Introduction
Inspiration might hide around any corner. The great art writer Julia Cameron said in a YouTube video I watched long ago that a poem is like a wind gust that can come out of seemingly nowhere whilst you stand unprepared in the middle of a field with nothing with you to write it down. It can dissipate into the void as quickly as you received it. This places the poet in a strange position: the poet (or writer) is nothing more than a messenger; the poem or story is floating in the air ready to strike whoever it meets on its pathway.
Hence, the importance of always already being ready to write down what comes from the void before it disappears back into it.
Whilst doing a photo shoot with @urban.scout, I saw all these small pieces of vine tendrils curling around the wire that keeps the vineyards upright. Most of the older ones dried out in the sun and broke off from previous harvests. I am not going to spoil the story that follows, please read onward. But the fact remains: the mundane inspired me to write this story today. I hope you enjoy it.
Holding On For Dear Life
The old man stretched his hand into the air, almost as if he was calling out for help.
Those around him could not fathom what the old man was doing. A cursory glance sufficed to indicate that they should steer clear. Nothing good can come from being so close to madness, a young boy thought as he saw the old man grasping at nothing in particular. However, some curiosity kept him staring, far enough away but close enough still.
For five minutes the old man stood there without moving. The boy saw that the fingers of the old man slowly tightened around something, but there was nothing to hold onto. The old man's face was calm, and his eyes closed. The young boy did not understand why this old man would stand in the middle of everyone holding onto nothing.
Just before the young boy wanted to leave, to leave this old madman alone, the old madman's eyes opened. It looked straight into the eyes of the young boy. Something pulled him closer. Another five minutes of nothing ticked by, except the constant feeling that something wrapped around him. Was the old man gripping onto him?
Fingers of some sort tightened around his arm. The young boy looked down and saw nothing except the clear indentation marks forming. It kept moving up his arm. He felt the slow creeping. There was no pain except for the strange sensation of pressure. Something gripped around his arm, but how could it be the old man?
The young boy looked at the old madman, trying to find confirmation in his eyes that just looked at him, but his eyes were closed again. There was no confirmation but a strange smile on the old madman's face.
It was him, the boy thought. He opened his mouth to yell, to give the secret away, and to scream for help, but nothing escaped his mouth.
The pressure was now around his neck.
Fear also gripped the young boy as he stood close to the old madman. Madness infected him, the young boy thought. The old madman's smile grew ever bigger, the young boy engulfed in fear and by now pain. Something was wrapping its fingers around him, inside of him.
Everyone walked passed them, the two static figures.
No one noticed the tendrils protruding through the nose of the young boy's nose.
The old madman was holding on for dear life.
Postscriptum, or The End
Like most short stories I write, this one started with an idea but went in a direction I did not plan for. Originally, the old man would have withered away with only the gripping fingers left wrapped around the wire like in the images. But I kind of like where the story went. I think there is potential for more, for some other directions. I hope that you enjoyed it!
All of the photographs are my own, look out for the next series of Movement photographs in which some of these will be featured. The short story is also my own creation. Happy writing, and stay safe!