Of Bailey Narrative | Short Story
Note: The following work was originally written for a creative writing class, ENGL 210C, at UWaterloo in Winter 2022. It is very unpolished, this is the first work of its kind written by the author.
In the graveyard of ruined buildings, decaying, turning to detritus, lay some speckles of green. Plants burgeoning through the concrete pieces strewn about, the sun hidden behind misty clouds. Caliban walks by, his foot grazing a single daffodil in the middle of the split yellow strip. He stops, ponders, and turns around to admire the plant. Condensation pours off its petals and drips down its stem. It has no want for water or food. Moments of deliberation pass and he pulls out a jar from his pack. He unscrews the lid and places a petal from the daffodil inside. He is a stout youth, with ashen-red hair. Lined with buckles and bulging pockets, he clinks as he walks. He learned about looters in the past, as best as he could in the decaying wood flesh and dust in the crinkled pages of a book from before. They were compared to sneaky creatures that would scatter at the first sign of trouble. Only if cornered would the scavengers fight back; when they had nothing left to lose. Caliban did not think this applied to him, for one he wasn't afraid when he took stuff, there wasn't anyone or anything to be afraid of. Second the stuff he took didn't belong to anyone, that was one of the other points the aged book mentioned. Looters, fiendish and skittish as they were, took from others what was decidedly theirs; he had a sort of grey area where he was mostly certain nothing belonged to anyone anymore except in the Communes.
He saw a large deep green cube, he angled towards it lifting the black top and saw it was filled with bags. He opened tied transparent sack, pulling out pre-formed shapes slick with rancid food. His fingers scraped silvery rock, cool to the touch, aluminimum he remembered, because it was the least expensive before . He had to sound out the word to recall it, ALU-MINIMUM. He didn’t do much reading in the commune, he was one of the hands-on kids, but he remembered what he did read. There was a shine of light reflected off a shard of glass from a tall tower. One hundred and fifty million kilometres away and it managed to get him in the eyes every day. As he paused to look up at the building, he saw an image of what might’ve been. Towering, filled with a reflection of the sun. The horror. He picked up a rock, twisted it behind himself and released it with all his power. Thud, it bounced off a glass pane and rolled to a stop. He decided to get back at the building he would loot it. Take away its most prized possessions in its peak.
Inside the rectangular cutout on the base floor was a large tunnel that went up to the top of the tower. Cables dangled to and fro from the gusts on the higher floors, a low pitch of wire under tension of its own weight reverberated through the shaft. The base of the building was riddled with chalky stone stuffed with copper coloured shanks. Shards of the glass that blinded Caliban earlier are strewn about and he deliberately walks over them in his mismatched boots. Splitting them further into tiny mirrors and dust. Caliban didn't bother to look around on the first floor, he knew from experience they were always picked clean.
As he climbs the frayed steel cable his arms begin to weaken. He slides down, falling to the bottom with a thud. The echo of his buckles and fasteners hitting the metal floor rings upward through the shaft. He remembers climbing rope in the Commune. It was a different day then, sunny and blue. He was the last to climb up the rope, to the cheers of his friends. “C’mon Caliban! You’re almost there!” His heart was beathing through him, his palms were sweaty, and he wasn’t sure he could make it. A void crept into his body, beginning in his chest and abdomen. It slowly caressed itself through his every fibre, all the way to the ends of his limbs. His hands gave in, it’s the same, what happened then and now. Wind gusts from the higher floors swept dust into the shaft, it piled up on his face, covered his eyes. He likes to think the tears were his body’s way of keeping his eyes clean.
After some hours lost in the past, he wiped the dirt and grime away and began climbing again. Using his legs to keep him steady with his core engaged. Caliban was determined to make it to the top. To break free from his memory, from his time at the Commune. He took breaks on the floors between, not too keen on falling again. He made sure to look down and keep himself reminded of the fear. He made it to the top, his arms sore. The pain was like fire, dancing up and down his length. It was untouched, he had reached his goal. The top floor had a marble reception, black with veins of gold. Glass doors with curtains divided the halls, and carts with metal hats were carefully lined up along the walls. It was a strange sight, why the need for so many carts? He took a hat off and saw an empty plate underneath. These carts were for food, for those unable to feed themselves. It was a stark contrast to his own place. It was a small space, bare ground covered in rickety sheets with dirt in every corner. Crawling green on the walls and deflated cushions. Light peered through some of the cracks in the roof, moving throughout the day inside his dilapidated shelter. Always finding its way into his eyes somehow.
Further in the tower near the perimeter there is a rush of red on the floor, an opening to the world outside. Wind rushed in and gave him a shiver; his clothes were soaked in sweat from the climb up. He sat teetering off the edge and noticed more copper-coloured shanks sticking out of the building. The sun stared him in the face.
Caliban slipped and fell, screaming as he perished. A shank caught him, or rather, caught his buckles and fasteners. He tried to pull himself up, but his arms were still weak. The Commune drifted back into his mind. He was younger then, it was a few years ago. He sat at the edge of the wall of the Commune, looking into the distance. Wondering what the world outside held for him. What it gave him. His first days away from the Commune were miserable. “Why didn’t I go back?”, “Why didn’t they come after me?”, the thoughts raced through his mind. He clung to his belongings, scared to lose what little he had. A glass jar with a flash of green slipped, it hit with a high thud on the side of the building. A million more shards joined it when it met the ground. That could be him. He needed all his belongings, he had nothing without them. Hours passed, where his arms joined his torso was sore. The straps dug into his armpits; he was straddled like a young babe waiting for its mother stuck in a crib. He slowly shook off his extra weight. Accessories first, the buckles and fasteners he needed. “This is ridiculous, I’ll have no stuff at the end of this!” he shouted. He tried to pull himself up again, it his arms were still weak. Swaying to and fro like the cable before he heard a rip and decided against continuing the action further. Maybe if he waited long enough, he could build his strength again. The pack moved about as he wriggled around. He considered slipping through, he would be light enough to lift himself up without it. Light faded, the clouds cleared, and moonlight replaced the burning sun. It was mesmerizing, almost as if it cast a spell on him. It gave him more time to consider his options. If he slid out of it and swayed just enough backwards, he could land back inside the building. Caliban had nothing else to lose except his life, and maybe his sanity. To and fro he swayed towards and against the building. The wind rushed in his hair and the strap continued to rip. He slid his arms out just enough to grab the straps. When he felt one strap give he let go at the top of the arc and landed back into the building. The backpack hanging out of reach where he once was.
Maybe he will go back to the Commune, he’s had enough being alone.