This one was fun. I've been to Tblissi but never made it to Armenia. Long story, but my time in Georgia ended too soon. Went to Istanbul afterwards. That whole are fascinates me. I only know about Armenia second hand. I'd love to go there.
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A Thousand Windows
by @f3nix
From the Little Ararat’s peak, Vartan "tiger's eye" observed his hometown, Yerevan. In the ample pocket of his tunic, well sheltered from the harsh wind, his squat fingers played with two graceful jade discs, while his steed, foaming with fatigue, seemed suddenly reinvigorated at the sight of home after months of traveling. If it had not been an animal, it would seem that he was moved. In Vartan's eyes, the only veil was that of travel fatigue.
Armenian merchant of precious stones, merchant son of merchants, he did not care how dangerous the journey was, nor how many moons had rotated above the long caravan: his mind was a precision balance that incessantly weighed and estimated without respite Indian emeralds, Burmese rubies, Pakistani aquamarines. This was Vartan's life since the cradle: he made a profit, and he did it surprisingly well.
A brisk early March night, something unexpected happened to him: he had a dream. Being an unusual experience for him, he awoke to throw in a far corner of the room the brocaded bedspread, upset and wet with sweat despite dawn’s breeze. In his family no one used to dream, there was no space for these frivolities. If he reflected well, maybe a couple of times he had dreamed of carving a gem or making a good deal, but he never came across those surreal dreams like a sand mirage in the ocean. After that episode, dreams began to visit him more and more frequently, as the unstoppable progression of pot-bellied drops in an August downpour. Frankly, it was a very unfortunate situation for Vartan, who was soon forced to invent every kind of wild night escapade to justify the increasingly evident dark circles under his eyes.
Then one day, while he was dreaming, the unthinkable happened: he suddenly perceived that he was in the dream. That first experience of dreamlike lucidity did not last long, nothing but an imperceptible beating of wings of awareness before the rules of the dream came back to swallow him and to dictate the story, relegating him to a mere spectator. Night after night, he began to acknowledge the laws that governed that world and how to bend them to his creative power. Thin and rarefied realms could become dense with colors, shapes, and perfumes. The Escheresque geometries of dancing fractals disobeyed space and time. Gradually, Vartan learned to attribute a new meaning and content to the term comprehension. For every new dream he was immersed in, the breath of those universes and his soul were united in one single essence longer and longer. In those dreams, Vartan traveled in the folds of reality, learned the language of angels and played dodges with them in the heart of perennial storms of unknown planets.
Soon, what was happening in Vartan's soul could not remain hidden to the eyes of the family, his friends, and the entire city of Yerevan.
My Ending
Vartan descended on the town of Yerevan, holding the reins of his steed and greeting the townspeople, drunk by this time of night. The Armenians, always enjoying their wine, but it never brought about a festive atmosphere. His people were somber, drunk or not. The wine only made them more dreary, more impossibly dour. It was said that the only thing that could crack a smile on a drunk Armenian was a joke about a Georgian. The only thing that could start a fight between drunk Armenians would be calling them an Azerbaijani. And if you wanted a knife in the back, call them a Turk.
As he walked over the cobblestone streets, a mist descended from the hills. It swam through the city, meticulously filling every walkway and alley, swallowing up the Yerevanis. Vartan reached his family's manse, and before entering the gate, attempted to see through the mist. The figures beneath danced and swirled. He gripped his jade discs. They remained, smooth, unblemished.
"So, he's returned," Vartan's father said beneath his stern, salt and pepper beard. "The caravaneer. Master of gems. It's nice to have you home for once."
Vartan sipped his wine. His brothers and sisters sat around him in the parlor.
"Did you befriend any muslims on your travels East?" his younger brother asked, the freshly shaven chin glinting in the candlelight.
"Tell us all about your journey, brother," his younger sister said. She knelt at his feet and squeezed his hand.
Vartan glanced around the parlor, envisaging himself as a child. The memories gripped him. His sister squeezed again. He sunk into the chair.
"Be comfortable, my son. Stay awhile."
The flames of the candles flared. The room twisted. He stared down at his sister in time to see the flesh of her face begin to slide off as if sliced with a saber. She began to mumble about a loan, about the despair of her dead suitors.
His brother stepped forward from his chair, bones clinking as the flesh sagged off in heaps like rotten clothes. “I need a loan for the business, brother. I’m investing in a new ship in Batumi. We can use it together to sell your jewels off in Turkish and Ukrainian ports.”
Vartan reached for the jade discs.
“My son, stay,” the talking skull said. “Stay like you never have. Like you never did. Stay, now, as a man, for your lonely father. Do what you never could, being busy in your dreams. Always off in another world, hoping to ascend those mountains of fortune. Stay here, once, with your dying father, drinking himself into oblivion over the memories of your dead mother.”
A door opened behind him. That distant voice, loss reflecting on a thousand windows.
Vartan gripped the jade discs.
He woke, sweating beneath the silken sheets in a resplendent room of his manse. He called for his house servant to ready hot tea. Vartan set to work on his will.
I remember my dreams very often but usually I try not to put too much importance on them as they are not very nice all the time. I try to forget them as soon as possible. I like the turn they you took with your story. You kept them calm and businessman- like. He just woke up and set to work on his will :)
I'm not such a fan of the scary dream that you gave him I must say :) It's of course very well written but not the best dream you could have wished for :)
Thank you for sharing your story and good luck with the contest!
Have a great weekend!
Thanks for the kind words and for reading.
That bit at the end of the first paragraph ("...the only way...") is hilarious.
I like the fact that you didn't pop the dream state on us. You created it. You slowly blended the real with the unreal so that we understood what was happening. And then, he wakes instructed by his dream. He is visited by specters which are instruments of his conscience. And so he makes a will to set his mind at ease.
Many times in my life I've awakened with equal resolve.
Same here. So it seemed a natural way to take the story. Thanks for reading.
I must say that, at the beginning, I was a bit annoyed by your ending because it seemed to indulge in ethnic stereotypes (no doubt with a fund of truth, but still stereotypes), then the story captured me and I wondered where that false passive-aggressive courtesy from relatives led. In the end I got chills, because this dream seemed very similar to many I dream, halfway between warnings of my subconscious and guilt removed for something I did or did not do. Bravo, as always!
im vehemently against racism and all forms of oppression. I based that comment off jokes I've heard from an Armenian friend and a Georgian friend. Sometimes writing a shitty character requires us to say shitty things. we shouldn't assume showing horror is the same thing as promoting its content.
I've been on some train of obscenities recently, excuse not on that one. Regardless, I like how the dreaming-world clashes with his (Vartan's) reality and forms a temporary reality to send him a warning. What that exact warning is, well we'll never get to see his Will to understand his big rush to make a Will. Withal, the usage of family members (in this petite-bourgeois mannerism) compliments well the beginning while still following the dreaming-world and how it eventually mastered Vartan as Vartan mastered it. To the point where he can't see his father but a skull pleading with him while mocking him on the things he knew but choose not to believe in.
Also, the repetition of gripping the jade discs, that ain't flying under my radar! Albeit Jade is more of that mystical element that has way too many cultural bells-and-whistles, it does find itself as one of those "luxurious" stones here that the author clings unto harder than his life and treats more valuable than the Global North's love for Diamonds. Regardless, in spite of being in a petite-bourgeois family, the calls for familial unity is genuine despite being ripped apart and slowly reformed into a mere economical bourgeois expressions. As seen with the "loans" with his brothers and sisters and, to paraphrase, "enjoying one's wealth that one would drink it away" as hinted at by the father (note the mother's dead, I won't comment further). They all want affection and recognition from a renown merchant, their means to it is very much influenced by the universal commodity, money, and they know better to ask in person than in letter.
Green jade is one of my most loved minerals.
I have always admired your works because I think you must be one of the best writers here on Steemit, and I think I'm not even exaggerating. The awesome final you have written for this story just show me how talented you are as a writer. I've always liked your spontaneous way of telling story, and not to mention such excellent descriptions that just flew me to places I'd never been. Terrifying job man!
wow those are kind words. Thanks for your time and for reading!
You're right. He is. And we're honored to enjoy his writing in the Bananafish realms.
Good direction that you took this story. He apparently was a wealthy man since he woke in his mansion and had servants to wait on him. In his dreams both brother and sister asked for loans, but his father just wants him to stay home. And waking from this dream these thoughts of death and his wealth made him want to work on his will.
Hey, @dirge!
Thank you for your contribution to the crowd. We are the Steemit project dedicated to empowering The Wisdom of Crowds. You can find more about us on our official website or whitepaper and you can support us by voting for our witness and joining our curation trail on Steemauto . We are also inviting you to join Crowdmind Discord server. Don't forget to use the #crowdmind hashtag and happy crowdsourcing!
Hi. Cool project. Thanks for the support.
This is a cool project I'm following, @dirge.
I really wish you would write for me again I miss you ...
Aww. Maybe I will.
I also want to say, as a friend of two dogs myself, that I hope you've been finding a way to get through the grief of your recent loss. <3
Thank you <3
This is one rare case where the awakening-from-a-dream expedient is legit. I loved your cultural digression about the Armenians in the beginning. It reminded me of that time when in a gem market I called Indian a Pakistani. Congrats for your curie vote and for an enjoyable tale of "awakening".
Creepy and meaningful just like a dream. You brought the story to life and delivered an ending. Fantastic!
I agree with the other commentators: you are an excellent storyteller.
No embarrassing mood comes up, nothing that is perceived in one' s mind as awkward or inconsistent. Quite as if it had been written with a light pen.
The dream drew me back to my own dreams, in which something urged me and tried to remind me of something by recurring disturbing hints from other people.
The money issue and what the siblings want here in this dream and then the unresisting way in which your main character gets to work is a beautiful and clear message to all those who like to see their dreams as helpful indicators for their lives without long to analyze.
A very intuitive way to deal with it.
I thank you for this form of message, which could easily be appropriated by more people when it comes to dreams. Not to make too much wind about it and at the same time to pay attention to it.
It's always a pleasure to read a story where even the background details are given a unique flavor. You weren't describing any old cookie cutter group of people living in any area to be pasted into any story. These townspeople belong to this story and to convey so much character with a few sentences tells of your talent with writing.
You lured me, unsuspecting of what was to come. As the sweet memories of his loved family gave way to a nightmare. Giving us a taste of the other side of chasing dreams, worry, people left behind, and regret.
This was a fantastic story, Dirge and well deserving of a vote from the Curie community. Congratulations!
--Bris
Very nice! You start brushing the atmosphere and setting, and then you you mix the patterns of past family and business matters into a startling premonition.
thanks for reading
Hoist the Bananafish colors! Our 40th Edition is ready and waiting for you, brave storyteller.