This is printed on very nice paper. The letters are detailed, elegant and pitch black with slightly blurred edges. You can feel the ink soaking gently in the fibres, right after it was punched by masterly cut metal heavily into the paper. You can imagine an old fellow with a magnifying glass studying the meandering symbiosis of shape and however you want to call what is not a shape. At first glance the letters look like handwriting, you wonder why, and then you realise that they are all different, even the letters you thought ought to be the same. An 'e' should be always an 'e'. But it never is. Letters never are the same, their nature is changed with every word. It is only natural that, here, they emphasise their unique meaning with a unique form.
It is weird that I cannot decide what I want. The core of my self ignores my wishes. The core of my self never changes its mind, how often I beg doesn't matter. The core of my self is pure and flawless and I wish it wasn't part of me; constantly it reveals the truth of my desires. To. My. Self. Shit. Fotzenherz. Most of all I hate it for loving you. Yes, I am still talking about the core of my self which I hate. It is ridiculous and makes to sense. It would be so much easier, if it would just change with my present needs. If I could just move on with my life. I would direct it to where I feel light and comfortable. Be happy. Instead my naked feet haunt dust and tiny rocks. My core is stuck in the past. The problem is that the past is nowhere to be found. It is gone, and does it ever come back? I don't think so. I play with a wooden stick. I rip off its leaves and throw the remains over the edge. One step further and I would be weightless. Airstreams would flow through my hair like magic pillows. And then. Nothing. I would go back to where I came from. I would like to go home actually, but over the years I got so used to being with you, that I feel like you took my home with me. My home is indivisibly linked with you. It is you. And that makes makes makes me angry. It is my home after all, and I have no power over it. I feel stupid and weak and there is nothing more to say. Seriously, that's it. This is the reason why this is a short story and no book. Some truths can be neatly arranged in just so many words. I'm not sure if these were enough though. What do you think? Do you recognise who I am now? Would you like to know more, should I tell you something about myself? I am as old as you are. I live where you once lived, and I am in pain like you are or will be or have been. We share this. My heart pumps pulsing blood through my fragile body until I feel my veins exploding, but they don't. I am alive. Fuck. After all I am not you. My core, my soul, my self, still thinks we are one. But apparently we are not. And I don't want to love you anymore. But do I have any saying that? No. I open my eyes and then I jump.
You don't need to worry about me, this was just happening in my head. I didn't really jump. In reality I didn't do it. I swear. I like living in general. I sit on one of the rocks, rest my hands on its cold surface and sigh. An older couple with walking sticks passes by, laughing, arguing and teasing themselves. And I think that I just hate living now.
Hello hello, this was my short story. I have no idea if this is more something for a diary I will never show to anyone, and just read it from time to time with shameful tears in my eyes. I guess my technique is terrible, and it is obvious I am not a native english speaker. But the words still mean something to me. I hope that it is not redundant for other peoples minds, but honestly - I have no idea. But I am curious.
The paragraph above was still part of the story, it's a character I created recently. His name is Hank, but he calls himself Finn to stay anonymous. He posts short personal stories online and hopes for positive response. What do you think?
- Is it disturbing that the story jumps around from being on a mountain and thoughts of Hank/Finn, or does it read fluently?
- Also, I introduce a "you". Is it understandable that Hank/Finn is talking to a lost love?
- Does the introduction of the author Hank/Finn ridicule the story, or does it help to identify with it?
- After reading this, do you feel interested in more Hank/Finn stories?