Short stories: Stranger/Bleu Claire and Is There More
Two short stories reflecting on culture shock, alienation and unrequited love
For this week’s post, I’d had planned to do one on MTPE (machine translation post-editing) and hook you guys in with a perfect analogy. But I’ll be doing it someday, maybe, in the future – under different circumstances. I’m happy to discuss your views on MTPE or AI translation in the comments or in the chat.
Anyways, in the spirit of self-imposed rule of consistency that sometimes results in short bursts of anxiety, I’ll be sharing two short stories today…
It’s been a long time since I wrote something in the fiction genre, so I also felt the need to switch gears for a bit. I hope you can indulge me in my artistic sojourn. I wrote two pieces to reflect on my experience with studying and living abroad, the feeling of alienation, culture shock, teenage romance and unrequited love. Both stories aim to appeal to the senses of the reader, bridging the real world with metaphysical elements.
I’ve found this feat a lot more challenging compared to my other articles which are strictly “non-fiction”. This might be because I’m not a native English speaker, and I also think it shows in some parts of the ensuing stories. However, upon my attempt to write accounts of the experiences in my native language, I hit an impenetrable wall of linguistic rigidity. I’ve had this problem ever since I can remember, and it might be due to my time growing up in the UK and Australia. I simply find the Slovak language unyielding, whereas English has the fluidity I need to express myself.
Both stories “came to me” on the same day, and I put them in words right away. I wrote the first drafts within a couple of hours – in both cases stopping at the question: “Where am I going with this?” I believe that was Monday or Tuesday this week. Since then, I had been editing them both, until the point of publishing. I’ve made it a “rule” to publish a coherent piece of writing at least once a week, usually on weekends.
These short snippets both hold value because they remind me of times that were both incredibly rewarding and difficult… And somewhat strange. In this sense, the whole process of writing and “creating” was more like remembering something – a feeling.
Initially, I wanted to write one of the stories in female POV, but I found it strange and difficult. Baby steps, I guess.
It also takes a bit of time to get into the “short story groove” again… If I remember correctly, and I probably don’t, I was about nine years old when I wrote my last short story. It’s been only poetry and copy since then. Well, and this Substack.
Hopefully, you’ll enjoy the stories, and I’ll be happy to hear your thoughts, reflections and criticism.
PS: I kept editing until the last minute, but I realized I could never really be satisfied with it… So, I guess, it’s better to publish now than never.
Stranger/Bleu Claire
The car stopped. He got out and looked at the high school campus. His mind and senses seemed to be floating all over the place. People walking, talking, chatting, joking, jesting and teasing. He was a species in an aquarium. But the kind no one stopped to see and marvel at. The muffled sounds barely reached him. He walked down the campus to sit under the tree where all the cool kids hung out. But he didn’t talk to them. He was just there. Mingling. Some students stole a gaze here and there and watched him as he did… nothing. He sat in the tide of surrounding voices and conversations. Waiting for the bell to announce the start of the next period. And then there were four after that. Then the practice. And then he’d go home. Every day.
It felt strange. Vanilla. No flavours. Alienated, barely alive. Unless he put pen to paper, that is. That’s what made it a bit more bearable. Scribbling and putting together sentences that sounded nice and meant something. It filled the vacuum of meaningless interactions, like people asking: “How are you?” And walking past him, not even waiting for the answer.
And Claire. There was Claire, too. She had a playful smile, freckles and deep blue eyes. How little a person needs to conjure up an illusion of a sense of meaning, of something to pursue.
They talked once in the past three months. He fancied her – her smile and the way she laughed. But he couldn’t string a simple sentence together at her presence.
Waft of pine trees and a forest freshly covered by a light morning drizzle. Looking at it from the comfort of your home, under your blanket, in front of a fireplace.
That’s what she felt like.
Yesterday she said hi to him as they passed each other in the corridor. Even with his name at the end. It was a nice moment. A moment that felt like popping his head above the water and finally hearing and seeing everything around him clearly for an instant. But then it faded. Back to deep blue, strange ocean full of creatures he couldn’t quite distinguish or recognize.
That’s how it went, month after month. His sojourn was slowly coming to an end, and he had nothing to show for it. All these “deadlines” and last moments inevitably called for doing something bold. Something to be remembered for. Something to win over Claire’s heart and attention. The problem was, he didn’t know if he wanted to. What would he do with it? They barely knew each other.
He lay paralyzed on his bed, in his room, scrolling and looking for… Something? An inspiration? Mind-numbing fifteen minutes?
Truth be told, he wasn’t in any excruciating emotional pain. He wasn’t suffering. He felt like there was an avenue, an alley, he hadn’t explored yet. Hadn’t ventured there. What if it’s full of pine trees covered by the light morning rain? Or it could be a scorching desert with UFOs flying around. Every day he kept coming back to this mirage. Aquarium. Bed. Alleys. The smell of pine trees. Glimpse of the forest behind a window of a cosy cabin in the woods.
Then he found himself walking down the street again – the next alley was the scorching desert. He knew it. He could feel the heat emanating from behind the corner burn his skin. He took a peek. She wasn’t there. Of course she wasn’t.
Claire liked pine trees and rain. That’s where she was. He turned around and could see the beautiful pine trees. Dew drooping down from the branches on the brown soil. Fresh mountain air. Humid. So humid that if you walked around for a while there would be drops of water on your skin. Cold breeze of morning air tip-toed on his face. He was getting farther away from the desert and felt the temperature going down. It was a relief. He could breathe again freely. He quickened his pace. His eyes widening. Blood pumping with excitement.
He saw her. She was there, in the woods. Singing. Dancing. Her brown-red hair floating around in fragrant waves. Spinning and jumping, light as a fairy. She picked a flower from the ground. Everything around her was green and damp. Now it was obvious she could feel him getting closer. She stopped and straightened up.
Her eyes were like two glacier lakes. Deep and blue. Penetrating, yet warm and inviting. Loving. The herbs she had picked were in her hands. Her skin was pale white, emanating under the trees. She smiled. It seemed like she was looking right at him, inviting him to join her.
He could hear her voice calling his name. But her mouth didn’t open. It was muffled at first, but then it got clearer and clearer. He was getting closer to her, to what seemed almost like a portal to another dimension. Claire.
The window in his room was opened wide. Startled, he looked outside. It was raining. 5:29 AM. He got out of bed; got to the small table he had in his room and opened a book. There was no point going back to sleep now. His flight was in 4 hours, he would have to leave soon anyway.
The smell of pine trees and rain came in through the window as morning breeze. Probably the last one he’d ever feel. He took it all in, the humidity creeping in and settling on his face where it formed drops of water which trickled down his cheeks, seeping through the paper texture upon impact; like deep blue ponds burying a hole in the book.
Is there more?
The wind was prickly. Humid. Cold. Not like near the coast, though; it was sweet. Something you could expect in the middle of November, standing on a riverbank. His legs were starting to ache.
He turned away from the flowing water and his gaze fell on the nearest bench. He took the phone out of his pocket – only to open and close three apps and put it back. He hated sliding it into his pocket when sitting down. It felt ridiculous. Unreasonably difficult.
That’s not the most ridiculous thing he did today, though. Not by a longshot.
Now, standing up again, he looked to the left at the horizon. There seemed to be something emerging. He made it slowly down to the pier. Naturally, it was a ship. A boat, more precisely. And a very small one.
Hemingway would’ve probably called it a skiff, he thought.
The prow was glistening in the afternoon sun, as was the rippling water around it. The rays were reflecting in the icy cold foam, and he could steal glimpses of a rainbow in the dewy sprays of the current crushing against the hull.
4:11 PM
His leg was shaking. Up. Down. Up. Down. There was a button on the side of his phone. He pressed it. On. Off. And again. Until the emergency call notification popped up. He felt it vibrate. Dismiss. Again.
He heard someone walking behind, his eyes shot in the direction, but it was only a mother with her daughter taking a stroll on the embankment.
She was supposed to be there 11 minutes ago. No. 15 minutes ago, actually. The kid behind his back dropped something. He could hear it. The crying.
Clouds eclipsed the afternoon sun.
The skiff, now considerably farther away downstream, started rocking in the current. The wind picked up. The light spray of water from the river landed on his face. It was cold as ice.
From the water arose a giant figure. Misshapen. Blue. He could feel himself being drawn to it. Toward the water. As he reached the edge of the bank, he realized that the figure itself was not so great in size. It was just all the vapour and water surrounding it. From that mist a slender creature walked toward him, barefoot, hair wildly flying in the rippling water.
It had a shape of a woman. With dark blue sapphires in place of its eyes. Hair was dark brown, almost black. Thick as horse’s mane. Skin resplendent, white, almost silver. She called out to him from the edge of the riverbank.
It was like a spell – the waves beating in his ears. A tide that crashed against his soul and filled him with deep hum of the river.
Sweet smell of the water, that’s what he remembered, as the freezing drops sprayed his face. He could feel himself being drawn to her. He took a step. Then another. He couldn’t help but wonder, “Is there more?”
His mind was flowing on endless waves, rising and falling. Like a skiff in a sea of storm. On and on, with no land in sight.