Fiction, Story

The Rising Sun and a Storming Sea

Contact Sheet

The sun just peeked over the horizon and set it afire whole.
    At the table a young man sat with his arms reached out in front of him, and with the sun casting light all over them and his pale, pale face; as pale as that of a ghost risen in a dawn of summer when mist wanders the fields; as pale as the winter snow melting joint by the gravel and sand and salt of the dry-wet winter.

    The young man reached his hands toward the little flower of plastic lying there in a glass cup. He took the flower in his hands, held it like a torn and lump-like dead bird, and let the sun glaring in through the window cast its yellow-glowing light on it.

    The flower’s body was only of plastic; the yellow petals, the green root reaching up to its head: all of it. Carefully had it been assembled into what it was now, a small little flower made from atom upon atom of plastic without feelings or emotions, without the smell of spring and without the pollen trapping the air in lungs of so many souls.

    The young man sat the flower back into the plastic, cup-like vase he had taken it from. He looked out the window toward the sun and let it castaway all its beautiful light upon his face once more. He allowed it to shine down on him; lift him up in a state of ecstasy full of magical beauty in every imaginable color, in every breath; reaching from the forlorn deserts of Sahara, to the bright, glowing and lifeful forests of the Amazons.

    On the inside of his eyelids prickles of dust started glowing, perhaps spawned from the sands of the deserts, each with its own ever-lasting story. The glow started mildly yellow, reached toward orange. Then turned into a maze of red reaching out in streams like rivers.

    The young man fluttered his eyelids open with a clasping sound as his eyelashes slammed the upper and lower parts of his eyes. And in a mere second he had traveled back to this world, his world, back to the point in time where he now sat in the chair with a plastic, little flower in front of him on the table, and with the sun rising over the horizon after a dark and forlorn-cold night. He had travelled back or forward in time with the mere flicker of his eyelids and the slamming of his eyelashes as the call that awoke him.

    As he stood up the chair he rose from tilted backwards and fell to the floor with a load roar of metal pipes to concrete. But he left it be and walked into the house with his tears falling behind him, stretching their body from the edge of his eyes to the floor with every step he took.

    He reached the kitchen were the dishes stood piled up with flies drowning in the salts and the water and the mushroom-like soups. Some flies had already met their fate and merely floated in the water, lifeless on their back and with their wings shut like a cold eyelid or a cold heart against their body.
He walked past it all but then decidedly turned around in a whirl that made the curtains covering the warmed up windows flutter like the torn cloth of a flag on a bare and forlorn battle field.
    He ran up to the plates and the soup bowls and the glasses that reflected the little light that managed to break through the curtains.

    He rose his hand to the sky clenched in a fist like the fist of a god, of Thor striking down, and struck at the glasses, at the soup bowls, at the plates. All, that had just a second ago rested in the fragile light of the burning, perhaps crying of warmth, soul called the sun.
    The glasses and the plates and the soup bowls all fell to the floor, shattered their hearts and broke out in weeping dry puddles of pulverized glass, shattered glass, shattered porcelain.

    The young man waved his hands back and forth over the sink and felt his hands turn warm, red, while he rushed through each motion to strike it all down, down in a desperation.

    Then he stopped.

    Seized.

    And felt the bloods flow and dribble down his fingers like tears from his crying body.

    He looked down the sink, the now lonely sink, and in there, alone stood a small cup. Pale as the winter it was, white as the snow. He reached for it but seized the movement of his hand at the feel of tears in both his eyes and body, one transparent and the other red hot.

    Quickly he flicked his hand away, put aside the striking pain, and just barely dodged the blood drop, the red-hot tear that fell down beside the cup, a centimeter from its pale-white border and then spread out with the mushroom-like water that seemed to hiss at the young man when he now slowly took his hand away from the sink as if the hissing was that from a snake ready to take grip with its lethal fangs.
    The young man turned his face away from the cup and the hissing. Tears ran down both from his hands and his eyes; soullessly transparent. Then, he finally felt the pain rush through his hands and reach his mind. A mind that then too cried out with a sting, a hiss; a sting as high-pitched as the static yells in his ears. And the young man walked off into the rising sun, rising over a storming sea.

Viktor Aronsson

Read more posts by me.

Stockholm, Sweden

Follow for more stories...

...essays, photographs and much more directly in your inbox.

comments powered by Disqus