Definitely not a Story of Love

He looked at her while she didn't even so much as give a glance.  Every day was the same story.  He had this misguided belief that if she would just look at him then he had a chance with her, but we all know that a look is just a look with little to no meaning more than that.

Still, his gaze didn't falter. 

He watched as she spoke to many other people, usually in a sarcastic manner to ensure everyone around her knew of her place in the societal hierarchy.  She knew she was better.  That just made him desire her even more.

There is always that point in time when a person comes face to face with what they believe they want only to discover just how wrong it is for them.  This story isn't about that, though it will definitely feel as though it falls along that line.

Our lonely hero decides one day that he will force her acknowledgment.  He bumps into her causing quite an awkward moment. 

"Why the fuck did you bump into me, asshole?"  Her voice is shrill and condescending.

"It was an accident."

"You gross mother fucker, just leave me alone." 

And just like that, our lonely hero felt completely crushed.  Their eyes met, at long last, and only for her to shut all his desires down.

Of course, that was a few decades ago.  Our lonely hero has had many failures within those fateful years - all of which contained fruitful nuggets of information he learned from.  His memory of youth was little more than memories of many mistakes, the likes of which he would never want to repeat.

Our antagonist, on the other hand, made but one mistake.  One mistake that she has had to live with ever since - marrying the first person who treated her like the condescending bitch she was and letting him make her into his submissive housewife, a mother to his obnoxious and bratty children.  Her memory of youth was full of fond memories, memories of dominance and being wildly desirable. 

Our lonely hero rarely ever thought about women who rejected him, especially the one who called him a gross mother fucker.  Meanwhile, she longed for someone to idolize her the way he did back in those long since passed days.

She knew he stared at her.  She knew him running into her was an attempt to gain her attention.  That just made her even more fierce, thinking that was the way to ensure he kept going the way he had for so long.

That didn't work, though.  The last day he ever looked at her with longing eyes was the day our lonely hero performed his little stunt for attention.  It was also the day, he would never find out, that she met the man that would transform her from the fierce bitch into the docile puppy.

The hero of this story learned, in no short part from his experience here, that the amount of effort one puts into winning someone over does not equal the amount of love a couple has for one another.  The antagonist learned what it was like to put forth all the effort and never learned that equality was far more a sign of love than effort.

The two would go on with their lives, never to meet again.  He traveled throughout the world, finding meaning in every little thing he did.  She stayed in their hometown convincing herself that her life had meaning.

-Dustin S. Stover

Happiness in a Void of Darkness is my collection of short stories and can be purchased at either of the links below.
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Authenticity

It was a terribly gray sky, though the rain wouldn't fall.  He sat with eyes sharply peering at the peak of a neighboring house, yet if he was asked what he was looking at he'd have no idea.  He had no idea. 

The funky bass line roars and her voice rips the sky wide open, at least inside his mind.  There is a synthesizer that breaks up the sounds of traditional instruments while fitting so effortlessly that without knowing better you'd believe it was being keyed the way a piano would.  Jazz drums is always his favorite to listen to.

It was all fitting perfectly for his day.  Solitude, contemplating life's trials and temptations, gray skies darkening everything around, and music that felt as though it was just as much a part of the scenery as the clouds in the sky.

Of course, this says nothing to what he was seeing while staring at the roof top.  He was seeing his former life fading from present day into the past.  His best friend died a few short days ago from a drug overdose, yet he was entirely oblivious of his friend's habit.

He is reminded of some quote he heard many years ago - one he cannot fully remember - that states something about never truly knowing someone until they are under extreme suffering.  It never made much sense to him at the time as he simply believed he could know someone with relative ease, but now thinking about his friend he understood that he never saw him suffering.

He tries to summon memories of his friend suffering.  Memories clear from distant fogs in which he would get drunk with his friend over some girl or the loss of a job - that time he had to sell his favorite guitar to make rent that month.  There was a feeling, at the time, that this was suffering, but it wasn't.  It was the evasion of suffering and he only now has he begun to understand.

A tear creeps out of the corner of his eye as he begins to think back on all the little signs of heroin usage.  The lame duck excuses of being too busy to reply to a text message after days.  The memory of how often his friend had been sick within the recent months.

More than those memories and the feeling of stupidity crawling around in his mind, he found a great sadness in how he would never be able to laugh at some stupid shit a customer said, or share this great jazz he was listening to now with his friend. 

This is life, though, and he knows that no matter how he feels that he will have to get up tomorrow and pretend everything is alright with everyone he interacts with.  The only break he will get from pretending is the point in time he is at the funeral services, but even that will feel so impersonal as everyone else there will be feeding off of the emotions of one another.  Aunts and uncles will be crying immensely even though they hadn't seen him in years and people who only knew him in passing will be talking about how great of a person he was, how terribly he will be missed.

He begins to acknowledge that life is just one big swath of falsehood.  A display of what humanity is supposed to look like - a heroin addict near killing himself playing it off as though he is just a little sick, people mourning the loss of a life they knew nothing about, and even his job of interacting with people with a fake smile to sell whatever shit he was pushing onto the people.  It is all fake.

Could authenticity exist at all in a society that rewards the inauthentic far more?  The creeping thought of this was increasingly spreading throughout his mind.

He then remembered his friend, the moment in time the two met.  They sat on the back steps of a house, party in full force inside, and discussed just how fake everyone inside the party was.  How everyone was showing off in order to one-up one another or just to get laid, how it wasn't either one of their scenes. 

They both went back to an apartment - he couldn't remember if it was his or his friends - and listened to albums all night long, critiquing the guitar playing, the drums, the vocals, and how well it all pieced together.  He remembered how authentic they were with one another about it all, unashamed to hate a song or band the other loved.  It was the start of an authentic friendship.  It was the start of an authentic friendship, and now he had a greater appreciation for that than ever before.

-Dustin S. Stover

If you find pleasure in reading my short stories, please consider supporting me by purchasing my writing.  It allows me to continue to pursue this crazy little hobby of mine as I attempt to turn it into a profession.

My collection of short stories is called Happiness in a Void of Darkness and can be found at the following links:
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Knock

It started out as a humbling drive into the sunset but emotions grew, and before he knew it he was well above the speed limit.  In a world of automated cars, people who find simplicity by having the technology do all their work for them, and priorities have shifted to pleasure long ago it becomes an act of rebellion to be perceptive.  That is where the hero, or villain, of this story will reside.

His car is of a vintage nature, a time when there was a such thing as a driver and a driver utilized three pedals and a stick between the seats to control the speed and acceleration of the vehicle.  It was small, only having two seats as opposed to the modern cars with cabins of bed-like seats, and was built with the intention of putting a smile on the driver's face.  Now only a few would know how to turn a steering wheel as anything more than a novelty.

While cleaning out his great grandmother's home, years ago, he came across a collection of books.  He didn't even know what they were - it had been decades since the last one had been printed and now people just listened to books selected for them by the state based on their age, gender, and racial background.

Among the books were the likes of Nietzsche, Sartre, and Camus.  His grandfather, still remembering the old ways of reading, taught him the words within the book and talked to him about their meanings.  While this behavior was not strictly forbidden by the state, it had been almost exclusively pushed out of societal norms. 

Now our hero has found himself at odds with society.  Upon re-reading The Stranger by Albert Camus he began to see himself in the character - not so much the kind of person who could kill a person and then show no remorse for it, but a person who perceived the world through a detached emotion.  Another thing he began to notice was that everyone around him held no distinct emotion to their experience, no unique experiences.

His car, which had been handed down to him from his father whom got it from his father whom got it from his father, was weaving between the automated machinery.  Each vehicle altering it's speed automatically to allow him easier access - a design feature programmed by the early programmers of automated cars to ensure those who still enjoyed driving wouldn't be held up while they were breaking various laws.  It was also a way for the state to monitor people who drove themselves - see too many cars in a location altering their speed and you know you have someone driving themselves.

His wife, whom he shared conversation with before this drive, had proclaimed him mentally unsuitable for children due to his perception of the world.  To him, this was not only an insult but an absurdity.  He knew the people of the world were lost.  They are lifeless, thoughtless, selfless shells of the humanity that had existed for hundreds or thousands of years. 

He remembered when he first read Camus' classic, how it made him feel when he read about that fateful gun shot and ultimate murder.  He felt conflicted.  He knew it was wrong for that gun to be fired, he knew it was wrong to murder someone, but what else could he have done in the situation?  It was the first time our villain of this story realized that people could have choices, and from that point forth he begun being paralyzed by choices.  He didn't want to same soup for dinner than his wife cooked night after night.  That old car that had been passed down between the generations suddenly looked like a viable means to get from point A to point B, at least if he could learn how to drive it - so he did.

He saw the different races of people, whom he had never really had any real interaction with before since they were forced to go to school together, take the same jobs as one another, and eat the same foods as one another - all dictated by the state, of course, because the state believed it knew what would suit everyone best.  Suddenly, however, he wanted to try the other ethnicities foods.  What about that round thing that was shared amongst an entire family?  What about that steaming hunk of meat that would be sliced into several slices, each going to the children, mother and father?  He didn't even have names for these things as the only thing he had to eat was soup - night after night, with the same ingredients. 

The conversations he had with his wife about other ethnicities, trying different foods, and how odd it was that these people did not share things with one another is what led her to believe him unfit for children.  In his society, little did he know, it was always the wife's job to report abnormalities within the household to the state. 

In his rear-view mirror he saw flashing lights coming towards him fast, but he had no idea what this represented.  All he knew is that each of the other cars on the road were moving to the side and stopping, automatically, while his car kept right on moving.

At one point, he stood at the door of another family of different ethnic background, but he couldn't bring himself to knock.  He just wanted to ask them a few questions about their lives.  He had heard once, in passing, that every ethnicity spoke a different language.  He just stood at the door, he never knocked, and they never knew.

There was a loud THUNK into the back of the car.  A moment later the engine died, along with all the lights, and the fuzzy sound coming out of the radio.  The flashing lights came up on him fast, it was several cars, and surrounded him on every side.  Guns pointing directly at him.

"Your wife has told us how you think, what you feel.  You aren't allowed to think.  You aren't allowed to feel."

His final thought was about standing at that door - how he should have knocked.

-Dustin S. Stover

If you enjoyed this short story and would like to read more of my work, or would just like to support me in a small way (but really, I'd prefer if you purchased to read) then feel free to click the links below to buy my collection of short stories, Happiness in a Void of Darkness.  And thanks again for taking your time to read.

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A Mildly Depressing Chapter with Little Purpose

A handful of people sit, by pure coincidence really, while a jazz band plays covers of music spanning nearly a century. The band alters the songs drastically to fit their jazz style, but the lyrics remained the same as those ultimately influential tunes.

The small crowd, mostly of an ethnic majority, parades themselves in fancy clothes as though it is a fancy night, though they don't do a tremendous amount to support the band or the establishment. One couple buys a drink, splits it between the two of them. Another patron doesn't even turn from the bar to acknowledge the band's hard work.

A group of friends, though, found themselves here by chance and begin to thoroughly enjoy the music.

The awkward silence after the first song suspends in the dimly lit air as though it would last forever, but then the pianist announces the next song and continues anyway.

The audience hasn't a clue that this fateful night was not supposed to have a band – this was a special event that had as much publicity as the homeless person sleeping on a park bench not even a mile away.

The song's original context of a few minutes extends well beyond ten in this format and contorts in such a way as to not even be recognizable if it were not for the lyrical content, which only interjects itself at random points.

The group of friends are really enjoying themselves as one of them turns to another to announce that jazz is their favorite type of music to see live – the way the band members converse with one another using their instruments as though speaking their own distinct language no one else understands and taking the conversation in seemingly random ways has always appealed to him.

The audience finally claps as the song ends, all it took was that one person to start it all. The pianist announces the next song, a cover of a famous Beatles song.

The couple sharing the drink looks at one another in disengagement. The man at the bar still hasn't peered up from the drink in front of him, now on his third or fourth. The group of friends seem to to be the only ones engaged in the music at all.

The song ends with the group of friends peering around to one another, presumably waiting for someone to give acknowledgment of how good the band played their cover song. The acknowledgment never came.

Etta James was next on the list of covers. They really did it good justice, even though the voice was nowhere close. The guy at the bar turned around, even forgetting about his drink for a minute or two. The group of friends bobbed back and forth to the rhythm of the music. The couple, one of which had slipped outside to smoke on his cigarette, had abruptly put it out and slip back inside the door and enjoy the pleasantry. The woman declines another drink as she refuses to take her eyes off the band.

A group of college age kids walk by, peaking through the windows as they giggle to themselves about how few people are being entertained. A snide joke is made about how the business is such shit that it will be closed soon.

The patrons, nor the band, hear any of it. Their entertainment trumps what they would consider the ignorance of youth.

Etta James' song ends and a round of applause loud enough to be three or four times as many people as there were bursts out as the closing line ends.

The music continues while each of the patrons leave. The man at the bar walks out slowly and unnoticed. Next the couple of single drink smokers, not even remotely caring if they are noticed. Finally, all that remains is the small group of friends, two of which want to stay but know they can't. They leave, begrudgingly. The bland finishes their last song a few minutes after the group leaves with no one remaining to applaud their work.

-Dustin S. Stover

For short stories of varying degree of intellectual stimulation and entertainment can be found on both Nook and Kindle with the links below.

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The Perplexing Condition of the Youth and the Elderly

A child, young enough to be a great grand daughter to the old man, tells him a story about how a chicken makes a “po” sound. The old man sits confused as this is the most perplexing thing he has heard. “No, child, chickens make a 'cluck' noise.”

Noticeably upset, the child gets louder, as though the loudness will make the old man change his perception. It doesn't. The old man, worn from old age yet still defiantly stubborn, refuses to raise his voice as much as he refuses to change his mind.

The argument continues on like this for quite some time – the child now red in the face and flustered as she continues to convince the old man as to how wrong he is. The old man, having lived a great deal longer than the child, also knows her to be wrong, but as he tries to explain to the child that it is simply a matter of geographical understanding that has led each of them to the different perspectives the child interrupts with the explanation of just how wrong he is.

The old man attempts to change the subject now. Perhaps music would be a more appropriate topic, he thinks. Of course, the child has opposition to this as well. See, she is hip on all the modern music and the old man, well, his prime was decades ago. He couldn't possibly understand what constitutes as musical today.

He tries to explain to her how sounds have textures, how they create emotion with the various depths in which the instruments get played, yet modern music has little of this. Timbre, he calls it while describing what it is. Of course, the youth don't care. They know what sounds pleasant to their ears without the critiquing aspect. In a way, the old man is jealous at the simplicity of the little girl's life, yet he knows that eventually she is going to have to grow up and face the harshness of reality. Teaching her depth about the pleasurable things in life is just his way of trying to prepare her for the world to come - to look at things from a deeper perspective without suffering consequences in the process.

Then the child plays the old man a song – some new song that has a diabolically simple bass line with a few blip noises to hold time. She dances like a mad man as the old man sits back wondering what it is she is dancing to. It makes no sense to him as there is no rhythm to dance to, but he lets it happen anyway. He has gotten to that point where he understands resistance is futile and trying to understand her is worthless. Being perplexed stays, though.

He has to ask anyway, “what do you like about this music?” The old man asks in a very sincere, non-offensive way.

“I just like it. I don't have to know why,” the girl answers quickly.

The admiration of the simplicity fades into an annoyance, yet remains enough for him to still wish he could be so simple.

That, however, is when politics enters into his mind. Remembering the past, having watched so much happen that has led to the point they are at today – socially, economically, politically. The simplicity in ignorance is what has led to such a catastrophic state. The unemployment numbers may be down, but the average income is extraordinarily low compared to the cost of living. Slavery may have ended, but it has arguably changed to prison labor instead. Political parties work their damnedest to divide a country while neither side is working to benefit the society as a whole. This is the world this girl will have to face and the old man fears that if she can't even understand that her admiration for the song is nothing more than because of how familiar it is then how will she ever have enough comprehension to know that every action is equal parts good and bad – how will she know that the politicians she votes for, if she even votes, are going to use her lack of understanding to ensure they get her support?

The old man has lived too long, he feels, as he sees now that he is alone in paying attention. The rest of the world is like this small child – trying desperately hard to enjoy things as superficially as possible, and finding hope in the promises of those who would manipulate them for their own personal gains and the gains of those they support.

Teaching someone of any age to care is difficult, but a child? That is downright impossible when they feel they know better. Of course, the old man knows he can't live forever. He just wishes better for the future.

-Dustin S. Stover