Novel Treatments / Yet to be titled (abridged)

“Tremendous dissatisfaction would soon replace my seldom compromised contentment, abase this merry-go-round of pleasure and misery upon which we endlessly turn…”

Crowds shuffling below the window’s view championed my patience as another sheet of paper, stained with my hopeless graffiti, found its way crushed and buried among the waste. Indeed I would have to explain my eventual departure and continued absence, however long I should have to endure the struggle to discover each delicate word. Perhaps a glass of ‘Californian Red’ would ease my mind and muffle the ceaseless chatter of the city-street’s pollution.

Aiding my escaping thoughts was the redundant ticking of an antiqued wall clock that was supposedly hand-crafted by an 18th Century English Settler. Antiques always inspired thoughts of forgotten or untold stories, lives that were lived, never to be mentioned of again.
Along the stilled and vacant bedside I sat, repressing every urge to indulge in brief, inebriated self-satisfaction, I concentrated on filling the lonely paper.
Waves of tormented words and countless hours of pondering only wrought: ‘I do apologize, but I must leave for some time, I will notify you of my return when I should learn of that possibility. Goodbye.’

‘2006’ sat atop ‘old glory’ accompanied by a scribbled address. “I’ll be long gone when their eyes first meet this letter.” I muttered as I dropped the envelope into the awaiting darkness.

“Where’re you headed , Young Sir?” asked an elderly man across the aisle, who seemed to sway with the bus’s motion.
“I don’t know yet.” I replied, smiling uncertainly, “I’ll find out when I get there I suppose.”
Returning to his out-dated newspaper he nodded as if completely aware of my situation.

31st Street soon became 2nd street and 2nd street soon became a long stretch of highway.
Ascending trees and ample fields of grass would greet us as the city’s skyline faded, then disappeared. Twisting my ear-lobe anxiously, I thought about the dingy bus terminal I had left behind and the angelic voice of the young lady who empathetically listened as I stuttered out excuses regarding my leave. Was it really her that I missed? Or was it home? Either way, I Hoped Boston found her well.

“October 3rd?” curiously I asked the old man as he ruffled the pages.
“Well…” Momentarily he paused as he searched for his words. “I started reading this old paper… a few weeks ago, upon the loss of my son… grief stricken, I read his obituary over and over. Finally, in an attempt to dry my eyes I started reading what ever else was written the day his obituary was published, it has since then, become sort of a madness.” Briefly his eyes fell to the floor in regret.

“That’s quite sad…”
“Names’ John” insisted the old man.
“John… So where you headed now John?”
Letting out an exhausted sigh, he confessed, “A Place who has long forgotten the tread of my footsteps.”
”’Home? Or an old love perhaps?”
“Something like that.” Drifting away, the opposing traffic and the unforgiving majesty of the infinite sky captivated his attention.
Detecting a deep melancholy I left him to his remorse, “I see.”

Our conversation had ended. Gazing intently out of his window, he finally grew drowsy. As did I. Descending his head, with his hands folded on his stomach, he seemed to pray before he fell into slumber.
Resting my head on the aged padding of the seat, my yawns were soon met with dreams. ‘I had little recollection of my dream, but I remembered something about a pack of wolves chasing an even older bus than I was actually on, and everyone trying to keep the bus driver awake so we could outrun them.’

Night stood aside as the brilliant morning shined luminously onto the breath-taking countrys hill side.
Such untouched beauty had never befell my weary eyes.
Barely awake myself, the rickety squealing of the brakes sharpened my senses.
Gathering his belongings, John prepared to tread once more into the tormented depths of memories past.
Nervously he stood and a bit frazzled he focused onto me.
“Well, this is me” he choked out. “Goodbye… Son.”
I nodded, somewhat confused, “Goodbye, John.”
An eerie sensation hovered in the crisp country air and an indescribable chill rushed through me as he softly bid farewell.
Son? I thought momentarily. Odd.

You need to log in to urbis or create an urbis account to review this writing.