A Game Well Played

Stories are out there in the world, ready to be observed and written down. They are part of our being and embark with us on the quest of life. Stories are the experiences of the day to day business. Every morning brings the beginning to one, and the ending to another. With our senes we record every vision, sound, scent, taste and touch. Overwhelmed by a wave of thoughts and feelings that make us wonder why people behave as they do. I have tried to read these stories, not by word, but by mind.

 

As I walk from the station to my house, there's always a tall, skinny man who sells some magazines but seldom meets customers. Everyone ignores the poorly dressed man, like the world ends where his footsteps ring. Hasty passengers cast their eyes down as they pass and increase their pace. I blame myself for doing the same thing as my feet carry me in a great arc around him. The sad rumbling of his low voice the last evidence of his existence as the distance between us grows ever larger. As if I cannot bear the presence of the man's fragile and weak condition.

 

Perhaps I should stop at the next occasion we meet and look him in the eyes. I will buy his magazine and kindly thank him. I will pay him with coin and gratitude, for he delivered me a story to be written down. What's the story behind that hollow cheeked face? What cruel past led him to be standing here in the soaking rain and raise his broken voice in hope of some money? Was it fate or a single bad choice?

 

He hands me over the booklet and a foul scent enters my nostrils. I glance at him a final time and wish him a good day. He returns the gesture with a quick smile, a row of rotten teeth greet me. I can't help but sympathise with him, though I notice a burst of joy flicker in his eyes. It surprises me how accomplished I feel, by the act of charity. Maybe I just paid off a sense of guilt.

 

As I continue my way back home, the small booklet in my hand grabs my attention. I had not really given it a look so far. The cover is simple, with a few bright colours and a picture of some celebrity. I open the booklet and stare in amazement. My fingers brush through nothing but blank pages, not a single dot, stripe or deviation of white stains the paper. I close and open the magazine again, as if some magic trick made the contents disappear. Again, a blinding white challenges me.

 

Perhaps I should stop at the next occasion we meet and look him in the eyes. Was it fate or a single bad choice?

Author's Note

Thank you for reading, any and all comments are welcome.