Posts

Showing posts with the label flashfiction

Can I Change the World Alone?

Can I, one soul among billions, truly change the world?

It is the kind of question that begs for a simple “no.”
And yet—how dishonest it would be to dismiss it so quickly,
as if a “yes” were foolishness not worth a second thought.
For saying “no” outright denies even the tiniest ember of wonder,
and saying “yes” assumes a world so perfect,
so pliable to desire,
that a single hand could shape its course.

But the world—
this world—
is far from perfect.
Perhaps it never was.
Not even in the days when humans were few,
and the earth breathed with more silence than smoke.

There was once a man—
just one—
who discovered how to summon fire from stone,
no longer needing to wait for a jealous sky
to throw a lightning bolt into the trees.

Later came another,
who saw in the quiet soil behind his home
a future full of golden grain,
and chose to plant,
rather than wander the wilds
gathering what grew by chance.

But not long after came others,
who dipped arrows in flame,
and aimed them at their neighbor’s fields
out of nothing but spite.

And when the mammoths had all fallen,
a man who had once hunted them
thought to keep animals close,
safe in pens beside his home,
no longer chasing shadows through snow.

Artists came too—
their fingers stained with earth and dreams—
painting their myths upon cave walls,
especially images of those who hunted mammoths,
but they never once sketched the man
tending his flock in the early dawn.

And then, cities rose.
And flags.
And languages that bound people together—
and others that tore them apart.
Some dreamed of harmony in shared speech,
but others forged weapons to silence every tongue
that was not their own.

Still—there were those I admire most:
those who saw the invisible threads of the cosmos,
who crafted wheels that turned without horses,
and wings of metal that sliced through clouds.
There was one who learned
that light moves faster than anything imagined,
and that even the atom, so small,
could be broken further still.

But knowledge does not choose its masters.
Others took that sacred learning
and shaped it into fire meant to devour cities—
dropping it from machines
that had once been symbols of flight and freedom.

And one man,
drunk on the illusion of his own blood,
marched toward conquest,
believing he was more than mortal,
waging war upon the world itself.

Then came the singers—
the dreamers—
those who believed peace might bloom
from long hair and guitars.
But soon behind them marched
a different song,
a different rhythm,
heavy boots on cold concrete.

All these figures blur now,
spinning through my thoughts
like ghosts in a restless wind.

But one thing—
one truth—
remains:
None of them, not one,
truly changed the world alone.
Not in its entirety.
What they changed
was the world they could touch—
the corner they called their own.
Yet even that,
small as it seemed,
rippled outward.

Not always as they intended,
but always, somehow, it mattered.

So now I ask myself—
Do I want to change the world?
To try, alone,
to offer something
that might bend history toward light?

But what if I’m misunderstood?
What if my gift
becomes a weapon in stranger hands?

Could I bear that weight?

Maybe it is better not to change the world alone.
Maybe the world should not be shaped by one hand,
but by many—together.

Because in the end,
this world does not belong to me.

It belongs to all of us.

a poetic prose essay and cover image by OpenAI, based on an original text & idea

The Prologue of Never-Written Book

Something was bothering her for days.

She didn't actually know what it was. It was not the food. She knew that well, and her belly was not itching her. Not a single bit. Mom was giving her delicious portions every day, and she was feeling healthier and stronger every morning. It was not the air or water either. The forest and all three plains outside were... like usual. Beautiful and green, with lots of life emerging from the trees and rocks. Even the ocean was calm and perfect the other day when she foolishly followed her older brother and his two peers to the cliff. They mocked her all the way down the stream and even took all her snacks she had and found on the way.

No. What she started to experience just the other day after the trip to the cliffs was some sort of discomfort she never experienced before. Nobody could harm her in the forest. It was not that. Not even on the plains. She was always following her mother and brother during all their travels and never got into any trouble. It was something in mom's eyes ever since the northern plain got into flames after those fireballs fell from the sky. They were almost like thunder, only slower and different in the noise they made. And they came from a clear sky. It was nothing serious really and even looked beautiful when one ball hit the ground and the other exploded above the forest into thousands of chunks and fire showers at the same time.


Everything is calm now. They caused little damage, and all the fires were now gone, but still, ever since then, everything started to seem different. Fireworks from the skies didn't stop really, but there were no explosions like the other day. It looked like all the fireballs couldn't reach the ground and instead made red and orange patterns high above the forest. It was beautiful. And spooky at the same time. She started to feel it as well. She couldn't hear all those loud noises from birds and small animals for two days. Even the waterfall just next to their playground sounded quiet and eerie. And the most unusual thing that happened was her father. He returned last night. She saw him only twice last season, and all the timidity she felt the last couple of days, ever since the skyfire, with him around, started to grow into real fear.

The very next day they moved out. Just before dawn, she and her brother started following their parents. They never ran that fast. They never ran in the group at all before. Even others joined. The other species and relatives. Some she recognized from... well, mom's breakfast portions. But she wasn't hungry that morning at all and only tried to keep a fast pace with her family toward the hills. It seemed that their father was taking them to the high ground and all those peaks she dreamed to visit someday.

And then it started. She heard something so loud she thought there was no such thing in existence. And she knew the bolts and thunders well. The ground started to move. In all directions. The rocks and boulders started to fall from the peaks. And in that very moment she did something she thought she would never do. The fear was gone in an instant, and only pure curiosity emerged from her thick skin. She took three long jumps and climbed the sharp edge toward the only place on the cliff with clear views toward the ocean. She even used her tiny arms to balance her disproportionate body.

On the horizon, there was a stream of rocks coming from the sky. Just like the one that, the other day, exploded above the northern plain and lit a forest fire. Only bigger. Much bigger. They were hitting the ocean one after another and making the water glow. All of a sudden it stopped being beautiful and colorful. Only frightening and terrifying. And then she saw their father. Enormous rock. No. Gigantic boulder. No. The mountain. Yes. Just like the one they were climbing right now.

At the end of the trail.

When it hit the water, all the fire and all the glow, all the thunder and roar, everything she just saw and heard for the first time in her life faded out into one pure and ultimate silence. All the sentiment and fear accumulating last week disappeared instantly and merged into one single emotion.

Something new and pure. Something behind nature. Something raw.

The anger.

----------------------------------

Image credits:
Kokoro's Eye from "Playing with Dinosaurs" exhibition in Taipei

Her Last Day

I loved her.

I still do. With everything I've got. Ever since that cloudy day four years ago when we met in the park. Ever since I realized she was the one I was looking for my whole life. Ever since she shared her heart and her entire life with me. Ever since I moved into her place a week after we accidentally jogged into each other.

And look at me now under this eerie rain... Standing on her grave. Alone and wet. I don't know what to do. She would be alive if it wasn't for me.

It was all my fault.

That day I was returning from my afternoon walk and saw Garry, the mailman, from across the street just leaving our building. I hurried back. When I entered our apartment, she had already opened the envelope and a bottle of red wine. With the glass half empty, she saw me, gave me a tired smile, and pointed to the letter on the floor.

"It's another rejection. Oh, Husk... I am not sure I can handle them anymore". She made one of those heavy sighs she started with in recent months and looked into the glass. "Ever since I got fired from the Tribune, all my handwriting and all the scripts were rejected... all of them... by everyone." She looked exhausted and beyond sadness when she finally raised her head and stared at me. "You have beautiful eyes. You know that, don't you?"

It was not the first time she was acting like this. I always tried to comfort her. To give her hope. But today, I didn't do much. I looked at her gently and then at the glass. She gave me a little surrender smile, wiped the tears, and went to the kitchen. With the bottle in one hand and the glass in the other. "I need to prepare something. Bruce is coming to dinner." She turned and gave me that threatening look when I was about to react harshly, like I always did in situations like that. "And please behave this time. You know that he's my former supervisor at the Tribune. I need this... Maybe he is my only chance. I spent all the bright ideas... I am not sending any more letters. Not anymore."

I knew all too well that Bruce was not only her former supervisor. He was the one who fired her. He was also her ex. I hated him. There was something in him I never managed to comprehend. His eyes, his behavior, his moves, his vague rhetoric. His fragrance. There was nothing compelling about him. He was just one of those bullies in suits. A bad man. I almost exploded at him last time. I couldn't risk another scene today, so I went for dinner downtown. I wanted to slam the door on my way out. Hard. I couldn't do it.

I couldn't eat much as well. I lost all my appetite and took a long walk before I got back. I knew he had already left, and I just wanted to avoid her tonight and leave explanations for the next morning, but at the door I realized something bad had happened even before I came in. In the dining room were broken glasses, spilled wine, a shattered vase, and her bloody face behind her hands. She was sitting in the corner and sobbed silently. I couldn't breathe. He hit her. Bad. I should've known this would happen. I was so stupid. The rage started to boil in my veins. Why did I leave in the first place? I had to be here to protect her. Maybe it's not too late. I turned toward the door and took a step.

"Stop." She cried. "Husk, no. Don't go. He's not worth it. Please..."

I went anyway.

I chased him for three blocks in all directions before I gave up. He probably took a cab or came with a car; otherwise, he couldn't outrun me. Not after what I have just seen. The running calmed me down enough, so I turned back and hurried home. I wanted to be there for her. I hoped that would be enough.

But she wasn't there. She didn't take anything with her. Not the jacket, nor the phone. Not even the shoes. The door was wide open, and I saw the blood stains on the hallway walls here and there. She left enough trace to follow her path. But I didn't need anything to know where she went. The place where I found her last time. I hurried like hell. I needed to find her on time. Before it could be too late. Before...

I ran faster.

When I passed the second building to the south and reached the dark alley in the back, I found her sitting against the wall. She was already dead. I was not fast enough. The syringe and the spoon had fallen next to her, and the rubber band was tangled in her palm. She was looking at me with her open eyes for the last time. I froze. I didn't know what to do. I just sat next to her.

It was all my fault.

I loved her. All the way and all too much.

I still do.

So, here I am, standing on her grave on this eerie day. The rain had stopped. I still don't know what to do. I failed her. I should have been... better. But I wasn't.

Life today was like this dark rain. It came to an end. So I just lay down on the grave, put my head on my paws, and closed my eyes.

Autumn in My Neighborhood

I do have regrets. Everybody does. One is that I was born before the Internet and the possibility of being worldwide and online when I was young. To be able to expand my own neighborhood outside the front yard fence. Well, on second thought, that is not entirely true—sometimes I feel the opposite, and there is no real regret. Childhood without networking and computers was not that bad at all. As it seems, the word 'outdoor' for me and my son today has almost completely different meanings. Without the almighty Internet, and it is not too hard to imagine—boredom in my time was easily experienced indoors, and to break it fully, you would have to go outside. It was as simple as that.

But without this habit of mine, blogging to be exact, I think I lost many things from my childhood as well. Tangible things. Like all of my essay exams from the school. I lost all of them. It's not that they were that good or something. Just if I had had Internet back then, I would most likely have written some of them down in the online form and kept them for the record. I didn't score the highest grades too often in those exams, simply because I always wanted to do it differently, and that often meant I didn't have all the elements the teacher demanded for one short written story. They needed to have a proper beginning, the middle elaboration, and the conclusion, and all of that with lots of positive words and adjectives with proper usage of the commas and all the grammar.


Anyhow, Viktor is now in his fourth grade, and they started to have this kind of exam as well. Last week they received one of those stupid titles I hated the most—in this case, "Autumn in my neighborhood", which is pretty much as boring as it is, and to write something interesting behind this title is a mission impossible. Actually, I do understand the importance of titles like this—children are taught to write poetically and precisely in the beginning, and with this one, you have to use lots of imagination to fill the entire page just by describing the weather.

Well, to cut the story short, I offered my help to my son, and he agreed with me writing something down, and the following is the result. He liked it, but my wife, being a teacher and all, didn't think it had all the elements (surprise!), so he used something more appropriate and graded pretty fine. Nevertheless, here is what I wrote.

Autumn in my neighborhood

October started a while ago; it's Monday; now it's exactly seven forty-five, and again I walked into the same puddle in front of our house. It happens to me all the time, and the only difference today is that I stepped in the puddle with both of my feet.

Autumn came long ago, and outside is humid as if it had rained all night. It's cold, and once more I had to go back to change socks and shoes, and then I'll be late for the first class again.

When I finally headed back to the school and this time successfully jumped over the puddle, I realized that the weather was even worse than I thought. Trees have lost almost all the leaves, facades of nearby houses and buildings looked sad and unattractive, the clouds could not be darker, and two city doves on the wire were wet to their skins.

Autumn is the worst season of the year, and this walk to the school proved to me that once again. I can barely wait for it to pass and be replaced by winter, which could bring little snow to the streets this time and look a little less like fall...

In fact, I cannot wait for the spring and the summer to come. Only then does my neighborhood look much more appealing.

Actually, to save this little essay from oblivion is not why I actually decided to publish it in the first place. It's not that worthy, of course, although it's not that bad either. To be honest, I started with the blog not only to share my wisdom ;-) with the world but also for more practical reasons—in the beginning, it was more about me practicing my fluency in written English, and posts like this one serve great for that matter as well. Following is the original Serbian text, which is, I guess, a little better than my 'poetic' translation above.

Jesen u mom kraju

Oktobar je odavno počeo, ponedeljak je, i sada je tačno sedam sati i četrdeset pet minuta, a ja sam ponovo upao u istu baru ispred ulaznih vrata naše kuće. To mi se stalno dešava, i jedina razlika danas je da sam ovog puta ugazio u baru sa obe noge.

Jesen je odavno došla, a napolju je vlažno kao da je kiša padala celu noć. Hladno je, i sada ponovo moram nazad da presvučem čarape i cipele, i ponovo ću zakasniti na prvi čas.

Kada sam napokon ponovo krenuo u školu i ovog puta uspešno preskočio baru, shvatio sam da je vreme napolju još gore nego što sam mislio. Drveće je izgubilo skoro svo lišće, fasade na kućama i zgradama izgledale su tužno i neprivlačno, oblaci nisu mogli biti crnji, a dve gugutke na žici bile su mokre do gole kože.

Jesen je najgore godišnje doba, i ovaj put do škole mi je još jednom to potvrdio. Jedva čekam da prođe i da ga zameni zima, koja bi ovog puta mogla da donese malo snega na ulice i da malo manje liči na jesen...

U stvari, jedva čekam da dođu proleće i leto. Tada je moj kraj mnogo privlačniji.

Whether I succeeded or not, it's not that important, but even my wife said it was good, even though it was not applicable for the occasion, and, for the record, I really need to say that I don't really hate the fall at all. I wrote it in this way just for theatrical purposes and wanted to be different somehow and also to prove that boring titles from elementary school can be inspirational too.

And of course, this story is a work of fiction, and all the names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination, and any similarity with actual events or characters was purely coincidental.

;-)

Sorry, I always wanted to say that... Someday I will write the book just for the possibility of writing this kind of disclaimer on the front page.

Image ref:
http://knowyourmeme.com/memes/danbo