There's Always Another DayA Story by Dominique D'ArcyIvan knew he had to prepare for winter, but there was always time, it's not like it was tomorrow. Do it another day. There's always another day.In Russia, north to the city of Norilsk and beyond Lake
Labaz there is a small village isolated from the rest of society. Few dare
venture this far north, as it is infamous for its nefarious winters. Even the
locals are wary of the rampant blizzards and turbulent gales. So every year,
without fail, before the most brutal weathers engulfed their village, they
would stock food, water and firewood to outlast the winter. About a 20 minutes’ walk from the village was a small
hut. And in the small hut lived a man by the name of Ivan Lev Chekhov. At 5”9’
with short curly black hair, piercing ice-blue eyes, a missing index finger on
his left hand and a slight limp in his walk, Ivan Lev Chekhov was an funny man
indeed. He was well popular amongst the villagers. Children
would swarm around him like bees to honey, women would laugh at his lame jokes
and men would often chat over drinks with him. With the children, he would
narrate stories of how he lost his finger, or how he got the limp in his leg.
When he laughed, he had this strange ring to it that made it addictive. People
would stop in mid step just to hear his quaint laughter. But Ivan was undoubtedly
the most entertaining when he was drunk. Yes, he was enthralling. Often hopping
on tables imitating random villagers, or singing horribly off-tune, yet it was
never harsh to the ears. Ivan Lev Chekhov was an interesting man indeed. However, Ivan was also very flawed. He was a lazy man.
While other men were actively herding the livestock he would be sleeping in the
shade of a tree. When other women were occupied, doing the housework, he would
be lying on his back cloud-watching. And when other children were eagerly
helping around, here and there, Ivan would be watching the world go by. And
whilst he was very helpful in many things, if there was any work to be done, he
would be the last person you’d ask; always concocting excuses or putting it off
to the absolute last millisecond. Ivan Lev Chekhov was a very, very lazy man indeed. Three weeks from winter, the entire village was busy
stocking up food, chopping firewood, piling warm clothes in anticipation for
winter. Ivan Lev Chekhov was busy too. Busy inventing excuses for him to avoid
work. Every morning he would wake up, determined to gather food, chop firewood
and purchase clothing, only to be distracted the minute he set foot on village
grounds. He would look up at the sky and sight clouds too interesting to ignore.
Or he would decide to have a short nap only to wake up and find he slept
through half the day before deciding he might as well sleep through the other
half. He did this for days and days. Three weeks became two. Two weeks became
one. And one week became a mere few days. However, winter seemed to be running late. The harsh
winters should have already settled in a couple of days ago. Sure it cold,
colder than usual, but nowhere near the typical gnawing chills of winter. So
everyone decided they would continue mustering provisions until the real winter hit. Everyone that is, except
Ivan. Ivan concluded, since winter was delayed, he could spend
it observing the others. He watched One day, Ivan woke up to a morning colder than the
others. His breath condensed into a misty haze. He proceeded to change into his
snuggest clothing and advanced towards the door. Latching onto the handle and
with a firm twist…he couldn’t open it. Why couldn’t he open the door? Did the
hinge need oiling? Did he get a new door stopper he forgot about? No, so why
wouldn’t it open? Ivan pushed and pulled. He heaved and hoed. He jostled and he
jolted. But nothing seemed to work. The door wouldn’t budge. He didn’t want
stay locked up in here, so he went for the next best thing. He strode towards
his window. Ivan was about to open it, when he ceased to gawk at the
view through the glass pane. He was snowed in! It must have happened through
the night during his sleep. But this can’t be happening. He had yet to collect the
firewood, accumulate food and obtain warmer clothing. Goodness, he had yet to
repair his chimney! He would freeze to death! And if that didn’t happen, he
would starve to death! Either way he would die. Why couldn’t winter be late
another day? Ivan shivered. Whether it was from the cold or the fear of death
he did not know, but all he could do now was try and wait the winter out. He stared at the walls - these four walls that kept
him entombed. He suddenly felt a lot colder. His stomach was pitted with fear.
His hands were trembling from despair. These four walls…these four walls that
trapped him in his icy prison grew taller by the second. Those menacing walls
shot higher and further from reach " more claustrophobic. Quiet. Everything was
quiet. No sound, no life, no movement " no hope. This winter was more ruthless than any other
experienced by the village. It was long and cold. And when it was finally over,
it was of a great relief to the entire village. Copious amounts of
infrastructure were ruined, many more buried. But by this time Ivan was already
dead. Ivan Lev Chekhov was a very, very
dead man indeed. © 2010 Dominique D'ArcyAuthor's Note
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2 Reviews Added on June 19, 2010 Last Updated on June 23, 2010 Tags: procrastinate, winter, Ivan, Russia AuthorDominique D'ArcyUnited KingdomAboutI am very boring person who constantly questions my mentality. Not only am I lazy and stupid but I procrastinate as well. I have no idea whether I like writing, or hate it. I loathe the mental block.. more..Writing
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