Hello Reader! A quick note: What you are about to read is kind of an unconventential blog post. This is a very short story written by the blog author, Bri. I'd love to hear your thoughts and reactions to the story in the comments. But please remember to keep criticism constructive and helpful and something I or any writer take forward to continue to grow as a writer. Thanks for reading and enjoy!
Listen Along!
Click play and listen to the story read by Bri with special sounds effects.
And now...
Ian Wright held his briefcase close to his person in an attempt to keep his prized possession under the black umbrella. As he trudged through the downpour in the familiar city, he passed by businesses shuddering their windows, street vendors trying to make a couple more quid before closing down for the storm, and groups of people talking – frankly, too loudly – about the day’s news.
“His time is coming to an end, if you were to ask me!” proclaimed quite a rotund gossiper.
“Nobody’s asking you, Djonathan,” answered an equally loud gossiper.
Ian grimaced and quickened his pace.
When he was younger, he didn’t mind hearing the news. In fact, he rather enjoyed reading the papers with breakfast and prided himself on staying up to date. He was among the first to begin following a certain political presence and correctly predicted that said presence – he daren’t even think the name anymore – would go on to do a great many things. Shortly thereafter, he found himself dreading the morning’s paper. Finally, after the incident some summers ago, he swore to never read editions that featured theft, death, or war on the front page. As such, these days he goes without the papers.
“Well, I heard he was looking for more men,” came another much too loud bit of gossip.
This time, Ian caught himself leaning toward the rumormongers, ears pricking, heart pounding.
Men? More men? What plot could be unraveling now?
But, as fortune would have it, his umbrella sprung a leak at that exact moment. The water that had pooled in the sagging nylon splashed cold onto his face.
“Blasted thing,” he muttered to himself as he ducked into a doorway of an apartment building with an overhang. He carefully set his briefcase down on the dry stoop and examined the tear. And it was only a tear, maybe two fingers wide. Back at the shop, he could sew it up in only a minute and be on his way again. But did he dare turn back for the shop now?
He pushed back the sleeve of his overcoat to peer at his wristwatch and, ignoring the eight whirling faces circling the central watch-face, he checked the local time and cursed under his breath.
No, he thought. Surely Bransyn would be by the shop now and no doubt he has his usual million questions. I would be stuck for half an hour, then steal a moment to sew up the fabric, sneak past the girls again, and still have to walk all this way. No, best I just take it in stride. The umbrella can wait. And if it can’t, then even more reason not to run back and waste my time just now. It’s an old umbrella anyway. Perhaps it’s time for a new one.
He folded up the broken thing, stuck it under his arm, and bent down to collect his precious briefcase. As he straightened again, a man caught his eye.
Sitting on the sidewalk, back against the brick of the building, with a bag stuffed full of possessions and not much else. The overhang of the roof kept most of his head safe from the rain, but his arms and legs were soaked. He was shivering. He looked up at Ian and said in a hoarse voice, “If you’ve got no use for it, sir, I can make it useful. Got no coin, but I could do you a good turn as payment.”
Ian looked down at the umbrella he bought at a deal probably close to ten years ago now. He looked at the leather handle that held up okay to the wear. He suddenly became very aware of his warm overcoat and flannel, the leather-bound briefcase he spent a whole paycheck on, the expensive paper and ink he carried with him that felt in this moment more like a luxury than a business necessity.
“Here,” Ian said, handing the umbrella over to the man. “No payment needed. Stay warm, friend.”
A smile broke out on the man’s face so that Ian could see every tooth the man had lost. “Thank you, sir, thank you kindly.”
Awkwardly, unsure of the protocol of this kind of social engagement, Ian nodded and added, “I pray your situation improves.”
“I believe it will, sir.” And then the man looked away, glancing down the sidewalk to the right, then to the left, then focusing back on Ian. He raised himself up a bit and whispered in his hoarse voice, “The Calvary is in pursuit.”
Ian waited half a second for the man to clarify, but he only chuckled to himself and went on to inspect his new luxury item, fiddling and deciding how he should hold it to make the most of its usefulness.
When Ian realized the conversation was over, he quickly and quietly said, “Yes, well, good day,” and took off down the sidewalk again. This time clutching the briefcase closer than before, as if this would keep it anymore dry than simply walking casually.
Criptics, he thought with a bite. If you have something to say, say it and be done with it. I haven’t the time to decipher just any riddle thrown my way. … Then again. Calvary. Now, where have I heard that recently? Oh, this is nonsense, and not how I am spending my one afternoon!
And just like that, Ian Wright put umbrellas, gossips, and the Calvary out of his head for good.
Oh dear, I need more please.