03/11/2022 - Hard Times To Be Cold
Reading time: 3 min
Photo by Toa Heftiba on Unsplash
The poet knew hard times would come as soon as winter extended his embrace on that longitude, but as imaginative as he was, humanity always managed to surprise him, for better or worse.
The first thing they took from him was his morning walks.
He tracked the seasons walking through the parks of his city; he gulped the details feeding his poems, and he’d never changed his route in twenty-five years. Down the main road, beyond the parks, across the river on the red bridge to the University and back.
Instead, he spied the seasons through the cracks on his permanently shut windows, and when dew started freezing around the edges, he sent his family away.
He didn’t leave though.
“I’ve got my books,” he said. He was convinced his very blood would stop flowing if he ever left.
Next, they took the electricity, and with it, running water.
He read at candlelight, and joined the queue every day at twelve o’clock for water coming from the West, hard bread and, sometimes, mouldy cheese in one of the tunnels under his block.
Next, they took the gas supply, and with it, the heating.
The poet wore his vest, two jumpers and his winter coat, but the cold crept through the walls and draughts of his old flat, and soon enough he needed fire.
He burnt the chairs first, then the table, then the desk of his study and the shelves, and placed his books against the walls to act as insulation, but he was still cold.
Months passed, and as he burnt the furniture of his apartment, one day he realised he had nothing left but his books.
Asking for forgiveness, he made a plan to get to the spring.
He started with books about politics, essays, and commentaries. Voluminous tomes, burning like trunks. Then, he burnt the history books, as history was being made out of his front door. Then, he burnt the philosophy section of his library, as this would be the easiest to recoup.
When the last of his Hegel’s volumes became a pile of cold ashes, the poet spent two nights with ice encrusting his moustaches at every exhale. He had to choose between his remaining books and his toes, and though reluctant, he acknowledged that he could buy new ones if he survived.
He started a bonfire anew with his less-talented friend’s novels, but soon he had to kiss goodbye to his English literature collection, then to the French, and finally to his beloved Russians.
One morning he woke up and only poetry remained.
Again, he had to choose.
So, the poet wrote a message in the middle of his first poetry collection, then opened the door and went for a walk.
He strolled down the main road, beyond the parks, across the river on the red bridge to the University, and when he was on the bridge, in the open, a sniper caught him in the head.
The message he’d left in his flat was simple and direct. It said:
“You can take everything from me, but you’ll never have my poems.”
About this story
Prompt: no prompt.
This story is inspired by a real story I’ve heard about a poet living in Sarajevo during the war. I don’t know who he was or how he died, but he surely knew which books to burn first.
Notes on the challenge
Each and every story published here has been written, reviewed, polished and published in less than 90 minutes. Which means you’re going to find spelling mistakes, ugly sentences and weird structures. I still hope you’ll enjoy them!
