Of triumphant isolation- A short story

Original story by: Mark .A. Pritchard
Composed and published: 26th February 2015


He sits upon the floor, a cushion, a blanket, fidgets around trying to make himself comfortable whilst the candle flickers, casting a shadow of interest upon his dull, now magical bedroom wall.

There is no plan, there never is a plan, for plans go wrong, and what’s the point in planning something that will only go wrong?

A book, a pad, writing down the important sentences that he quotes over and over again in his head.

‘You don’t like me, but I don’t like you either.’ 

Yes, that was a good one. She really managed to say something there.

Caught the essence, like a wasp in a jam jar.

Library just a hop, scrape and crawl down the road, past the shop, past the pub, past the old theatre.

Row after row of Heaven in dust.

It could be Hell.

Though the taste is of purgatory’s never ending circle.

Feminism, Marxism, Post-modernism.

Read, repeat, pass.

Read, repeat, pass.

Pat on the head for jumping through hoops.

The lonely, creaky old books hover over regimented lanes of blank faced students, headphones on, ignoring those around them, talking to a bucktoothed girl in Luxembourg, or however that old Smith’s song lyric went.

Typing, how do you do that frowny face again?

Back to the shadows that flicker.

Now that quiet, incessant rumble of traffic, crack, a snowball through the window, plops softly on the bed, rock laden, heavy to break, to cause damage as they run away laughing into the night.

Colder now, traffic louder, candle almost out, dawn breaking, business outside, sleep overcoming.

He waits for office hours, calls for repair, hangs up, settles down, book read, candle out, don’t forget a library visit at teatime, a book, a book, a book.



The snowy library picture used at the head of this poem/story/thing can be found here: http://moonlightrose44.deviantart.com/art/Winter-Library-193895942


*Quote is from a Jean Rhys book. Which one? I forget.