Young Writers Society

“So, going out tonight ? “. The message appeared on the screen, blue and white colors against the white background. The boy smiled. He would like to, but couldn’t…or at least didn’t want to. “No”, he typed back, “got other plans tonight.”. That these plans would involve watching Netflix wrapped in a blanket and drinking hot coffee wasn’t something he would like to tell her. She didn’t have to know – the ruse about him being the popular and cool dude should continue on existing. Man, he thought, this sucked. Why should I even continue lying to a girl I barely know and I don’t even remember meeting? Be honest with her – tell her that you are not that popular, but the people you know are and that they are the ones taking you out. Don’t lie, for once.

He turned around on his large, comfy office chair and looked to the garden through the glass door leading to the balcony.

Outside it was bright, lots of light and the cold autumn sun reflecting against the roofs of his hometown, the cul-de-sac where he grew up in. And would probably die, at this rate. 20 years…20 years living in the same town, where you know every street and every corner. Where the baker is your neighbor and the grocery man lives across the street. Where everybody seems to be cheerful and friendly. Where every single barbecue seems like a village gathering. Where the kids still ride their bikes across the street. It could be the setting for a 50’s sitcom, in the vein of the Brady Bunch or something similar, just as perfect and almost faux-cheerful.

Not that he didn’t like it here, for him it was okay. Not great, far from it, just okay. The city was better though – big and noisy and anonymous. He liked that: the anonymity of the big city. Nobody knew him there, nobody cared about who he was or what he did. Except maybe the couple of folks he knew from college.

The city was in his opinion far more beautiful than the countryside he lived in, with its skyscrapers made out of glass and metal and small parks are hidden amongst the old fashioned buildings and the dozen different streets were you could get lost on a day, any day, whether or not it would be a sunny day or it would be raining, the roofs blinking in the sun that came after the rain. The countryside bored him – these streets were the houses don’t change. These endless fields with the small patches of forest indicating where one patch of land, under one owner, ended and the next one began. The asphalt roads that crisscrossed the landscape, scars on the face of the earth.

He stood up and stepped to the large door that led to the balcony, opening it. The chilly November air blew in his face. Pulling up a chair he sat down, looking at the seemingly endless sea of roofs and gardens and churches, as far as he could see.