The Untimely Death Of Ringo Dothe

An abstract short story about depression and change. Another one done for school, but this was written when I was fifteen.

Ringo Dothe and me used to sit out on the deck and smoke cheap cigarettes, on Thursdays before the sun rose. In the cold light of morning, we'd lay over the wood and puff rings into the icy sky. We'd roll around in thick clouds of smoky melancholy, pondering our own existence amongst more trivial matters. We'd create a tango of egos, arguing over ridiculous philosophical concepts and debating the issue of whether or not any one religion was 'right'.

Never later than six, Ringo would arrive on his red pushbike that had no gears. I slept with my window open, so he'd rattle the blinds three times to wake me. Around seven-thirty, we'd stub out our last f*g and he'd bike off again, his pocket bulging from the packet and the butts. Curious as to where he lived, I once followed him down the driveway. The piercing light caught his unwashed hair brilliantly. Hiding rather clumsily behind a bush, I watched him until he reached the street corner. He fell, and wasn't there when I caught the bus twenty minutes later.

The next Thursday, I awoke suddenly to a familiar pealing. It was hailing outside, and the hailstones were pelting the blinds and wetting my desk. Dizzy and trembling, I crept to the window and fumbled around for the drawstring, tugged it sharply. Outside was beautiful chaos, a postcard from an agoraphobic. I smiled meekly and pulled the window shut, then saw him. Ringo Dothe was sitting rigidly against the bricks under the deck, holding an unlit cigarette in his right hand. Startled by the slamming of the window, he glanced up at me. I brushed the hailstones onto the carpet and shrugged at him. His eyes continued to bore into mine, so I drew the blinds closed and went back to bed.

After the storm subsided, I woke again and, yawning, opened the blinds. Pressed against the window, Ringo Dothe held four unlit cigarettes. He rapped his fingers against the glass agitatedly.

Come Monday, I was already exhausted. It became misty early in the afternoon, and I decided to call into the city before dinner. As I stepped off the bus into the bustling rat race, I noticed one still figure. Leaning against the massive window of the coffee shop, Ringo Dothe looked every inch the Hollywood star in a jet-black suit and with a new, neatly cropped and side-parted hairdo. By the time I'd reached the caf�, he had ordered us both warm, frothy, costly drinks. The world buzzed around us as we sat outside on the deck, sipping chai latte and smoking fancy white cigarettes. We talked until sundown about fashion and about rock stars.

Ringo left in a shiny red car with headlights, and windows that opened and shut at the touch of a button.

Reviews

[Gaiamethod]

That's not bad at all for 15!! The writing is good but the story was confusing. I wasn't sure if it was moving through time. I guessed it was. That's what depression does though, doesn't it? Time tends to disappear after its endlessness.
I'd be interested to know what your teacher thought about it at the time?
But you do have a good way of describing things.