The Last Line

My second short story. Probably my best one so far.

“With every second, the night wind beats against the sand.

The dark waters tickle the shore…

The moon floats on the water, tranquil and calm

Surrounded by a pure, innocent halo…”

 

Ink flowed across the paper, the pen whizzed. Yeri looked around cautiously as he wrote.

The single bulb flickered.

 

“A man walks here now…

Age laughs in his eyes, dancing mockingly

A low cap pulled over his brown hair,

A smile swaying on his face…”

 

The clock beeped. 2 AM. An owl. A screech.  The hunt is on. Somewhere outside, an owl is enjoying a night outing.

 

“Bare feet touched the cool night ocean.

The tides whispered, the man answered.

With a thousand fires burning in his eyes and heart,

The man walks on into the horizon…”

 

Seconds crept by. Sleep weighed on Yeri’s eyes and pulled the eyelids down as his hand wrote the last line.

 

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“Poetry is man's rebellion against being what he is” �" James Branch Cabell.

 

The first sounds of morning eked in through the thin wooden door. Opening his eyes, Yeri stretched out a lazy arm and picked up his battered Rolex.

I’m late

The clock downstairs struck five.

 

***

 

Soft whispers of wind caressed his face as Yeri pedaled to the lake. Light was diffusing into the world as the sun peeked over the blue hills in the East.

Warmth too spread as the world awakened.

Passing by, Yeri felt the familiar thrill as he neared the lake.

I hope she’s there

Drawing up near the edge, he locked the bicycle and set off at a jog towards the old pier.

“You’re late,” a girl sitting on the pier called, dangling her feet in the cold waters.

Nodding in apology, Yeri sat down beside her and pulled out a worn leather notebook.

“New one?” the girl asked, looking at the notebook.

Nodding, Yeri opened the notebook and gave it to the girl.

“Do you think we’ll have time?” the girl asked, looking greedily at the opened notebook in her hands, as if reluctant to start reading.

Shaking his head, Yeri answered and stood.

“You’re going already?”

Yeri nodded.

He must not be late for School.

 

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“Poetry comes nearer to vital truth than history”- Ralph Waldo Emerson

 

The stifling sun beat down on the pavestones. The big yellow bus drew up in front of the bus stop and honked its impatient horn.

Yeri walked out the glass double doors with Kati by his side.

“Just ignore them,” she was saying as they walked to the car park.

No reply.

“They’re just…morons,” she said, shaking her head in disgust.

Replying with a noncommittal grunt, Yeri picked up his pace and stopped beside his faithful, grey bicycle.

 

“On a different note…the new one was really good…what’re you gonna call it?”

Shrugging, Yeri climbed onto the seat.

“Hang on! I’ve still got your�"“Kati started, reaching down into her bag.

Yeri pushed off, leaving Kati looking at him in frustration and sympathy.

“�"notebook…”

 

***

 

The hot wind was so unlike the morning breeze that Yeri sometimes wondered whether he was in two different countries.

Passing the Park where a rousing football was underway, Yeri cycled on.

She’ll never understand. She doesn’t have to go through it every single day.

The school day was still on Yeri’s mind as he drew further away from the world he hated.

Ten years of continuous bullying, pranks and tricks and Yeri still wasn’t used to it.

Dumbo, that’s what they called him. On its own, it was tolerable but the never-ending pranks and bullying made it worse.

But no, he, Yeri, would get through high school if it was the last thing he did.

I am just like everyone else.

 

***

 

 

“Where’s Yeri?” Kati’s mom asked as her daughter walked into the kitchen.

“He went home…he was tired...” Kati replied.

“Oh…It’s just that�"“

“I know he said he was coming here but no…”Kati said as she sank into the lone armchair in the corner.

Shrugging, Kati’s mom turned away…

 

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“Poetry is the language in which man explores his own amazement.”- Christopher Fry

 

“Where do we go from here?

There’s nothing here anymore…

Nothing to clean up…

The full moon doesn’t shine anymore

No tides wash the sand

Just a soup of darkness we all swim through

Every day

Saddened

Ignored

Forgotten

A temporal dead zone

All the clocks died yesterday…

I’ll have to stop…

Stop resisting

Resisting retreating

Retreating into circles

Circles of White

White light.”

 

Yeri’s pen flew across the notebook. One more... and his book would be finished. Finished. What a concept. As if all the ideas he had could somehow be blocked. Or stopped.

Intriguing.

 

Putting aside the pen, Yeri stood up and ambled out of the room, looking for breakfast.

 

***

 

It was almost 8.00 in the morning when Kati woke up on Saturday. Surprised at the early awakening, she looked around, trying to figure what had woken her up.

Nothing was out of place. And yet she felt a small prod in her mind, like she’d forgotten something really important.

 

Shrugging off the feeling, she ambled out of the room to the bathroom.

 

 

 

Soon, Kati was making her way down the stairs to the kitchen.

The TV was on and her mom was chopping up something with the eyes on the TV.

Typical

Kati walked to the fridge and opened it. Seeing a small bottle of orange juice, she grabbed and started gulping it down.

 

“What’re you watching mom?” Kati asked.

“Shhhh... Listen,” he mom replied, raising a hand to silence Kati.

Silence.

Mother and daughter both listened to newscast.

They kept on listening.

For twenty minutes, neither moved.

When the newscast ended, Kati had tears running down her eyes. With a sob and a large moan, she ran out of the house.

 

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“Poetry must have something in it that is barbaric, vast and wild” �" Denis Diderot

 

Yeri ran. Swallowing back the lump in his throat, he ran.

His feet pounded the sidewalk. It was 12.00 noon.

The sun burned overhead as Yeri ran, increasing the distance between his house and himself.

 

***

 

Kati was sobbing on her mom’s shoulder.

Silent tears slid down the mother’s cheeks.

Police cars and fire trucks emitted a ghoulish symphony.

It was horrible.

Yeri’s once cozy home was in ruins.

All that was left was the roof and the collapsed walls.

The smell of smoke and charred wood clogged up the air.

The flame licked walls were silent, as if desperate to show that they could still do their job, protecting the valuables inside.

 

It was a sad, lonely picture.

The ambulance had departed straight to the morgue.

No hospital was needed.

Kati sobbed even harder.

Yeri was still unaccounted for.

 

 

 

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“The elegancy, facility, and golden cadence of poesy”. �" William Shakespeare

 

 

 

A soft scratch.

The flame of the bulb flickers.

I sit at my desk…

Writing.

 

The ink leaves footprints on the paper.

My thoughts are given life

My hand moves on its own

Writing

 

The old wood lends me comfort

It consoles my aching soul

I rub the sleep from my eyes

Writing.

 

And now it is finished.

A piece like no other.

Strange, mad, wonderful

I’ve finished it…

The Last Line.

 

The notebook was open. Kati was reading Yeri’s last poem.

Three days after The Fire, Kati had gone inside the remains of Yeri’s house and rummaged for anything saved, by an incomprehensible miracle, from the fingers of fire.

She had worked her way in to the house and eventually found the Notebook.

 

He must have finished this that night.

Kati thought as she flipped through the notebook once again.

 

***

As the cold, dawn wind tickled his face, Yeri realized that this was the end.

There was no purpose in living anymore.

His new notebook had been lost too.

What was the point?

What else could he do if he couldn’t write?

 

Sun rise was only a few hours away.

Yeri surveyed the still surface of the lake. It would be cold. Too cold. Perfect.

Yeri closed his eyes and breathed his last gasp of air.

 

***