To be forgotten

the Other Side of the Bridge

  • Fiction
  • "Where am I?" His voice comes out louder than he means it to, the sound unnatural in the otherwise silent – what was this place, anyway? 
  • "The Other Side," the clown answered simply. "The other side of what?" "The other side of the bridge." 
  • "And where's that, exactly?" "Out of the carnival."  

Master of the Arts

  • There's a boy. 
  • A boy? What kind of boy? 
  • Not the type you wonder about. He wears his heart on his sleeve and his thoughts in his mouth – they tumble out once his lips part, you see. He's a dreamer too, he'll think for hours on end. 
  • Then will I not wonder what he thinks? 
  • No. 
  • Why not? 
  • He'll tell you, the next minute his eyes will shoot back to earth and you'll know exactly what he was thinking about. Unless he forgets, of course, and trails off and tells you another thought that has struck him. 
  • He sounds perfectly annoying. 
  • Well, he's a writer, they're all like that. Not the polished, clever ones you see on the bookshelves, either. He'll be struck by some new philosophy and it'll have become an entire sonnet about something else by the time his pen reaches the paper. 
  • Is he handsome? 
  • He definitely hopes so! You should see the way he adorns himself, one would think he was a god in those old days, not a foolish boy. A flower in the pocket, a whole crown of them in his hair, those golden shoes... No one knows what to do about his vanity. 
  • Perhaps I have seen this lad around before. 
  • Oh, you won't have. He shuts himself up for days, no one knows when he's out. 
  • Is it some kind of big novel he's planning? 
  • No, I hear he gets lazy. That happens a lot to him too, he stays in for days with no outside contact and comes out acting like the sun's a new invention. 
  • Has he got many friends then?
  • Yes, a few. Hard to tell, though, he treats strangers and beloved friends with the same air, and all very randomly. He pass by you on the streets even though you're childhood friends, or write entire poems about your magnificence without once speaking to you or asking your name. 
  • Well, I'm charmed. Will I ever get to meet this strange boy? 
  • Oh, I'm not sure. They say he's gotten into some trouble of late. 
  • Really? What kind of trouble? 
  • They're all silly rumours, of course. But everyone's been saying it... 
  • Saying what? 
  • They say he's gone and made a deal with the devil. Can you imagine? 
  • That's ridiculous! I had no idea anyone believed in the devil in this day and age. Even with that logic aside, he doesn't seem the type. What could this lost soul possibly want from the devil? 
  • I don't believe it either, but that's all anyone's been talking about. Some drunkards at the bar, they say they saw him leaving town a few days past, all secretive-like. No one's seen him since, and word is he isn't home either. 
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by thethninnway


Public - 4/24/16, 10:35 AM