Discussion in 'Writers' Corner' started by eldoro1000, Jun 29, 2015.

  1. Here is a story that I dug up from my 3rd Grade schoolbooks. I actually liked parks, but I wanted this to be more relatable.

    It is a Sunday afternoon. I am in a park, sitting on a bench, and I am holding a book in front of my face. I had recently read somewhere on the internet that men reading books appear more desirable to women, and had quickly purchased the most intelligent looking book I could find from my local used book store. Flipping the book over, I discover that the title of the book is “Pelvic Floor Muscle Training for Men”, which explains many of the strange, sympathetic expressions I had received from the passing strangers. I really probably should have paid more attention when I was buying this book. I put the book down and try to retain what is left of my dignity by pretending to enjoy the scenery in the park around me. Maybe this “enjoying the scenery” lark will be more fun than I give it credit it for. I chuckle, louder than intended (which leads me to feel rather self conscious), at my own joke. And sure enough, within five minutes I find my eyes stinging from having been forced to look at this raw, unfiltered boredom in the shape of trees and plants around me.

    I try to find something interesting to look at. A statue in the shape of a bird with a big crooked human nose (do birds even have noses? How do they smell, if not?). A tree with what is decidedly too large a quantity of branches. A cat trying to discover the inner workings of a pile of grass blades left in the path of a lawn mower. I find tears blurring my vision. I can’t imagine how anyone could possible stand to sit in this forest of despair. And I certainly can’t do so any more. I have important things to do. People to see, and all that.

    I stand up and tuck my book on the “incredibly interesting topic” of pelvic floor muscle training into the waistband of my trousers and pull my shirt over it, hiding it from the view of any attractive women I might meet on my path out of this place. Looking around, calculating the fastest route out of the park, I notice that the nosy (get it?) bird statue seems to be slightly further to the left than the last time I saw it. I am certain of it, but not certain enough to forget another fact which I am certain of, which is that statues do not move. I dismiss the movement of the bird statue as insanity triggered by the glaring boredom of the park, and prepare to walk exactly thirty seven degrees to the right, knowing that doing so will lead me directly to closest exit.

    As I start to walk, I hear the unsettling grinding of stone. Turning around, I see that the bird statue is walking towards me with its, almost comical, nose pointed straight between my eyes. I spare glances in all directions. No one acknowledges the ambling stone beast. If I ever write a story about this (self-aware joke), I’ll probably say that I am paralysed with fear. Because although no amount of fear can disrupt my sense of self preservation, for at least a second, I cannot look away from this spectacle that is both terrifying and breath-taking. I want someone to notice the statue, to prove that I am not insane, but nobody does. I scream, granting me irritated expressions from bystanders in the park. I realise that no help is coming, and I run.

    I ignore the previously calculated route out of the park, and I simply run. I hear the constant crashing of the statue’s stone feat into the ground increase in pace. I burst through a clearing, and my eyes take a moment to adjust to the light outside of the park. I recognise my surroundings (the corner of Newman Road and Parkland Avenue). I know that if I turn right at this intersection, I will see a bus stop, which may provide a means to escape the statue, which, itself, is now halving the distance between us with each step. I run to the bus stop, jumping aboard a bus just as the doors close behind me. I am free from that horror. I see the statue left in the distance behind me.

    I close my eyes and breathe a sigh of relief. I am safe. And as I turn to find a seat on the bus there stands the bird statue with the peculiar human nose. Only this time it also has a twisted grin, loaded with malice. I scream. I throw my copy of “Pelvic Floor Muscle Training for Men” at it. It doesn’t even blink and continues to walk towards me. I slam my palms onto one of those buttons that tells the driver to stop at the next best stop. The statue gets closer and closer. I put my back against the door. The bus driver says something along the lines of, “Hey kid! You can’t do that!”, but I am too focused on the matter at hand to care. The bus stops and the doors open. I fall out and the statue stands on the inside of the bus door. It looks at me. I am terrified. I fully expect to die. And the bus door closes. The bus speeds off with the statue inside of it. I close and open my eyes. No statue. I am safe. I am alive. I hate parks.