On familiar suburban streets there was a boy who couldn’t stop crying. He felt sorry for himself, and wanted to apologise to everyone for the horrors of the world. He had so much love, but didn’t understand where it came from. The world was losing colour. It was once so bright. Now everyone looked grey, like empty toy soldiers. Wound up by a distant and fading ambition, they marched back and forth, all looking for the same thing. Each haphazardly exploring the same path that they’d trodden for years, looking as though they knew they’d never find it. They seemed disoriented. These people were successful and respected. There was more to their name than the boy’s, but he had something that they didn’t. He would go out to watch them every morning and every afternoon, each marching on their favoured path. He wondered what was at either end, and why soldiers would turn grey.
He would follow the network of valleys in the bark of a tree, getting lost in their intricacies. It felt timeless. Unfortunately, each-and-every time, this feeling expired. Each-and-every time he was left with a solemn sense of detachment. He’d then start to question what everyone else was doing with their time. He couldn’t help but feel a large part of humanity’s energy was spent and wasted.
Despite this empty feeling, he kept his head up through the monotony, melancholy and futility that seemed to reside everywhere he looked. Through perseverance he came to a somewhat brutal epiphany that this act of looking was itself monotonous, melancholy and futile. Strangely, this gave him hope. He started looking for something unfamiliar; something that broke the rule; a feeling perhaps.
What was so special about a bloody tree?
And why didn’t it marvel anyone else?
The boy’s name is Victor, he's just reached the age when you realise that adults talk a lot of shit. He can reliably clock off when someone's talking redundantly, circling their point like a cheap magician waving a plastic wand. “You’re feeling sleepy”, and Ta Da, “Now you’re irritated by my vapid facade of wisdom…”. “Oohhh, ok, yeah great. Thanks”, Victor would reply in charity. To be honest with you, he was a bit up his own arse at that age. He was also quite arrogant, and still is. Wow. What a prick!
Curiosity will soon lead Victor to look around himself in awe, but let’s start at a simpler time: He’s been finding his suburban studies restrictive as he feels they fit too snugly into an otherwise vapid lifestyle. You can hardly blame him for doubting the basis of the prospects laid out so neatly in front of him, or for habitually avoiding such nonsense as trying to please his peers. No wonder he likes staring at trees.
Trees have it easy. They just grow up, and there's no voice in a tree's mind questioning which direction up is. Victor on the other hand finds himself rocking between excessive doubt and acceptance, like a man blind-drunk on the tube trying to orient himself with a compass. A man desperately trying to get to a quiet part of London before something horrible happens. His defence against the dark arts: sudden-onset terror, palpable, and radiating from deep in his chest.
Victors biggest challenge will be keeping his scepticism from reflecting inward and, like any decent protagonist, he will lapse on occasion. These lapses have a tragic and solitary comfort to them.
Maybe that's why, in both bouts and sagas, he continues to revisit his self-doubt to this day.
Maybe it’s inertia that drags him down, maybe it’s Ying and Yang playing a much bigger game and he’s just along for the ride, or maybe his self-doubt is an important part of a meaningful pursuit. I don't know, but it seems like it will bring an adventure.
He was leaning back on a tire swing, seemingly idle, when the rustling of branches above caught his attention. There was a boy swinging through them, barely grabbing the second branch before letting go of the first. He fell.
Initially Victor thought the boy might’ve died. It seemed to be a reasonable assumption, due to; the height that he fell from; the noise that he made on landing; then there's the fact that he still wasn’t moving. Our protagonist fantasised about fabricating his own dramatic demise, but no matter how convoluted and thrilling of a demise he envisioned, it felt cheap. He was a firm believer that nothing worthwhile ever comes easy, and death would be no exception.
Autum Magic by Graham Gercken
Victor stood, and — in part terror, part morbid curiosity — walked toward the boy. It was a hellacious feeling of unrest, a feeling that victor intended to savour. He knew it wouldn't last, he could see the boy breathing, and the many bruises on his calves. ‘I bet he falls from trees all-the-time’ Victor correctly assumed.
After a moment of rest, the boy sprung to his feet. His balance was surprisingly crude considering how natural he’d looked in the trees. The crooked stature, and uneven walk seemed to fit his worn aesthetic. Now facing a stunned protagonist, he jolted out his arm for a dusty handshake. Victor had a playfully tense left fist — with his feet in stance — he slowly raised his right hand to meet the character’s. Unphased by Victor’s stern face, he put on a confidently jovial expression. This shocked Victor, who though he’d mastered his macabre and unsettling presence. He felt weak to the foreign and impenetrable sense of optimism that looked straight through him.
“I’m Victor”, he managed to say assertively.
“Joey mate, lovely to meet you”, he said with a smile.
Then started to beat the knots out of his thigh with the knuckles on the back of a half-fist, he turned to squat and look out over the sea. Joey seemed fixated on the horizon, which Victor found promising. He’d never seen such a look of adoration. The moment had a sense of purpose, it gave Victor confidence that they were heading for a new horizon.
The thought of change was enough to excite them, but their confidence and hysteria were rapidly diminishing: a disappointing reality for Victor, but just another dissonant hurdle for Joey. “Fancy a swim?”, he suggested while holding his gaze. Victor questioned why; it didn’t seem particularly thrilling. Besides, if they were going to reach the horizon before it settles, it couldn’t be as straight-forward as swimming there. The horizon would surround them, and they’d be lost. He hastily put together a better plan but wouldn’t tell Joey because it was “riddled with impractical risks”, as he put it. While ‘secretly’ he was concerned that Joey might be able to inspire a rebel within.
The following days we’re drawn out into months. They bonded over insolent squabble and shared a need to celebrate. Celebrating became a skill, and a skill worth celebrating. Victor made an announcement:
“Joey mate, I’ve just realised something: Stars can only shine in the middle of darkness.
It’s like— when they’re needed— they shine. Then like— when its day— it’s like, they’re resting— or something?”
“It’s like when you spent the whole night talking to jenny and you didn’t even snog”, said our beloved windup artist.
“You mean, as opposed to spending the whole night perving on girls you barely know”, Victor affronted
“You’ll get some action soon mate. Don’t worry, we’ll get you laid one-day. Miss Harris seems to fancy you, d’you reckon she’ll ever show us her tits, or am I gonna’ have t’ hide my boner in every maths lesson?”, Joey blurted out with a chuckle. Victor responded begrudgingly with something he’d found comforting earlier that day:
“Ehh, it’s all swings and roundabouts mate”, fondly, as though he’d invented the phrase. A wonderfully jovial reminder that any consistency in life is precious, no-matter how vapid or painfull. Disappointed that the conversation was no longer crude, Joey responded with his signature disregard:
“Have you ever thought — maybe? — life could be more than just video games and porn.”
Victor recognised the disgruntled sarcasm and wondered what he’d done to upset Joey. Joey was a complicated man; trapped by a lack of guidance, and at the same time unhinged from his parent’s ‘supervision’. This was his way of saying both: ‘I bet you just sit around and wank all day’, and more importantly, ‘oh shut up — you’re not that great’. These connotations (despite true) didn’t bother Victor, rather that Joey’s arrogance always survived despite the venom it carried. Maybe he enjoyed seeing Victor: like a cat with a mouse; fixated on his smirk; ready — waiting to pounce!
“Ooh, Whachu’ gonna’ do.”, Joey poked — reaffirming that his interest in violence hadn’t yet been quite as quenched as our cautious protagonist’s.
“I won’t have to do anything if you’d just— relax”, Victor offered peace — but gave an instigator a match.
“Awwhh-mate, I don’t get what you’re so worried about. No one’s going to hurt ya”, Joey said condescendingly enough.
“I know no one’s going to hurt me, I’m worried I’ll hurt you. Now-mate, take a couple steps back, and let’s just both— relax.”
Joey stepped timidly into range. Victor raised his eyebrows before twitching his knee up. Joey flinched and briefly dropped the impish hysteria he usually wore.
Victor sighed.
He saw something rare in Joey — a sense of wonder. They knew that their potential lay somewhere in their imagination. Some thoughts they valued more than others, some more than their origin. These thoughts were wild, and they needed space to roam. This was their mutual contribution; freedom; freedom from which a subtle dependence grew.
Who else would listen?
Who else would understand?
It was a challenge maintaining conversation for our heroes, they were often thrown into an irritating and specious debate. In which, Victor was to be accused of impersonating an admirable trait, then would defend his adoption of the trait by acting it out (as best he could) in his answer. These routine negotiations kept their wits sharp. Victor considered them good practice: tedious and crude, yet valuable. Joey was more focused on directing them toward a memorable outcome.
By any account so far, luck hadn’t been reliable for Victor. He would often say things like,
“Happy mistakes are nothing to depend on” and thought of identifying a skill as a prerequisite to developing it. Identifying skills victor had identified as a skill. He considered it the key to exponential success, a never-ending end to his existential dread. In a sense, he was correct because disappointment is opposite dread. After a week, he hadn’t seen much success; his disconnect was all that he left. Negligibly closer to appearing on Forbes, disappointed. He was back to the drawing board and had enjoyed it.
Joey found Victor’s attitude “too benign” and wanted to see what would happen if he could put his mind to something; something big; something flashy. Guns and cars. Abseiling from the 40th floor of HSBC’s offices, that type of shit.
Images created using NightCafe
This is a work in progress, please do share your thoughts
Looking forward to meeting new characters & do hope there’s a happy ending.