I wrote a story, I wrote a story! As you've probably figured out from the title of this post. Whatever.
So I found out a couple of things while doing this: a) It's much more difficult to write a story than to think of one and b) My grammar is god-awful.
The story is slightly philosophical, slightly cynical. The idea is basically how a little bit of corruption can spoil a really good thing, how one (possibly) bad person can spoil a town.
Also, just a note: the commas look like periods in this font, but the capitals should allow you to figure out what it's supposed to be. We'll work on finding a better font, though this one is just so amazing. :/
Okay. Here you go.
The doors were all open when I walked into
town.
The doors were all open when I walked into
town, and so were all the shutters, and windows, and every opening of every
kind. I had just entered town with my suitcase and my backpack, and I was astounded. It was a pleasant day, yes, but
never had I seen such a multitude of open doors.
A woman walked by, smiling at me with
twinkling eyes. She seemed hospitable enough, so I stopped her: “Why are all
the doors open?”
“Well, to let the breeze in, of course.
It’s such a pleasant day out, isn’t it?” she replied, as if surprised by my
question.
“But…aren’t people worried of theft, abduction…crime?”
I was confused. Surely they couldn’t be that oblivious to the dangers of the
world.
She laughed. “Well of course not! We don’t
have that kind of thing here. We trust each other. We’re all happy here, all
friends.”
It had been a month since I’d moved in,
with the help of the lady I’d met on my first day. During the first week of my stay, the windows had remained shut, but soon I found myself living like the locals: doors open.The
people of Trustville, as I’d taken to calling the town in my head, were
friendly and helpful, and had enveloped me into their little community as
easily as waves envelope stones on the beach. I had friends, I had a job: I was content.
It had not been easy getting to that
position. In my first week, I had bought the first ever lock sold in the
history of Trustville, and what a task it had been to find that lock. Then I
had tried to “rescue” my neighbour’s daughter when a stranger approached her in
the park: although the stranger was, in fact, unknown to the family, no one else
had seemed to find it worrisome for a child to be alone with a stranger, and I had received
nothing by odd looks for my pains. When I tried to explain to the child’s
mother what a danger the stranger could have been, she looked at me odd, and
when I tried to take it upon myself to teach the child not to speak to
strangers, she stopped speaking to me altogether. That is not to say that she
didn’t trust me: she still left her door open, her child running free. But for
the first time in the history of Trustville, someone had thought ill of another,
and it was not a good omen.
I started
learning the ways of the town then. I learned that strangers were not looked on
with suspicion: they were humans, just like the rest of us, and they were
expected to behave as humans. Children didn’t learn the concept of not taking
candy from strangers; in fact, some old ladies went around with goodies in
their handbags meant just for the little delights they found on the street.
This worked in a way as a self-fulfilling prophecy: children grew up in an
environment of trust and goodness, and evolved into good and trusting adults. Because
people were expected to behave in a trustworthy manner, they refrained from the
sort of incivilities and crimes that plagued every other place I’d been to. It
was a strange town, for sure, but it was a good town. I was in awe of how good
people could be if they wanted to, and I was content. What geniuses these
people were! What paragons of human development!
But people cannot be content for long, can
they? When I looked back on this incident later-an incident I am ashamed of to
this day-I imagine the people of Trustville as Adam and Eve before the Fall-
innocent, trusting. I, however, was a man of the earthly world, and when
temptation is put in the path of such a man, he falls.
It was a tiny thing, to begin with. I had
made a new friend in town, and he had a collection of baseball cards. And what
a collection it was! First editions, special editions: it was more than I had
ever even dreamed of owning. It was a hobby of mine, collecting such cards,
and it was over this hobby that we had actually connected. We pored over the
cards for days on end, exclaiming and shouting in delight.
One day, walking by his house, I saw the
cards on a table next to the door. Smiling to myself about the silliness of
keeping such a precious belonging in such a state, and then at my own silliness
at thinking that the people of Trustville would do anything else, I walked on. No
one would steal anything here.
The next day, the cards were still there.
And the next, and the next. No one would
steal anything here.
Every day I passed the cards, and every day
my smile thinned a little. They were there, right there. He wasn’t using them,
he didn’t love them as much as I did, or else he would have kept them safer. He
didn’t deserve them. In fact, he deserved to lose them for being so lax.
No one would steal anything here.
He thought he’d lost them. He was the most
organized man on the planet, but he thought he had misplaced the cards. Never
did a more sinister thought cross his mind. He looked at me apologetically,
sorry that I wouldn't have the pleasure of seeing them anymore. What did he
know?
A diamond ring was lost next. It was
beautiful, a pink heart-shaped diamond on a gold ring, some silly fool’s
engagement ring. It called to me the moment I saw it. She didn’t deserve it.
She didn’t want it, or else she would have kept it safer.
An engraved tobacco pipe. A beautiful
umbrella. An antique pocket-watch. More and more things began to go missing,
and it was a long while before people’s suspicions were aroused. A long, long
while- long enough for me to make plans to get out of there. No one suspected
the new guy, the stranger, the first suspect in any civilized, cynical society.
What fools these people were!
Suspicion was slow to enter the hearts of
the people of Trustville, and change was even slower. It did happen, though. Doors
began to be shut, locks became easier to find. There was a meeting about what
was to be done, how the perpetrator was to be found. The poor souls, they had
no idea what they were doing.
And still, no
one suspected the new guy.
There was a box
I’d had my eye on for a while. It was tiny, a miniature treasure chest, studded
with semi-precious stones. It lived on a window-sill in the house of one of
Trustville’s oldest citizens, the father of the lady I’d met on my first day. The
things I had taken-not stolen, taken, it wasn’t stealing, they were sitting
there for the taking, for any passer-by to pick up, it wasn’t anything wrong to
take it, I valued it more than they did-had all been near the door so far. This
one was in what I presumed was the living room, but I thought I’d be okay. The
lady visited her father in the evenings; in the afternoons he indulged in a
siesta, and as old people are wont to be, he was slower in adapting to the change
taking place in Trustville. His doors were still open and unlocked. I thought I
could get away fine, and I planned to leave town immediately after that. My
bags were packed, for these folks were becoming smarter, planning for cameras
and the like.
I strolled down the street leisurely after
lunch, observing the scene as was my habit. People smiled less these days; their gaze was shiftier than before. I smiled to myself. Now they were behaving
like people.
I walked through the open door, went
through the hall to the living room. It was right there. Probably the most
precious item in the house, and it was sitting on the window-sill, tempting
passers-by with its twinkling gaze. That old fool didn’t deserve it.
I wandered over to the table, picked it up.
Still engrossed in the beauty of the little box, I turned to leave…
…and looked up to see the woman. I suppose
she’d come earlier to visit her father, or perhaps the fates decided a life of
crime wasn’t for me, or perhaps my own subdued conscience had chosen the right
path and delayed my plans, knowing I would run into her. It doesn’t matter why now,
all that matters is what. I looked at her, and she looked at me. Not in fright,
or even surprise, after that first moment. She just looked with…pity. Like she
was looking at the most hopeless soul on the planet, one whom no one could
save. She said nothing, quietly turned around and walked up the stairs to her waiting, trusting father.
I walked like a zombie back to my house,
the treasure chest still in my hand. Only when I reached did I realize I had it, numbly
looking down at my hand for my key-I had started relocking my door again,
loudly proclaiming that people couldn’t be trusted anymore, not even here. I went
inside and put the box down.
And then I turned around and left, my entire horde
left right there.
The damage had been done, though.
The doors were all open when I’d walked
into town.
Not a single door was open when I walked
out.
PS: Yes, it's really long for a blogpost. My apologies.
