Blue Light - A Short Story

The only light in Jim’s bedroom was blue.

Warm sunlight hadn’t passed beyond the curtains, nor fresh air beyond the window. The hum of passing vehicles, the spring breeze caressing the trees, and the chattering of birds gliding across the sky had all failed to reach Jim’s ears that day, for they were firmly tucked beneath his headphones. Even if they weren’t, he wouldn’t have heard a thing.

Jim hadn’t gazed outside since rising from his slumber in the early afternoon. His t-shirt, which he had worn to bed the night prior, was marred with stains, and marinated in the stench that was him without care. The young man’s odour soured the sedentary air, but he’d long since gotten used to the smell. Besides, he wasn’t out to impress anybody.

That’s what he told himself anyway.

Though Jim’s eyes were firmly locked on the luminous blue rectangle hovering above his desk amidst a sea of blackness, clarity had completely drained from his vision. The imagery and text cast against the blue light appeared as little more than faint, transparent, and flickering blurs. Jim clamped his eyes shut and shook his head, and everything became slightly clearer when his eyelids parted. However, he still couldn’t remember what he’d been watching just seconds prior. Resting within his head were a jumbled set of recollections, all bearing a grey tint. They would soon slip from his mind as they always did.

Clicking through dozens of tabs, Jim found that little caught his attention. Some of the memes were funny, but not laughably funny. The longwinded posts littering his social media feeds ran the gambit from benign to aggravating, but he wasn’t looking to get himself into any futile arguments, so he moved on. He continued perusing other pages for what felt like mere moments but amounted to several minutes.

Eventually, Jim stumbled across a video in which a beautiful woman was featured. She stared at him through the blue light, smiling, laughing, and speaking enthusiastically on matters about which Jim was completely oblivious. He couldn’t recall why he had initially clicked on the video, or when, but he didn’t close the tab. He simply allowed the video to continue playing as he began to feel things. A lightness in his stomach, warmth washing over his pale skin, unusual palpitations. To ascertain the meaning of these sensations would have required a level of introspection beyond somebody who had been awake for close to fourteen hours.

So, Jim didn’t think. He simply sat with his feelings, and her.

A faint smile soon emerged on Jim’s face, though it was cloaked beneath his unkept facial hair. He wasn’t smiling because the beautiful woman was witty or insightful. She might have been, but he wasn’t paying attention to what she was saying, despite being able to hear nothing else. He just liked that she was there, reminding of something that he was certain he could have had at some stage in the past had he not become who he was.

Affection was easier to come by this way. Standing up is harder than clicking a button, and doing so doesn’t take one to the door, or outside, or in front of somebody. The difference between that which Jim wanted and that which he had wasn’t appreciable to him in that moment.

Remaining in the presence of the blue light was the path of least resistance. It was bright, familiar, and comforting. Yet the comforts of the blue light differed from those provided by a bonfire like those Jim and his old friends would sit beside as kids while out camping.

The fire always began small, but it would grow as it consumed more matter. It moved with the wind, becoming brighter and dimmer over the course of the night. The fire never looked quite the same as it had before or would after, and it would inevitably die, but not  without leaving a trace of itself in the form of charred wood or floating embers.

In that sense, the blue light shared little in common with fire, for the blue light was without life. The blue light was but an artificial reprieve which demanded nothing of Jim except his time, which he gave willingly, but could not give indefinitely.

Jim yawned as he leaned down and switched off his computer. The blue light dissipated, plunging the room into darkness.

And Jim was as he had been, but without the pretence

The Persistent Salesman - A Short Story

There were fewer things I found more distressing that a knock at my front door on an otherwise quiet Sunday morning.

Only the deranged were prone to getting up early on the weekend to embark across suburbia and make minor annoyances of themselves in pursuit of their meaningless goals. My only priority that day had been to leave a human-shaped imprint on my couch, but the inconsiderate fool rattling his stupid knuckles against the oakwood had put an end to those ambitions.

My mind raced for solutions to the problem standing beyond the door, but unfortunately, most of them were incredibly expensive or beyond my capabilities. I hadn’t paid enough attention during high school physics to learn how to build a forty-megaton nuclear bomb. I also didn’t have any uranium in my fridge or wherever one stores radioactive material.

I didn’t pay much attention during chemistry either.

The person intent on ruining my day must have then noticed the doorbell because a cheerful chime suddenly rung through the lounge room, and ironically made me much angrier than I was before. I stood up and stomped around the room in the hopes of kickstarting my brain, but it remained utterly devoid of ideas.

My shotgun, which was propped up against the wall next to my bookshelf, suddenly took on a luminous glow, but I quickly dismissed the idea coalescing in my mind. It simply wasn’t worth it. Shotgun rounds don’t come cheap. With a heavy sigh, I turned around, rubbed my eyes vigorously, and lumbered towards my front door, barely lifting my feet from the ground as I walked.

Standing on my porch was a slender and straight-backed salesman wearing a grey silk suit and a colourful striped tie. The satchel hanging by the man’s waist was overflowing with colourful pamphlets and what looked like a fresh change of clothes. His teeth, virtually all of which I could see owing to his beaming yet disconcerting grin, were so white that I momentarily shielded my eyes from the glare.

“Good afternoon, friend!” the salesman exclaimed, his smile unwavering. “How are you this fine morning?”

“Terrible,” I leered.

“Let’s see if I can’t turn your frown upside down,” the salesman said with an oddly timed and overly embellished click of his fingers. “Have you ever thought about placing your pancreas in cold storage?”

“No,” I stated flatly.

“Really? Not once?” the salesman inquired with arms folded and one eyebrow raised.

“I’ve more frequently thought about breaking every bone in my left foot with a socket wrench.”

“What if I were to tell you that freezing your pancreas, much like freezing your entire nervous system, increases its effective lifespan by a factor of three?”

“Hm,” I murmured, scratching my stubble-laden chin as I stared up at the sky. “What if I were to tell you that I need my pancreas to not die?”

“I’m so glad you said that!”

“Crap,” I muttered under my breath as the salesman drew a pamphlet from his satchel.

 “In addition to providing our customers access to some of the world’s most prestigious cold storage facilities, our company also offers several excellent replacement pancreases,” the salesman said, pointing at what appeared to be a steel pancreas attached to a set of wheels. “This one creates what we like to call ‘super enzymes,’ and it can be yours for sixteen easy payments of $2,999 plus delivery!”

“Alternatively, I could keep the pancreas I already have for the low price of nothing.”

“Do you mind if I take a blood sample?” the salesman abruptly blurted as though he hadn’t listened to a word I said. Without averting his gaze from me, the salesman took a needle from his pocket and held it in the air.

“Yes, I do mind.”

“But not much though.”

“Huh?”

“You don’t mind much.”

“What are—” I stammered, my jaw agape and eyes narrowed as I tried to make sense of what the salesman was saying. “I don’t—"

“Fantastic!” the salesman interrupted. He grabbed my arm and held it straight. “Don’t worry. This’ll only hurt a lot.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I screeched, yanking my arm from the salesman’s clammy grip.

“What can I say? I’m just really excited about freezing pancreases!”

“I’m calling the police,” I declared before stepping back into my house.

“They’re on our payroll.”

“Excuse me?” I glared.

“Hm?” the salesman murmured, his eyes wide, eyebrows raised, and lips clamped tight.

“What did you just say?”

“I get it now!” the salesman chuckled as he slapped his forehead. “Here I am trying to upsell you on a fancy pancreas when you may well be a man who wants an organ that simply gets the job done. I can appreciate that. I’m a chill guy.”

“Oh no!” I cried while looking over my shoulder. “My phone is ringing! I should really get that!”

“Your phone isn’t ringing,” the salesman aptly observed.

“Maybe you need to buy a pair of replacement ears,” I said before slamming the door shut.

The salesman wedged his hand and foot between the closing door and gritted his teeth as blood poured from the fresh wound on his palm. For such a lanky person, the salesman was surprisingly strong and irritatingly persistent.

“Sir, you really don’t want to miss out on some of these deals!” the salesman grunted as he struggled to pry the door open.

“Why won’t you leave me alone?” I shouted, veins protruding from my forehead and neck as I desperately struggled to close the door on the salesman.

“I just want you to consider whether your life could be made more whole by replacing your large intestine with a surround sound system!”

Setting Sail - A Short Story

I’m not ready to set sail.

Sweaty palms, encumbered breaths and nervous gazes abound on the deck on this ship. I can see that clearly now, and not just because the Sun is rising. Everybody is looking to me to guide us safely to our destination, and so they should. That responsibility falls on me. I alone chose to bear it, for reasons which are presently escaping me. I just wish I had the luxury of openly wearing my fears on my sleeves. It’s not as though I’m any more capable of telling the future than they are.

Our course isn’t clear, though the skies and seas are, and these conditions will doubtless cease to persist given enough time. Each change in the wind is chilling my skin and sending my teeth chattering, and it’s not that the breeze is particularly cold. I’m moving about but not accomplishing much of anything, as my eyes are firmly glued on the horizon, searching for the slightest change in the water. Any excuse would be welcome, for the ship isn’t even listing, and I still feel the overwhelming urge to expunge my stomach.

If only I knew more. I could embark on this journey with the knowledge that everything will be fine. That this ship will weather whatever storms should come our way. That the place we’re going to even exists. That we’ll get back home safe. Knowing such things would be wonderful. Unfortunately, I don’t.

I’m more familiar with this ship than my own house, but how much good will that do me when what awaits us out there in those strange and perilous seas is a complete mystery? Storms will almost certainly come, but I don’t know when, nor how strong they’ll be. Safe harbour will be difficult to come by what with the very real possibility that nothing awaits us on the other side of this ocean besides death. I can’t even be certain that my crew will make it there and back with their minds intact. This endeavour is wrought with uncertainty and sure to entail the surmounting of challenges never faced by mortal men.

I could always turn back if things became too difficult. There’s no shame in that. I can’t be expected to die for this. Sure, I may become the subject of scorn and ridicule, but I can better cope with mockery than water in my lungs. Why do I even feel compelled to do this when I have no idea what I’m doing? What’s wrong with me? Surely there’s enough to satiate me here. These lands have been plenty bountiful for as long as I’ve walked upon them.

What’s all this for anyway? I’ve been telling myself that all this is to be done in the pursuit of knowledge, but that can’t be it. Surely that’s not the reason. There must be something else informing my decisions. Is this greed? Am I simply seeking the approval of others? Or am I trying to emulate my betters? That sounds like something a fraud would do, and I am a fraud. I’m not my heroes. They were better than I could ever be. They ventured into the unknown with the fortitude of the gods. I have no such strength.

I feel like I’ve told myself these things before. In fact, I’m confident I’ve said such things of myself in the past, often when I was about to do something new and daring. Often when failure was a real possibility. I’ve failed before though, spectacularly on occasion, and now I seldom make the same mistakes. Some of my greatest accomplishments stem from those missteps. When I was a child, I struggled to tie a knot. Now I’m in command of a vessel.

Why am I doing this?

Others have told me why they think I’m doing this, but they aren’t me. They don’t know what I’m thinking, and they certainly don’t control me. My reasons for doing this may not have always been noble. Perhaps there was a time when I sought to embark on this journey simply to attain accolades or the favour of others, but I could change all that right now. I could choose another reason to steer this ship into the unknown, one which relies not on my success but simply my willingness to try, as I always have. Maybe that’s enough to see me through to this journey’s end.

Should I become lost, the stars will always serve as my guide. If the sky is to ever become concealed by clouds, and if ferocious winds stir up waves to pummel my galleon, I can always choose to stare through the rain, look ahead, and do my best to get there. The destination I have in mind may not be where I arrive. That’s not up for me to decide, but at the very least, I can propel myself onward for as long as my heart pumps blood. That’s my decision alone.

I don’t know everything, but it’s not in my power to know everything, and if it were, there wouldn’t be much of a point to all this. What is my purpose if not to endeavour to know that which I don’t, but might?

How else could I fulfill my purpose other than by setting sail?