spark (a short story)

it was two past midnight, and it was at this precise hour that five people -- four men and a woman assembled themselves underground. although everyone knew each other by name, there was hardly any greetings; the rule of this gathering was that nobody talks until his or her mind was prepared. everybody simply took his or her seat; one sat beside a mulholland drive poster, the other next to a coffee table which contained a sherlock holmes manuscript, the other two -- a couple -- sat side by side on the divan and last attendee situated himself in the sofa corner filled with scattered bloomberg magazine subscriptions. there was nothing audible but the clicking of pens and for ten whole minutes their minds drifted and wandered and these five members gazed at anything -- the dark blanket sky outside the window, the dust on the panes, the cheese in the kitchen.

the third member produced a roll of paper from his bag, shared it with the group, and everyone fell in silent concentration. for a moment, their eyes averted each other's; each one was focused in reading its signature and studying its contents. they were particularly drawn to its contained promises, highlighted in brown. it was the girl who stood up, reached for her handbag and burned the paper. the other four watched the process, and inside they felt revolutionary and joined in. they held the paper close to their hands, tightened their grip, and altogether they watched in awe as the little flames swallowed the paper and everything it represents.

the mood started to warm up, as does the weather inside the room, despite the howling winds outside. the room lit up and the couple started to hum a damien rice/lisa hannigan duet, the other three engaged themselves in a serious banter and exchanged thoughts about politics, finance, and neo-classical literature while the roaches danced above their heads.

the members breathed into the polluted air and savored their creative enlightenment.

above them, the streets quiet and empty, the children dreaming, the farmers getting ready, the world all in all cynical, unaware of the five members’ little achievement. the non-members of this gathering meet our five heroes everyday, and they call their gathering with a more popular, less imposing name – smoking.





note: this is my first (renewed) attempt in writing a short story after eight years, the last one that i composed was written in 3rd year high school when the class was assigned to compose a sequel on our favorite short story.