A Path

It was always at night, just before midnight, when the statue would abandon its pedestal and walk the streets of downtown Gilliam. A tall, stone statue of a man he was, and in his right hand he grasped a flower. He had no reason to walk other than that he found himself able to. Spending the majority of his hours as an inanimate being, the statue found this miracle to be perfectly normal as he simply knew no better. He was not able to speak or think much and had no name, but he could walk and had decided long ago that he much enjoyed walking when he had the chance.

           

            On this particular night, as every, he turned from stone to flesh just before dawn and began to carve his trail. The fog was silent as he made his way through the park and into the heart of the small city. He walked along the sidewalks as the rest of the city lay motionless, their minds shooting wildly through the darkest corners of their thoughts. The statue never did venture into one of these homes, but rather stuck to the sidewalks as they seemed to form a path. Perhaps they were trying to lead him somewhere, he often thought to himself. What was it that he felt pulling him at the end of the sidewalk? While he desperately wanted to find out, he was all too aware that he was beginning to turn back to stone. Somewhat hurriedly, he headed towards his worn pedestal. Climbing atop, he noticed the plate which adorned the front of it. Most of it was all scratched up from the kids who'd played there during the day, but he could make out the last name on it: Kossikov. Assuming this to be his own last name, he resumed his usual position with his flower in his right hand, and dreamed about the end of the sidewalk.

 

            The next night, Kossikov awoke to find an elderly and drunken man sitting atop his pedestal. He appeared to be talking to himself, or rather, he appeared to think he was talking to himself, using the statue as a muse for his thoughts; a stone friend without an opinion. Upon fully realizing this, Kossikov began to listen in, futilely trying to decipher what he could.

            "Strange," the old man began his next rant. "If you think . . . I mean, if you really stop and think about it, Satan is the reason for all that is good in the world. If it weren't for the devil, what reason would anyone have to believe in God? What reason would anyone have to be good? People are good out of fear; fear of hell. So, I suppose . . . God bless the devil."

 

            Upon finishing this sentence, the drunken man fell to the ground and slept. The statue could not understand a word of it, but felt a sudden pull from the end of the street. He felt as if whatever the drunken man had said had had some great importance in what was out there. In a blind fury, he broke into a clumsy sprint down the street. He ran for miles. His breathing became heavy and his legs burned. He could not comprehend this terrible feeling, but he felt it was keeping him from his goal; his purpose. As he continued, he found that the houses here were all the same as the houses that normally adorned his nightly walks; miles away and still the same. Suddenly, his legs froze up on him and he fell to the ground. His head hit the concrete and broke in two, cracked straight down the center. The statue would never walk the streets of Gilliam again.

Reviews

[Rain]

Wow.
I loved this. This is a perfect short story. You put some much into such a short piece. It was fascinating. You pulled the reader in with your first paragraph. I was hooked on the creative idea of him being able to walk, and the mystery of the sidewalk, and the old man's rantings. The end, so important, delivered. I'm impressed. Rain..

[Hedra Helix]

Dude, beautiful story,

I know i dont know you but mind if I show you my opinion on a couple things in how this read?

Perhaps they were trying to lead him somewhere, he often thought (you use thought above, i think th word 'wonder' works here too, it brings us inside him) to himself. What was it that he felt pulling him at the end of the sidewalk? While he desperately wanted to find out, he (became? this part steps out of the moment, the reader has to refocus to realize its a current situation) was all too aware that he was beginning to turn back to stone. Somewhat hurriedly, he headed towards his worn pedestal. Climbing atop, he noticed the plate which adorned the front of it. Most (of it, two 'of it's close to each other which is cool if the sounds play off each other but i think this could be cleaner without one in this particular spot) was all scratched up from the kids who'd played (skated? more specific;) there during the day, but he could make out the last name on it: Kossikov. Assuming this to be his own last name, he resumed his usual position with his flower in his right hand, and dreamed about the end of the sidewalk.

[The Faire Celt]

Hello,

What a beautifully tragic story. I really like your writing style. You take us on this magical journey of this statue, to give us feelings of empathy for what he is going through. My heart actually ached to read his demise.

Beautiful writing, friend.

[J. Marc]

Nice story indeed! I particularly liked the soliloquy of the drunken man. It is sad for that statue indeed that the path to freedom ended nowhere. The style is very flowing and is pretty pleasant to read: you knew to instill the atmosphere into the words and hence succeeded in making the reader empathize with the statue itself! We expect more to come! Original and smart!

[Raef C. Boylan]

I really admire how you use such an unusual concept to convey the messages of this story.

I think about the lack of religious altruism a lot, so I liked the drunk guy's theory - although I disagree with the totality of it, because I'm an atheist and thus not included.

You launch us into this story as observers of a regular night, as opposed to us being there at the beginning, which I liked because we don't need to know how or why, only that it is. We accept the situation and focus on the statue's experience.

Sometimes when something feels so overwhelmingly terrible and inescapable, we wish to flee from it. The statue does, and that is what ends him. Perhaps this is a comment on the futility of trying to evade the inevitable? I don't know.

As TL Boehm says, we empathise with your statue, feeling first concern and then sorrow.
It's very cool that you got us to do that.

Apologies for this review, it's not very constructive.
Another great story; thanks for sharing it with us.

[Chloe..Across the Unive..]

Very good short story.. i enjoyed it .. the poor statue.. wondering what he was looking for or what the pull was.
Seems the old drunk made a bit of sense .. well done and interesting ..

Chloe
xoxo

[TL Boehm]

A unique, and painfully sad story. You are definitely talented if you can make a reader feel empathy for a statue. There is a stark, surreal quality that is appealing to this work. Well done. Not disappointing at all.