Mistermafio's world of short stories and the like

Mistermafio's world of short stories and the like (Full Version)

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Mistermafio -> Mistermafio's world of short stories and the like (7/30/2008 4:50:42)
This thread will be a collection of all my short stories and the like. ^>^ Enjoy, my comments thread can be found here

Mistermafio -> RE: Mistermafio's world of short stories and the like (7/30/2008 4:51:22)
Ashlee An awfully long time ago there lived a man. This man was named Alfred. He had dark hair that had just started greying, which was nothing special at his age. He preferred to wear his hair as neatly combed as was humanly possible at the time. Alfred loved to wear suits. This was probably a good thing seeing how his job required him to do so. See, Alfred sold paper. Paper, for those amongst us that don’t know, was a white substance created from so-called ‘trees’. People used it to write on in-between killing each other and checking out ‘cribs’ at the time. Every morning Alfred stepped into his car and drove a few miles to participate in a complicated morning ritual scientist nowadays refer too as: ‘that stupid thing in which everyone would sit in their car waiting for the person in front of them to start driving without anyone ever knowing why the person in front wouldn’t just go a bit faster.’ After this Alfred would spend his entire day sitting at a desk starring at his computer. Mostly he would wait for it to become five o’clock. At which time Alfred would get into his car once again and repeat the same process. I could go on about Alfred for some time more, but I won’t. Why? Partially because it would be boring. Alfred –as any other human being- simply doesn’t know how to have fun. But mostly because of a far more important reason. Namely that Alfred has no real part in the following story whatsoever. In fact, I wouldn’t even have brought up the case of Alfred if I had the time to think of a better way to start this story. Alfred, however unneeded his appearance, by now is the most important character in the story. This is rather awkward when you consider the fact he, as I mentioned before, doesn’t not even play a little role in the actual story. But at the same time, the case of Alfred illustrates perfectly how the true protagonist of this story was perceived at the time this story started. See, Alfred had a garden. Most people wouldn’t think much of it, neither did Alfred, but fact is gardens were –and still are- some of the most complicated ecosystems known to man. More complicated even then the vastly confusing ecosystem of: Sometimeshotbutneverreallytopia or the even more confusing ecosystem of any average student’s room. See, what Alfred missed every time he mowed his lawn was nothing les then an entire world of its own. Compressed into the rough size and shape of a grain of sand. We could even call it a grain of sand if we wanted to… So we will. On this grain of sand an entire world had formed itself. Its inhabitants strangely human-like though with its unique differences. I’d even go as far as to claim that had scientists of either world found out about the other world, they’d be astound just how similar the similarities and how unique the uniqueness’s between the worlds were. Luckily for humanities sake, this world was never discovered as it was crushed by Alfred’s dog not very long after the following events. “Hey Dave, what are you doing?” Ashlee asked a blond-haired man that was quite clearly using a shovel to dig a hole. “Well, Ashlee, what does it look like I’m doing?” Dave replied in an irritated, yet slightly sarcastic, tone. The kind of tone any man would have if he had to answer the same stupid question as often as Dave had too. The downright mean part was that, despite Ashlee’s good intentions when asking the question, Dave didn’t even bother to pause his work and look up to Ashlee as he answered it. Even Ashlee, who admittedly wasn’t the brightest of the bunch, found this a strange way and tone to answer a question in. But after much consideration, I’d say just over three seconds, she decided it was probably a game she’d never heard or played before. Happy to be included in a game for the first time since the famous: ‘Double Dutch’ incident all those years ago –an incident not to be discussed any further then this- Ashlee replied: “Banana’s, who really needs them anyway?” Dave, knowing who he was talking too, only shrugged as he kept on digging his hole. This scene lasted for a good ten minutes. With Dave digging a hole into the wet, brown, dirt gradually getting deeper and deeper. And Ashlee staring at him in an expression of utter joy, knowing she was probably about to win this game if she just kept on going. After those minutes of silence, only broken by the sound of digging. And the whistling of the birds. And the occasional gust of air playing with the trees on the leaves. Making loud clapping noises as the lumps of wood hit each other. Actually, just forget about the whole silence thing. There just was no talking for about ten minutes. This lack of speech eventually was broken by Dave, whom just had given up on Ashlee realising she was not wanted. “I am digging a hole, as you can see. Now, if you weren’t you, you’d ask why. So for the off chance you aren’t you I’ll explain so. I am digging this hole in search of a treasure. See, recently I acquired the location of a map on which the location of a key was to be found…” At this point Dave had paused his digging work and came out of his hole, gradually lowering his voice as he continued his explanation. “This key was to open up a box I had in my possession for years, in that box was a small though complicated puzzle. Solving this puzzle required it’s creator to go to the edges of the world and back. So I did…” Dave, by now, slowly started to get something out of his jacket. Though it’s not quite visible what it is yet. “I solved the puzzle and it revealed me the location of a temple. This temple contained another treasure map, closely guarded by some of the biggest and worst monsters imaginable. I managed to get that map too…” Dave now revealed the item he was getting out of his jacket to be a map, on it was a drawing of this forest and a large X on the place we are standing right now. “So I followed the map, and I’m pretty sure that the legend is right and this is the location of the treasure of pirate green-beard red-eyes I have spend the last ten years getting.” Dave looked at Ashlee, a crazed look glimmered in his eyes, and walked back to his hole to dig. “Now get going you! I do not need crazy people around when I get rich. In reply, all Ashlee did was shrug and start walking. As Ashlee walked home she started mumbling in herself. Walking down the forest lane we can just hear the last few whispers of what she’s got to say: “Treasure, but for shinnies.” The mention of the so-called shinnies seemingly fills her with joy as she starts running with a big smile on her face. Not the smartest of sights, but still. Following her we see her running into a big villa hidden somewhere in the forest. As she enters the door the first thing we notice is the abundance of shiny objects. Let’s just call it crow-heaven and not go too deep into describing how the roof is filled with disco-bolls and the walls are covered in mirrors and bottles and… Gold? Ashlee doesn’t seem too distracted by the decorations though, as she walks straight towards her goal. Only stopping ten, maybe twenty times in total. And even then she didn’t stare blankly at the lights for more then thirty seconds. Shortly, she was in a hurry to get somewhere. That somewhere turned out to be the room next to the hall, as she walked into it she had to put on sunglasses to prevent the bright shining light from hurting her eyes. There, in a pile lying on the ground was the biggest collection of gold ever seen by semi-human eyes. All of it stashed away in a big crate labelled “Pirate green-beard red-eyes’ treasure.” Ashlee giggled.

Mistermafio -> RE: Mistermafio's world of short stories and the like (10/3/2008 18:08:01)
The night train How long has it been since I felt this way? I stared out of the train's small, dirty window into the pitch black darkness. The only thing I saw was my own reflection in the glass and maybe an illuminated blur every time we passed a light source of some sorts. I paused my pondering for a second, enjoying staring into nothingness. It had been a long night, much longer then I expected it to be for sure. Not often did I have to take the last train home on a weekday. But then again, I hadn't known you for that long either. “You...” I looked up from my window, feeling as if I'd been awoken from a perfect dream by the sound of my alarm-clock. What was supposed to be a thought had forced its way out of my brain, and did so through my mouth. I carefully looked around to see if anyone had heard that sighing statement. Luckily the train proved as empty this time as every other time I looked the past hour. Only two living souls occupied it, you and me. You had fallen asleep some time ago, as exhausted from today as I was. But I didn't mind, as the fact you had fallen asleep while resting your head on my shoulder made me feel good. I looked at you for a while, making sure not to move too much. Your hair had the same color as mine, a dark brown that could almost pass for black at times. Sure, your's was longer, thicker, smoother and more beautiful in general but that didn't matter much to me as I was glad with everything we had in common. Your eyes where large and brown, the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen in my life. They formed the focal point of what was the most beautiful face I had ever seen in my life. Every time I looked at it I couldn't help but smile, and for some strange reason that smile appeared to be wider every time it occurred. This time was no exception. With a smile on my face I turned back to what I was doing before, pounding and staring out of the cold, dark, dirty train window. How long has it been since I felt this way? I silence befell my thoughts as I pondered on this for at least five minutes, thinking back as far as I could remember. Until finally my pondering continued. I have never felt this way before. But how come it all feels so familiar then? How come it all feels like the right thing to feel? What is this game my body is playing with my mind? Another silence befell my thoughts, a much longer one this time. I don't know how long it took me to think, I didn't care back then and I still don't. What I do know though is that in the time it took me to think you moved your head fifteen times. I also know that every single time you did so I looked up from my pondering and at you, smiling a little wider every time. We had just passed the twenty-second station along the way when I realized what the answer to my questions was. “Of course...” I whispered to myself, glad and -apparently- loudly. I say apparently as I wasn't sure if it was me saying that which woke you up or if you'd woken up a while ago already. No matter what it was, you heard what I said and responded to it like anyone would. “What do you mean, of course?” Your voice was slow and it wasn't hard to tell you where still very tired and could fall asleep any second. I smiled upon seeing your face, as I always did, and whispered my answer in such a way only you could possible hear it. “I think I'm in love with you.” You looked at me for a few seconds, your brain clearly having trouble grasping what I just said at this time of the day. Your reply might not have satisfied most people, but to me it was the only reply I could hope I would get. “Oh... Good... I love you too.” I don't even think you remember saying that, as you fell right back asleep afterwards. Again on my shoulder. That night was the best night of my life.

Mistermafio -> RE: Mistermafio's world of short stories and the like (7/1/2009 15:00:07)
“Arh! I can’t take it anymore! Why is everybody wrong?” He suddenly cried out. “Why don’t you see that this doesn’t make sense? Does everything have to be this complicated? You idiots!” He stood up from his chair, his hands making large, quick gestures. His dark, bushy eyebrows crumpled in a frown so big his entire face was covered in angry wrinkles. Argh The room looked at him, surprised, even scared by this sudden burst of anger. Normally he was a quiet man, thin and the complete opposite of dangerous. But his sudden bout of anger made him seem a new man, a dangerous man. He looked at the speaker he interrupted, a small man that had been preaching all night long. With angry, big steps he walked up to the now quivering figure. “Why do you spout lies in our faces? Why do you preach what you do not know? I’m glad for you you’ve found your calling, but please keep it to yourself, otherwise just go. It simply isn’t true what you are saying, you exaggerate even the smallest little thing. Not because you don’t know otherwise, but because you know how to make your words sting. All the while speaking with your high horse attitude, telling me I’m wrong for being just fine. I know that you can talk, but do you know you aren’t right?” He stared at the preacher, who was now more surprised then anything. Curious the man replied: “I know that I am wrong, but that isn’t my point. I exaggerate what I say so you’ll feel bad for not agreeing with me.” He shrugged his head and looked on, towards the man that spouted his hate. Him to he approached quickly, and with his own hate. “Why are you so hateful? Why do you oppose that that doesn’t threaten you? Do you hate, not because you dislike, but because you are afraid? Do you believe his lies perhaps? Believe the numbers he pulled out of nowhere, believe the fear he talks you into? Are you that easily fooled? Do you fool yourself so quick? Because you take for granted what he says is true, just because what he says seems to fit. Your fear lets you believe the lies, that make you fear even more. Why don’t you just use your brain? Or make your way to the door.” The hater looks upon him, and with regret in his voice forms his reply: “Yes, I believed his lies. I figured what he said was true. And his numbers feared me into hating. And my hate conned me into believing him even more. I used to be so positive, so nice to all those around me… What has happened to me?” He shakes his head, and looks upon the last person in the room. Anger still lies on his face, his steps still large and threatening, and his gestures still wide and quick. The one that laughed all night, the one that argued and didn’t agree with one thing the preacher and the hater said. “Why are you so smirk? Do you think you are better then them? Sure you disagree with the lies, sure you disagree with the hate, but you aren’t one thing better then they are, for that you are too late. So you want things like they used to be? You don’t want change, you want consistency. Back to a time when man was still god-fearing, back to when only woman could wear an earring. You are just as wrong as they are, you’re not only lying, you’re also believing the lies you tell. You’re vision of heaven, is my vision of hell.” He looks at the three men in the room with him, he shrugs and turns towards the door. As he walks outside he turns around one last time to say: “I might not agree with the liar, but at least he makes a point. We should change our current way, we should try to better ourselves every day. Nor do I agree with the hater, but he too has a point. We should be careful with how we change, as well as careful with what we change into. We should respect the simple fact mankind is kind of crazy. I also don’t agree with the chuckler, who things everything was better in the olden days, who believes in rules of old, and even older ways. But he too is right, we shouldn’t turn our back on stuff that works, we should evolve our way of thinking, not change it with every chance we get. I believe we should just listen, for a change, to each other, to the opposition, to the world around. We should remember that we aren’t the only people around. Be free to say what you believe in, be free to be as crazy as you want to be. But don’t want everything, heck, just don’t want anything. Be glad with what you get, that’d work… Probably.” And with that he walked out of the door, not to be ever seen again. The three men shrugged and said: “You know what, he might be right. We should listen to each other, and you can start by listening to me.” Nothing changed that night, the world was still the same. Apart from one man, who had finally said what had bothered him for so long. If only he could get someone to listen.

Mistermafio -> RE: Mistermafio's world of short stories and the like (2/5/2012 17:29:22)
An old, long forgotten, song plays on the jukebox. The once crisp and fresh sound of this-or-that blues band now creeks and shutters as if the band itself played the song on instruments made out of re-used packing paper. The notes and buzzing mingle nicely with the soft hum bars with jukeboxes usually produce. The last sunbeams of the day stream in through the windows, over the normally light-brown wood and tacky plastic ornaments that seem to, somehow, be vital to the structural integrity of the bar. Along with the smoke rising up from a pantheon of cigarettes, most of which consumed by the staff, color the bar a shade very close to that of the whiskey in my glass. This is the kind of bar a man can sit down in to drown his sorrows. Service might be poor, and a lesser man could easily find himself scammed out of most of his money by any one of the folks that frequent this place. But booze is cheap and people know not to be asking questions they don’t want the answer to. I down my whiskey and order the the waitress to bring me another one. I’ve lost count of how much I’ve drank hours ago, though I don’t worry about that; my cash ran out long before that. All I can do now is keep on drinking and hope they don’t ask me for my money before I pass out. If there is one thing I’ve learned about places like this it is that they do not take a man’s money when he drank himself half to death. They just chuck him out with a nice note explaining how they’ll finish the job if he ever tries to come back. The bartender is a plump woman, built the way a woman is supposed to be built. With breasts and an ass. She seems to be forty years old at least, though the common man would have put her at sixty, I know to account for years tending the kind of bar I frequent. She looks like she could have been a beautiful woman once, and carries herself like she still is. With an attitude that would humble a queen. As she pours me my drink I feel her eying. The eye of a bar-woman, there is nothing more frightening to a drunk man than that look, especially when he is lying about how much money he has. Every drunk knows this look, there is no point in hiding anything from women like her, as they look right through you. Through every facade you throw up, through every lie you tell, through your clothes and your skin and straight to your soul. Which, a bar-tending friend of mine once told me, always resembles a trembling small boy of some kind. “This one’s on the house, boy. If ya tell me your story.” Her voice is that of gravel being polished with heavy-duty sandpaper. If you spoke to her on the phone, you’d think you where dealing with a big black man smoking a cigar. In a way, I was. “Thank you ma’m. But you don’t wanna hear my story. Too much mindless traveling to be interesting, too little bloodshed to be exiting… Plus, I’m a horrible storyteller. My throat gets dry too quickly and I don’t do voices.” I notice myself mumbling, the whiskey is getting the better of me, but it isn’t getting there very quick. I down the glass and set it down on the bar with a smile. She returns my smile and starts filling my glass up again. Something about her demeanor has shifted though. She seems less friendly, more threatening. “Listen up, sweetie. We both know you can’t pay for half what you’ve cost me so far. So you either start entertaining me with a story. Or we go out back and screw. Either way, I’m getting something out of this. The choice is yours.” I eye her once more. From close by she seems a lot less former-glory and a lot more present-ruin. Her teeth, the ones she still has, seem to be about as yellow and crooked as the cab that had got me in this godforsaken place. And her mustache resembles that of the cabbie that drove that very cab. At least she has hair though, and she did put on make-up. I grab the glass, luckily she’s filled it up to the brim this time. And eagerly bring it to my lips. Now, the thing with whiskey, as opposed to beer, is not that it gets you. It’s the way how it gets you. Beer you see coming, first you piss, then you’re full, then you’re sick, then you puke and feel better, then -finally- it gets you. Nice and simple, with plenty a warning sign. Whiskey, however, whiskey sneaks up on you. Whiskey gives you the confidence that you can go on forever, only to pull down your chair from under you right when you least expect it. For example, right before you get up to go screw a woman so you don’t have to tell her a story. I dream of whales mating and cows screaming that night. When I wake up, I am greeted by a splitting headache and a burning sun. It doesn’t take me very long to realize I’m lying in a ditch by the side of the road. In my pocket a note explaining how my debts are fulfilled, and I’ll be killed if I ever try to drink for free in ‘the flying moose’ again. As I climb back up to my feet, and out of the ditch, I can’t help mumbling to myself: “Well, at least her handwriting’s nice, and she has returned most of my clothes.” And with that, I head off down the road. Looking for money, or booze, whichever I find first.

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