"A man, who finds struggle in his life, decides to take on writing as a gateway to an alternative life. Little does he know that it is rare to be able to control one's own fate."
Night fell over the bustling city
as the wind blew cold through the winding streets. The stars glowed dimly in
the clouded skies, but the moon shone bright. Its glow reflected off the
puddles of an undying rainstorm, along with the lights of old street lamps.
Everyone was pushing their way through a crowded and narrow sidewalk, running
to later be embraced by warmth and family. All were in rush, but a lone figure,
who strolled leisurely against the herd of stampeding civilians. He was a tall
and slender figure, in his mid twenties. He had a messily combed hairstyle and
a face of an ordinary man. A man whose whole life struggles came from financial
problems. Though he had a home, his life was far from luxurious. You could tell
by the paleness of his face, slim with cheekbones protruding out. His grey eyes
could have pierced the night just like the moon, but his face lacked
motivation, drawing more attention to the lines burrowed into his forehead from
stress. His name was Wilfred Serling, a man who couldn’t even spare a dime for
his sorrows.
Continuing on his way, Wilfred
found little salvation under his broken umbrella. He sighed and took in the
scenery. Across the street, he could see the corner shop owner pulling the
gates over the store. The woman, who had owned the flower shop, was doing the
same. To his left, he saw a homeless man, cuddling with his dog, squeezing and
comforting it with his murmurs of hope to a better future. Wilfred sighed once
again, rummaging through his pockets for a dollar bill to hand out. As much as
he may have needed it in the future, the stranger was in much greater need.
Through their exchange, Wilfred gathered the effort to have made a heart
warming smile, a seldom act. Perhaps, the day that he ended up on the streets
as well, another stranger would hopefully do the same for him.
Turning back to his destination
of home, Wilfred got soaked by a speeding car, whose path came across a deep
puddle of dirty street water. He groaned and thought to himself sarcastically
that life could not get any better. Drenched in rain and the water from the
ground, Wilfred finally arrived home. He stood at the doorsteps, gazing up to
find concrete steps awaiting him. Struggling towards the top he began fumbling
for his keys. His home was a single room occupancy in a Victorian style
building. As he walked briskly to his suite door, he could hear the distant
yells of the landlord forcing another tenant to pay up. Locking the door behind
him, Wilfred peered into his room. It was dark and dingy, with telephone and
internet wires lining the walls. To the left of the entrance, the kitchen
displayed a two ring stove with soon to be collapsing cupboards. Ahead of him,
a small window with a crusted cream curtains poorly illuminated the typewriter
along with the brass banisters of his single bed. He was tired and only wanted to sleep, so he
stripped of his street clothes and dived to his bed.
Dazed of the long night, Wilfred scratched
his head the next morning and looked up to the circle clock hung near his
typewriter. He chuckled; did he really need to worry about the time? He was jobless
and friendless, after all. He went around to doing his normal morning routines,
but decided to try something new. He would write a story, a gateway to an
alternative life, about a different man who found love and lived a comfortable
lifestyle. He smiled at the thought and stretched his arms out. He plopped on
his wooden chair and began on his typewriter.
“There once was a man who lived in a perfect world, who lived a perfect
life and who found a perfect love. This is the story as to how a man found happiness
of a lifetime through love at first sight. It had all began with a walk in the
park. The sun was shining and the birds were singing. This man, who went by
Wilfred Serling, happened to be at the right time at the right place. Smiling
to himself, he walked through the park trail, going with the wind, continuing
until the fateful moment that he had bumped into another passer-by. He turned
around to apologize, but his words were lost. She was a beautiful redheaded
woman. Her eyes beamed bright brown as the autumn leaves, and her lips were the
very same red as her pea coat.”
Wilfred, who awed in his own
writing, could almost imagine the woman in front of him. He longed for his
perfect girl to show up in reality too. He frowned and threw on his jacket. He
decided to go for a walk in the very park he wrote about. Maybe, he could find
the girl of his dreams?
Upon arriving at the local park,
he decided to circle the perimeter of the park once. He had figured that it was
no use waiting for an imaginary person to show up. Disappointed by his own self
and the harshness of reality, he stared at his feet and kicked pebbles strayed
from the side of the road. He was getting in rhythm and almost amused at his
fun little game when he had suddenly bumped into someone else. He looked up in
embarrassment and hurried to apologize. Who he had saw made him lost for words.
It was the woman as described in his story, her flowing red hair with bright
hazel eyes. She even had the same perfect complexion with her red lipstick matching
her overcoat. Both stuttered for an apology, more so, Wilfred was stunned.
He looked down at his feet, “I’m
so sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. I must have been so caught up-.”
He was cut off by the sound of
laughter, she smiled, “Don’t worry about it. It’s fine. I guess I’ll be off
now.”
She ran
off, later to be escorted by another gentlemen. Wilfred looked wistfully at the
happy couple as they clung tightly in the frosty weather. Staring into the sky,
he groaned. Of course it wasn’t a coincident that he had saw her, it was just
God’s way of mocking him of his misery. In his anxiety, Wilfred decided to go
to the local café, a place in which he observed the people as they flocked to
life’s daily challenges. It was his source of reassurance, as it showed him
that there were others who shared his dilemma.
A walk that only distanced
several blocks away dragged time through Wilfred’s mind. His footsteps which
were usually of a quiet and soft nature, echoed and rang through his body,
almost making him wince at each step he took. Slowly turning his head, he could
see the flaps of wings, as a cluster of pigeons took off in front of him.
Around him, time had begun slowing, making every second appear as a snapshot to
an old style flipbook. Unwary, Wilfred staggered with each passing step, his
vision distorted, almost greying to monotone. Honks of cars and buses droned
from his senses, which left a deafening high pitch tone to besiege his ears.
“What’s going on,” he panicked.
In attempt to shake off the fatigue, he lightly shook his
head, only later to grasp it of a massive headache. He was beyond tired; he had
felt that he was dying. Clutching his heart, he gasped for breathe. Could he be
having an asthma attack, he wondered. Surely, a false hope from his story along
with a short acquaintance could not have caused for such a drastic heartbreak. He
reached for the small golden doorknob of the café, and onward, he had felt a
sudden jolt of energy, almost as if shocked by a defibrillator. Suddenly, he was
regaining consciousness, as his vision and hearing recovered. The sudden change
of heart rate made Wilfred clutch his heart once again, he gasped for breathe,
frantically turning the knob to find rest in one of the seats. It was a swift
movement, but Wilfred collapsed unknowingly into the seating area of another
patron. Minutes passed before Wilfred realized what had happened. He bolted up
immediately, readying himself to get up to leave after saying his regards.
However, the man who sat across smiled and gestured for him to sit. Wilfred
grinned, and nodded his head. He returned to his seat and held his hand across
for a handshake.
The man, who had a welcoming
smile, had just a welcoming voice, “Hello, I couldn’t help, but to notice you
looked rather ill? Would you like me to get you some water?”
Wilfred shook his head, “Thank
you so very much for the kind offer, but it is best I do not begin mooching my
way through others.”
The man chuckled, “Well, alright.
Anyways, my name is Devon. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Wilfred replied, “Likewise, my
name is Wilfred.”
Wilfred scanned Devon,
noting that he was maybe several years older than himself. He was an average
height male, with a chiselled face. He had a cleanly shaved head, which had
given off sharp characteristics. To add onto his distinct features, he had
frameless spectacles, making him look wise for his age as well.
After exchanging introductions,
they had found themselves conversing for hours. Wilfred was astonished to find
out that Devon had happened to be a published writer.
Wilfred inquired, “Any new work
of yours lately?”
Beaming with excitement, Devon
claimed, “Why yes, it happens to be that I’m writing a new story, it’s quite
interesting. You see, it’s about a young fellow, who finds trouble throughout
his life.”
Wilfred smirked in response, “Give
that character hell, I guess. He’s only fictional.”
They both broke out in laughter.
Wilfred peeked at his wristwatch
and quickly stood up, “It’s getting late and I must be getting home now. I guess
I’ll be seeing you around?”
“You certainly will,” Devon
replied as he watched Wilfred hurry out the door.
The following day, Wilfred
returned to his typewriter. Reading his previous work in discontent, he ripped
the paged from its holder. He wanted to start fresh; he did not want to recall
the events that led to happen the previous day. He sat, pondering as to what to
write. After a session of silence, he decided that wealth proved to be a better
topic as love could always end in tragedy. With his ideas plotted out, he
began.
“Wilfred Serling, in his mid
twenties, is an incredibly lucky man. His story begins with the findings of a
winning lottery ticket. At the time, the jackpot was estimated at over fifty
million dollars. Without realizing its great importance in the future, Wilfred
tucked the ticket in his wallet with great care regardless. Stowed away in his
pocket, Wilfred decided to go for a stroll, going out to the corner store to
check its possible earnings.”
Wilfred leaned back and read over
his work.
“Now what,” he asked, “he wins
all the money in the world, and I write about his endless great adventures?”
Wilfred paused to think. He tore
out the paper from its holder once again, and threw it to the ground. He wasn’t
sure what to write, maybe it was time he seek Devon for
help. He decided to pay a visit to the local café a second time.
Locking the door of his suite, he
noticed a piece of crumbled paper kicked aside the dusty baseboard of the
hallway. Zipping up his jacket, he cautiously walked towards it, slowing
bending down to pick it up. He delicately unfolded the paper, hysterical to his
findings. It was a lottery ticket. Could it be that what he writes becomes of
his dull reality? Hastily, he crumbled the ticket into his wallet and ran to the
coffee shop. Bursting through the door, he saw Devon
remain reading in the same spot.
“Devon, Devon!
You wouldn’t believe what’s going on! What I write is reoccurring in my life.
Look, I wrote how I found a lottery ticket and guess what I found? A lottery
ticket,” Wilfred, opened his wallet to show the crumbled ticket.
Devon put
down his book and glanced up, “There’s nothing in your wallet?”
Wilfred looked into this wallet,
disappointed feeling the lump in his throat, “But I put it away, it must have
flown out somehow?”
Frowning, Devon
patted Wilfred, “I’m sorry to hear about your loss.”
Wilfred drooped down to his seat,
“I could have possibly won fifty million dollars.”
Devon
sighed and leaned back quietly. Wilfred was soon to follow the same actions.
Almost instantaneously, he got
back up and headed to the door, “I think I’m going to go home and sulk now.”
Devon
managed to suppress a small smile, but his voice cracked, “Aw, cheer up, my
friend. Life will turn around soon, hopefully.”
It had been weeks since Wilfred
left his home in search of Devon. He had dedicated his
new found life to rewriting a new one. By trial and error, no matter how simple
his story deemed, it would consistently end opposite to its glory and purpose.
Whether it was as simple as having the bus come on time or the taxi driver
being friendly, his reality would twist his words to the exact opposite,
changing the bus to come early, but only to signal that it was out of service
or that the taxi driver was friendly at first, only to later con him of more
cash, circling the city pretending to be lost. Through all of Wilfred’s work
and what he had hoped would become a “gateway to an alternative life,” it had
only lead to more dismay and agony. Wilfred was sick of the same results,
repeating over and over again. It was time he would visit Devon
again.
For once, Wilfred felt happy,
happy that he could see an old friend once again in the same place as if
nothing happened. Devon who was reading stacks of
papers, glanced up to see Wilfred walk by the window.
He smiled and greeted him with
open arms, “It has been so long since we have last met!”
Wilfred returned the smile, “I
know. I’ve been busy with work. I discovered that I really can change my
reality through my writing, but no matter how pleasant I make it, it always
ends miserably. I don’t know what to do.”
Devon
frowned and scratched his head, “Sit, sit. We must talk, it’s been awhile. I
have great news to share to you.”
Wilfred dropped to his seat and
leaned forward, “So, what’s new?”
Devon
gleamed, “My story, it’s almost complete. You remember? The poor fellow whose
always down on his luck?”
Wilfred
nodded, “So, will I be getting a sneak peek of this new book of yours?”
Devon smirked and looked down his
stacks of paper. He flipped through some pages and rearranged them. He looked
at Wilfred almost teasingly and handed him the papers. Wilfred reached out for
the papers and looked at the front. It was a blank page. Wilfred flipped over
the page, reading silently the story portrayed.
“He was a
young boy, who was born and raised in a suburban city. He had loving parents,
who had always taken good care of him. Life was fun and happy. Perhaps, more
better described as simple, as he was easily satisfied. However, in his
adulthood, he strived for more, finding discontent on the ordinary beauties of
life. Always, looking beyond his time, never living in the present, never to
enjoy what was in front of him all along.”
Wilfred
cocked his head to the side, “May I ask if this is your life story?”
Devon shook his head and nudged him
to read further. Wilfred flipped through the next few pages.
“In the
course of his adulthood, he became more solemn. At first he found, joy in his
life through the typewriter passed on from earlier generations. He would sit at
home and write stories of his childhood, reminiscing of happier times. It had
seemed that he felt a longing for what he did not appreciate.”
Wilfred
stared at the words, why did this all seemed like deja vu? He skimmed over more
pages, briefly reading over what he had missed.
“Upon one
of his strolls, he bumped into the love of his life. Her locks of hair, flowing
red, her eyes glimmering a bright brown, her nose petite and rounded, she was
everything he was looking for and although it would be the love of HIS life, he
would be merely just a stranger to her.”
Wilfred
squinted at the words; did Devon witness the event from
across the park from the café?
“On a
fateful day, this young man did indeed find great riches, riches beyond his
wildest dreams. However, upon putting his treasure in his wallet, he did not
realize that he had actually brushed it along the side of his wallet, dropping
the ticket once again.”
Wilfred
threw the stack of papers on the table, “Is this some kind of joke to you? What
do you think you’re doing?”
Devon
looked sternly at Wilfred, not saying anything further. Wilfred glared at Devon
and collected the stacks of paper. He flipped through the ending pages and soon
found that there was no more resemblance to his life in the story anymore.
Wilfred
stared at Devon, “You replicated my life into this book,
and then you later include events that never happened? What’s going on? How
come I’ve never seen any of your work before? What’s your full name?”
Devon
returned the stare, sneering maliciously, “Look at the bottom of the last page
and you will find your answer. I hoped you liked my story, it’s called, “The
Life and Death of Wilfred Sterling.” By the way, I hope you didn’t believe you
were rewriting your own life this whole time.”
Quivering,
Wilfred looked through the last page to find Devon’s
full name, “D.Evil.” Terror-stricken, Wilfred looked for the last sentence of the
page.
“No use in
looking for your demise, I haven’t decided that yet,” as the Devil
laughed.
