[Contest Entry 2011] Verilox

“Whew, finally, the last upload.” – I looked up on the wall and the clock pointed 7:49 and half a second.
“Damn, haven’t had dinner yet.” – I mumbled, then quickly grabbed my jacket and headed to the door.
I have been collaborating with the Genesis Team, one of the translators team at Fakku!, for about half a year now. I have been remained as an anchorite at the GTeam, so nobody really knows much about me, apart from the alias “Mysta” – also is my trans-de-plume(1).
I hate people. I’m an orphan, a sufferer from the Y2K(2) rush – when the world squander monetary efforts to prevent an "end-of-the-world cult"(3), the "hoax of the century"(4) . I was sent to a orphanage when I was just ten. I have never felt love before. Blame the old ghastly grim caretaking hag for now that I judge love have been left dead inside humane feelings. People care for themselves and themselves only. There’s no such things as “love”, “care”, “tenderness” in this world. The world is of many smaller others – each is one’s own world, evident, separated from one another, no interfering. One’s values don’t mean least in one else’s. They live for their world. I live for my world. That reason alone was more than enough to lead me into failure in attempt at interacting with people, drove me into the belief of the other better world, the Internet. The belief built on lies. I could share my weal and woe with them because they lie on the Internet, they never show their true colors. They could appeared to be in agreement with you, but they stabbed in your back. You can’t ever have truth and faith in the world of traps, enticements, betrayals, the world of the Internet. Can’t ever trust them. That’s why I trust them. They lie. Like me.
I dragged my feet out of the door, forcefully. The breezing drizzle rain freezes my mind. Cold, like I was frostbitten. Tonight’s the Christmas Eve. The streets lightened with colorful blinking lights on the glamorous Christmas trees. Lights stretched from house to house. The flags fluttered in the wind. The Gor and Fretter’s bakery crowded not just for their luxuriously luminescent sign, but for their fantastic cakes, best in town. I strode quickly past Gor and Fretter’s, heading to the Cogo Fast Food restaurant, swallowed up a burger in a split second, then headed to the Herfener Parish, my town’s cathedral. I hate the crowd, but not the holiday itself. It celebrates in honor of one true human, the Redeemer. I always come to the cathedral to hear Rev. Father Faulder Swatson’s enlightenment. Same for today.
The melodious sound from the tiny hands of the cathedral’s young pianist, Paulin Hayfell, joys me. I silently sat on the chair, hearing every clear words in the Bible. After everybody had left, I talked to Father Swatson. About many things. Paulin wants but a pair of new shoes he had saw in the store when he passed by, for Christmas.
I like coming to the cathedral and I know everyone here. Father Swatson has been here for as long as I can remember. Paulin is a child of a destitute family. He has been learning piano with Father Swatson here since when he was nine. He is talented, has been playing for the cathedral here for five years. He’s a caring, upright, veracious and stand upon his dignity, for only a mere child, more deserving than most men who thread their ways through dark alleys, with the help of money, became dignitaries. Paulin’s family may be poor, but they are diligent and known the dignity of labor. But it’s not like I’m donating, for them, at all because I don’t bother with people. “They’re just a bunch of liars” – still the same thoughts – “It’s not like I’m a charity commissioner or anything. I make a living, for my own.”
I bid farewell to Father Swatson and then took my leave. The lights still shone on top of the towers, the only ones that could be compared to Gor and Fretter’s enormous sign. The model of the cave of birth of God quietly sat in the middle of the front-yard. There was snow falling, silently, beautifully.
“It’s half past eleven already!?” – I sighed – “Guess I’ll cut off a corner”.
I entered the small road just behind the cathedral, which is also where Paulin’s home located. I was hurriedly pacing through the dim alley. Then I saw Paulin. He was very delighted. He ran fast to his house, which was just five more houses away from where I was standing, from another corner. He was holding a bright-red-paper-wrapped present. “From Father, maybe?” – I guessed. He ran, excitedly. He was out of breath, but tired in a joyous way. His expression was undescribable. He was just…happy.
Out of the blue, a kid with a ruffled head of hair and poorly dressed, stepped out of the corner, – as snow was flaking, beautifully – enshroud in a crust of ice, as if he had been sitting there forever. He walked, dragged his feet out of the snow, he had his feet numb with cold, stared at Paulin. He was wearing flip-flops and his toes were all swollen. The wind made him shivered, in pain, with its merciless scythes of gale, the zephyr of the winter threaded its way through nooks in the boy’s torn-up coat, leaving the little creature there to suffered, in hungry for warmth. Only for a second, only a hug, to once again feel warmth, just in the heart, is fulfilling(5). I was looking at the boy, as if I was looking in the mirror. I saw myself.
The boy looked at Paulin, looked down at his box and then, the little kid’s eyes, the eyes had died wishing, coveting happiness, a one true Christmas, looked into Paulin’s, beseeching. Paulin looked back, numb, greviously. Paulin’s hands trembled, confused. He stood for a minute. I was scared. I closed my eyes. Teardrop. I didn’t want to see the past haunting me again. My past…
“…you go. Take it. Don’t be sad like that. I’ll be happier if you were happy!”
I opened my eyes. Paulin was gently patting the boy’s head while giving his gift to him. A bright bud of delight blossomed on the kid’s face. He ran off, didn’t forget to turn his head and smiled at Paulin. He ran past me. The face I had never found once in my mirror when Christmas time comes. He ran like the cold wind blowing on my face. Soaring. I looked at Paulin. He was waving to the kid, smiled, but cloaked deep inside a clandestine sorrow. He went into his home.
“Ha ha ha! That pipsqueak sure was easy to fool!” – A despicable laugh woke me up from my trance of thoughts.
A bunch of dashing-dressed kids jumped out.
“Ha ha. Good job, you bellboy. You did your job. Here’s the dough Ma tell me to give to you to get yourself rid of that…that thing. Ugh! You dressed so ugly that I can’t a word to say.” – The fattest boy of the bunch ridiculed the little boy that had just been given the gift from Paulin. He threw a stack of cash at the kid, jerked the present out of the kid’s callous hand.
“Now let lost!” – The fat kid yelled at the feeble kid. Then he turned to his gang.
“See? I told you he was stupid. An pathetic act like that is enough to fool him! Ha ha ha!”
“I know! Ha ha ha!” – Someone responded.
“What a fool!”
“Well, better get out of here before that pipsqueak finds out.”
The gang ran out of the alley. I was paralyzed at what I just saw. They took Paulin’s Christmas! I followed them. That fat kid looked familiar…
“Pa, Ma!” – the fat boy yelled out. He jumped into his mother’s arms.
“Later, guys!” – He said goodbye to the gang, then he jumped into a big black shiny car that his mother just went into. The car sign read: “ZZZ – GOR N’ FRETTER”. The car drove away.
I stood there, looked at the direction the car went. Out of sight. I stood there, painful. Cried.
…
…I decided…
Next morning, I had stood at where I was yesterday. Paulin went outside. He was stricken with astonishment. A red box. A paper stuck to it read: “For Paulin, the pair that you wanted.” He didn’t move. He looked around. No one. Then he finally pulled himself together, picked up the gift, ran back into his home. From where I was hiding, I could hear voice echoed: “…mom, mom! I have found the pair of shoes I wanted to give you this Christmas!”
“Why did you do it? I thought you love no one but yourself.” – Father Swatson startled me.
“…” – my respond – “Because I don’t want more suffers like me. This world is evil enough already…”

Other notes:
Verilox, Mysta: goes here if you want to understand my weird title, name and discover the story behind it!
(1): Trans-de-plume: it’s a word I made up myself, combined from the word “translator” and the word “nom-de-plume”
(2): Y2K: look here if you really need to know: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Year_2000_problem
(3), (4): quotes from The Wall Street Journal
(5): in my case, it means: “enough to make the boy happy”
Lastly, if you still have questions or opinions, comments or anything, just drop me a line in this post!

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yay! another anti-nihilist like me! great story!

Wow, thanks for the comment. It's really cheers me up as the #3 poll of the contest is drawing near an end and I haven't stand out of the crowd. But I suppose the contest is not about just winning, but learning, right? Thanks again anyway, for liking it :D.

A change-of-heart tale, huh? Let's jump in shall we?

I'm not a personal fan of the "orphaned child" character, but that's just a personal preference of mine. Usually I think there are more original backgrounds to cook up. For this piece it's fine though. It creates Mysta's mindset most effectively.

The expounding of Mysta's beliefs doesn't need to delve much into the internet because the internet doesn't play any role other than its small part in the exposition. With the word limit for these pieces the extra words could be used better elsewhere. I realize this may change the story in a way you don't approve, in which case I digress as it is obviously your call in the end

The rough dichotomy between Mysta's hyper-cynical belief structure and his adherence to religion is also a bit confusing. Christianity is a religion with overall positive tenets, and if Mysta is as eager to go as he is, I'd think he'd be a bit less dark.

Overall the rest of the piece works out well, but the one thing I'll call attention to is Mysta talking aloud to himself (a bit insane). If the talking aloud is so the reader can know what he's thinking, you can do that in the narrative, much like you did his background.

This is a steady start. Keep going, onwards and upwards

Well, thanks for the feedback. I was relieved when I see your reply, because, honestly, I expected it to be more harsh (I don't think I'm all that good at writing).

About the story, I would say that Mysta is more like worship the god, not the Christanity itself. Moreover, we all go to hear our father reading the bible, but not all of us can follow everything written in it, right?

And I didn't intend to write Mysta talking to himself all of the time. Now I read it over, it sure sound like he does, but he actually was just thinking. Besides, we also talk aloud from time to time, especially when we swear at something, don't we?