So this is just a little piece I wrote for my creative writing class and decided to put on here. So, ta-da! Here it is!
Fate and Quarters
He wants to know what it feels like.
Hands jammed into his coat pockets, he gazes out at the world from atop the roof. Except he can't really see the whole world, just his world. His world. He likes the thought of owning a world.
But surely it would be better than this.
Because this world – his world? – cries silently. But, he thinks, if it cries silently, who knows that it's crying? So maybe it's not crying. Maybe it's laughing. Hysterically.
He can see it laughing hysterically.
It laughs hysterically.
But who cares? He can't even tell if he does or not.
A car below honks. He looks down at the ground not so far away. He reaches out, touches the ground with his mind. His fingers could touch it if he wanted. But who wants the ground? Who wants dirt and grass? No, scratch that. Who wants concrete?
Because his world is made of concrete. And bricks. And metal. And plastic. Big buildings, rumbling cars, iron gates. Maybe that's why his world cries. Or laughs. Maybe his world thinks it's funny that nothing within it is real.
What is real?
Is he real?
Who is he?
His name is Ryan. He's nineteen years old. His world revolves around concrete and grass and dirt. His world cries silently and laughs hysterically at the same time. He desires the concrete below him. He knows other people desire the ground as much as he does. Sometimes, they have better reasons for desiring the concrete below, for desiring that artificial thing that hurts.
But if you hit it hard enough, you won't hurt anymore.
Will you? Does it hurt in the second you collide with the concrete?
He wants to know what it feels like.
Well, he thinks he wants to know what it feels like. He tells himself he wants to know what it feels like. He believes he wants to know what it feels like. And he's never believed in anything before.
Wind picks up around him. He contemplates how easy it would be to let the wind guide him off. He rarely eats so he has to be light.
Or does a heavy heart make a heavy body?
The wind snaps his hair, his jacket. Cool metal brushes against his fingertips. His quarter. He found it on the sidewalk coming here. He titles it his lucky quarter but nothing actually makes it lucky.
It lays tiny and helpless in his hand; an object to be abused by his kind. So disposable. Like everything in his world. No wonder it cries.
If he flips it in the air now, will it blow away? Commit suicide? Will he follow after it?
He stands at the gates of heaven. "I'm sorry, Peter, but my quarter blew away in the wind and I had to jump off after it. You understand, don't you?" He snorts to himself back on the rooftop. He will never tell Peter about his lucky quarter. He won't ever see Peter.
Not that he believes in Peter.
His quarter rises up, up, up and spins down. It glints in the fading sunlight, blinds him momentarily, but his long fingers nimbly catch it. No quarter escapes him. Especially not his self-titled lucky one.
Heads. A beautiful, shiny half-face refuses to look at him.
Then he realizes he doesn't know what he's flipping for.
Laughter bubbles up inside his chest, erupts from his lips. It roars on the outside so loud he clutches his sides and falls to his knees. "Dumbass," he hisses between his teeth, and laughs some more.
"Okay, okay." He calms himself but the tiny smile dancing on the edge of his lips refuses to die, promising only nightmares. "You want to know what it feels like? Alright. Heads: you stay where you are. Tails: you take a step towards the edge." He flings the quarter up again, embraces the way it spins in the wind, and curls it within his fingers. When he unfolds them, the eagle shrieks at him.
He takes a step forward. His heart accelerates. Adrenaline floods through him. He could really fall off the edge.
"Heads: where you are. Tails: another step."
The quarter flies in an attempt to get away. The eagle shrieks in the wind as the metal rejects the eagle's attempt to spread its wings. It wants to get away. The quarter falls back down.
"It's getting dark," he muses to himself, watching clouds drift lazily over the setting sun. "And third time's always a charm. So here we go. Heads: you go home. Tails: you step off the edge." The quarter leaves his hand.
His world holds its breath. Cries silently. Laughs hysterically. Shatters as the quarter begins its descent.
It lands softly in his palm. Warmth spreads through his curled fingers. But it was his warmth to begin with. The quarter is a thief.
His fingers uncurl.
And a President.
He frowns, unsure of whether he likes the fate his lucky quarter has played out for him. But finally he shrugs, "So be it," and puts his quarter safely back in his pocket.
And...that is the end of Fate and Quarters.
If you liked it, leave a review or something. If you didn't like it, leave a review or something. If you hated it, well, hate it.
But have a nice day!