Author: D351 PM
The post-modern tragedy... It's been a long time since I wrote anything that wasn't poetry... and this might pass itself for prose.Rated: Fiction T - English - Tragedy - Words: 394 - Published: 07-06-08 - Status: Complete - id: 2541866
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This is the story of an absolutely ordinary moment in an absolutely ordinary man's absolutely ordinary life. This is the story of a half of an inch of snow.
The man, a Tom Schuster, had recently flung himself out of bed, showered hurriedly, and dressed himself in an outfit unmistakably similar to the one he'd worn the previous day. It was a Thursday morning, a work day, and like most days, Tom was inaccurately sure that he was absolutely going to be late for work.
Upon opening the door to the home he shared with his wife, Rebbecca, and daughter, Sarah, he was not surprised to be confronted with this, our half-inch of snow, nor was he all that annoyed at its presence. The cold hitting him at the door did little to distract him from the fears and anxieties that he confronted with every commute. It was merely another minuscule addition to an inescapable atmosphere of Winter and death, giving the most imperceivable hint of depression and futility to his unthinking and anxious routine.
And in this, our simple and negligible moment, the crunch of this snow beneath his right shoe would have no noticeable effect on our hurried hero. His thoughts would not be burdened with the memories of childhood winters, of friends and sleds and snowmen. Nor would he be reminded of the mere fifteen minutes separating him from his wife and child each morning. He would not long to stay and bemoan his unforgiving schedule. He would not question the necessity of his redundant and unsatisfying lifestyle. In this quiet and meaningless moment, he would neither cry nor shout, but simply trudge out to the car, to begin his quiet and meaningless drive to his quiet and meaningless job, where he would be paid an increasingly insufficient wage to be quiet and meaningless for the next nine hours of his quiet and meaningless life. In this moment, he would simply focus and move, getting from point: house to point: car. In this moment, he would express nothing more than the inertiatic urge to unquestioningly continue on his linear path from birth to death, from conception to probable heart attack.
This is the story of an absolutely ordinary moment in an absolutely ordinary man's absolutely ordinary life. This is a story of death in small doses.