Short Stories

A deafening silence rang in the air. Dripping with sweat, Jinka glanced towards the ground, refusing to look at the bodies of the airplane passengers around him.

“Stop, stop!” yelled Rakesh, not far from him.

“Congrats, your theory turned out to be false. The Bermuda Triangle sucked us in.”

Standing before a forest, two fools who attempted to validate a conspiracy. Now, they had to venture further into it.

“Oh, screw you!” responded the man, following him.

As Jinka raised his head, the sky disappeared, leaving the sea standing above them and revealing a mysterious realm reflecting through his eyes.

In the darkness of the room, I stared at the half-ruined photo attached to the fridge of memories. Not a day passed without me thinking of Clara and her smile– I could almost feel her presence. Even the smoke from the dozens of cigarette butts grew tired of keeping me company, and found home in my old, dry hair.

As a good scientist I spent my free days developing new machines whenever melancholy struck, which was often. When I lacked creativity, my girlfriend would cheer me up from the fridge’s door.

“Close your eyes Nick, imagine them move,” she’d say.

That night, I felt particularly hopeful as I sensed my fingertips acting on their own.

“Babe, babe!”

I opened my eyes.

A new Clara stood before me, made of circuits, straws for hair and glass marbles for pupils. An intense heat spread inside me, and the love I thought I had left behind returned in a flick. My chest pounded so hard that the sound of my heartbeats resonated in my ears, and a wave of endless joy shrouded me as I envisioned the life awaiting us.

Something struck my feet, and my heart stopped— a bottle of red wine, so shiny it reflected about twenty others on the floor.

“I can’t believe I’ve fallen this low,” I thought.

My night of revelry was over, and numb, I looked up once again. The non-breathing wife was staring at me.

Crap– there stood love.

As he stood in front of the empty canvas, its rigid and thick edges stared back at him. While wishing for a life free of guilt, constraints, and demands, anxiety swirled around. The room, once vibrant, felt like a place of fear and unfamiliar loneliness.

“Oh Camille, my muse, where is the joy I felt at the thought of you? Where are my colors?” Bitter was his pain, a sharp blade on his heart. The unfortunate medley of tuberculosis and unidentified cancer was unable to save his wife, resulting in his current suffering.

The vulnerable artist, tormented by his spouse’s death and financial hardship, found his canvases incomprehensible. His final artwork depicted her figure suspended in time, enveloped in hues of blue, fragile yet pure.

As he brooded, the midday sun penetrated the small window of his house in Vétheuil. That brief but intense warmth convinced him to go out and walk among the flowers his lady always took care of.

While wandering in the garden of memories, he noticed the penny-farthing bicycle he had bought for his firstborn. He suddenly felt motivated to repair the vehicle and give it a fresh start.

By maneuvering the pedals, crank, and seat, he quickly achieved his task, but knew he could do better and decided to repaint everything. Unbeknownst to him, his inspiration was slowly returning, gazing at the sky, he smiled. Feeling a sense of novelty, the clouds in his heart dissipated.

Claude Monet found his colors once again.