perfection.  Your work would do well at any small town artist studio.
  But it is not a thing suited for the eyes of royalty.”
  
  “What?”
  
  He didn’t hear the words. Not those words. Impossible.
  
  “You’ve been here three years no?”
  
  His fists clenched. His teeth grinding. He nodded.
  
  “In
  good conscience I cannot allow you to continue your studies here.
  You’re skilled. But I do not believe that you have the talent to
  succeed here. You’re much better off seeking your fortune elsewhere.”
  
  “Elsewhere…”
  
  “I’m sorry Girard. This is for the best.”
  
  “Best…”
  
  He didn’t say anything more. He couldn’t bear to hear any more. So he just turned and walked away. Dreams shattered.
  
  “Hey!” The sharp eyed man shouted after him, “You’re forgetting your work.”
  
  “elsewhere… perfect… best…”
  
  He muttered and walked and didn’t turn back.
  
  ——————————-
  
  “Hey Mister.”
  
  The child’s tiny hand shook him out of his reverie. Old eyes stared into the young.
  
  “Are you ok?”  
  
  The
  man spotted the little bird in the girl’s hand clenched too tightly. He
  snatched it out of her hand. Examined it with a practiced eye. Looking
  over it for damages and also for mistakes. For imperfections…
  
  “You have to be careful with these.”
  
  He spoke to her for the first time. 
  
  “Hold them like this.” 
  
  He showed her where the supports were. Where it was meant to be held.
  
  The smile she gave him was blindingly sweet. 
  
  “Thanks! I still haven’t found the one I want. Can I keep looking?”
  
  “Do whatever you want.” 
  
  She rushed back over to the pile of the figures going through them again but more carefully this time.
  
  The
  man’s eyes turned back to the crafted figure he taken from her. This
  one was a sparrow. Why’d it have to be a sparrow?  Just like the one he
  had tried to give her all those years ago.
  
  ———————————–
  
  It
  didn’t matter. He’d decided back then. He didn’t need fame or glory. He
  was content with his little shop making his living as best he could. He
  loved his art. He had friends here. And there wasn’t so much pressure.
  
  And she was there. 

  But she was leaving.
  
  He’d
  decided that he needed to do this thing for her. To give her this one
  gift so that she would know what she meant to him. If he could do that,
  it’d be enough for him. He’d make it perfect. For once in his life he’d
  be perfect. For her.
  
  For months he’d cut
  out everything in his life. He nearly bankrupted himself in acquiring the highest quality woods, the best paints, the most effective tools. Every ounce of his free time had gone into
  it. Carefully. Carefully. Painstakingly etched. So many details. He
  would miss none of them. This would be a thing of beauty worthy of her.
  
  He’d
  delivered it to her door with a note. Then that evening she’d come to
  him as he’d known she would. They’d met outside of his studio in the
  field near his garden.
  
  She’d been holding
  it. The little sparrow statue.  She held it carefully afraid to do it
  damage. He’d smiled at that.  She’d always been the only one who had
  understood what his art meant to him. Or so he’d thought.
  
  “Girard.”
  
  He loved hearing her say his name. His heart was beating so fast.
  
  She held up his treasure for her.
  
  “This is… I can’t accept this.”
  
  She was serious but he laughed at her lightly.
  
  “What are you talking about, Lori? I made it for you! Of course you can accept it.”
  
  “No. I really can’t. It’s too much. And you know I’m leaving.”
  
  “I know. That’s why I want you to have it. To remember me by.”
  
  There was a long silence while they each tried to find words to say to each other.
  
  And then the dark thought like poison had entered his head.
  
  “Or is… is… there something wrong with it? Do you not like it?”
  
  “No! No!” She’d been so quick to deny.  “It’s nice. It’s just that–”
  
  “It’s nice…?!?!”
  
  He
  snatched the figurine out of her hands.

  “You’re holding it wrong” he muttered.
   
  And then he started turning it over and
  over in his hands looking for blemishes. Looking for mistakes. Where
  had he gone wrong?
  
  “Yes. It’s very nice Girard. And I’m grateful. Try to understand. It’s just that… I’m with Joren now… and you know he’d never understand…”
  
  “Only NICE… ?”
  
  She was speaking but he wasn’t hearing her.  She’d put her hand on his arm in a comforting gesture.  It was just too much.
  
  “nice… just nice…”
  
  It
  only took a split second.  He’d taken the carved statue, raised it
  above his head and thrown it down at the ground violently. It
  shattered. And it revealed the circular treasure he’d carefully hidden
  in its hollow interior.
  
  She’d been shocked.
  She took two steps back in quick succession. Backing away from him.
  He’d looked in her eyes one last time glaring at her. And her eyes held
  more than shock. Fear danced in the edges. How could she think he’d ever hurt her?  But it was the pity in her eyes that ruled the day. It was the pity that made him turn away.
  
  “Girard”  she reached out a hand toward him. He didn’t turn back.
  
  “I understand. I know why you can’t accept it.” He’d said. Those were the last words he ever spoke to her.  He’d walked away.
  
  “Girard!” she’d shouted after him. And then quieter. “I’m sorry.” He heard the words but they didn’t register. He kept walking. She hadn’t followed.
  
  When
  he was far too far away for her to hear him he’d finished his thought.
  Whispered the words fiercely at himself with all the venom spewing from
  his broken heart.
  
  “I know why. It’s because it was imperfect.… Just like me…”
  
  ————————–
  
  The girl was still there. Still there. Suddenly the sight of her going through his treasures enraged him. She had no right.
  
  He
  stood slowly on shaky legs not used to carrying his weight. He walked
  over to the pile with fierce determination and started kicking at the
  statues. Smashing and stomping them.
  
  The child shrieked in shock and jumped out of the way in a hurry. 
  
  He
  ignored her.  With a strength of will and purpose he had not been able
  to muster in years he set about dismantling these works of a lifetime. 
  He stomped and smashed. He kicked and thew them. He was on a rampage. 
  He grabbed hand fulls of them and tossed them against the wall. He took
  some of them one at a time and crushed them in his fists. He watched
  their tiny bodies fall apart leaving bits of wings and heads lying
  about. He felt the wood chips digging into his hands making them bleed.
  It felt good. They broke so easily. They were all made hollow you see.
  
  All
  along he was muttering to himself over and over again too quietly for
  the child to hear. Muttering one word over and over again like a
  ritual. “Imperfect” he muttered.  “imperfect. imperfect. imperfect…”
  
  Finally
  his strength left him. He was old and not even adrenaline could keep
  him going. There were still plenty he hadn’t managed to break. He just
  didn’t have the energy. He turned wearily toward his stump.
  
  And
  saw that she was still there. The child. Her eyes were wide like saucer
  pans. She’d backed off. But she hadn’t run away. Why hadn’t she run
  away? From this maniac? From this monster? Why? Lori had been like that
  two. She’d stepped back. But she hadn’t run away…
  
  Girard
  collapsed down into his stump and buried his head in his hands and
  finally let the tears come. He wept and wept unreservedly.
  
  Somewhere
  in the back of his mind he was aware that the little girl was creeping
  forward to dig through the stack of carvings again. Looking for
  survivors. He hoped she would just hurry up and grab one and leave him
  to his miserable memories in peace.
  
  He
  thought about how his life had changed after that day. He’d sold his
  shop. Stopped doing his art altogether. Moved to another even smaller
  town and become a carpenter. He’d been relatively successful at it too.
  Fixing tables and making chairs. Not art. But customers would exclaim
  at the little artistic touches he’d put in some of his creations. It made
  him slow to complete his work, but the town didn’t have anyone else so
  they appreciated what little he did for them.
  
  He’d even made
  friends. Well acquaintances really. He never let anyone get close again.  He
  still heard from his family too up until the day they each passed
  away.  And Lori too. She sent letters for years after. And somehow they
  found him even though he moved. But she never visited. And he’d burned
  her letters unread.
  
  Eventually everyone
  he’d known and cared about was dead and gone. He’d somehow outlived
  them all. He looked out and saw only a bunch of strangers. Aliens where
  his life had once been.
  
  And so one day
  he’d just gotten up and left. Walked off. Left his practice behind.
  Ignored everything and everyone and just walked and traveled until he’d
  come upon this place with this log and he’d sat down his feet too weary
  to take him elsewhere. And so there he’d stayed and carved his
  figurines over and over again.
  
  Not much to show for a lifetime. A collection of broken hollow birds.
  
  He’d
  thought his tears were long since all spent but he found he had wells
  of them he’d never imagined. They kept falling and falling.
  
  Finally his reverie was broken by a light tap on his shoulder. He tried to ignore it at first.
  
  “I want this one.”
  
  Involuntarily he looked up. And there she was. The child
  standing right before him so close he could hug her.  And she was
  holding her tiny hands cupped up in front of his face.
  
  And then he saw it. Impossible.
  
  The
  bird she’d found was not like the others. He’d carved it when he was
  drunk on St. Valentine’s and filled with self pity. He’d done it in one
  day. Not painstakingly like the rest. Carelessly, unhesitatingly pouring his heart into it.   It was a poor thing. A crippled bird with
  broken wing and misshapen foot. One eyed and curled into a little ball,
  it’s head tucked under its wing as if trying to hide its face from the
  world.
  
  Those other glorious beautiful birds. They had all been meant to be her. To reflect her spirit. But not this one. No not this one.
  
  His voice broke.
  
  “Why? Why that one?”
  
  She
  looked up. Her innocent eyes delving deeply into his. How could one so
  young see so much?  She tilted to her head to one side and smiled
  beautifully and spoke with the kind of perfect sincerity only a child
  could muster.  She said:
  
  “It’s perfect.”

  • 1:09 pm
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