Recently I remembered about the short stories, which I have written some time ago, when I decided to engage in literature. I read some of them to remind me of what have I created and to compare my writing then and now. I must say that it was really painful encounter with my old style of writing. Painful not because of the sentimental memories but esthetically. For all about this I will share with you in this and one more publication. I will leave this one only for the text and will publish my interpretations on it and some facts around its creation on the next article.
As an introduction I will only say that the text I wrote for a contest with the theme “A Story from the 90s” and although I tried to think of a title I linked the theme of the story with this title so much that I left it this way. I haven’t changed anything in the content since I have decided it was ready which might be in the 2012. The original was in Bulgarian so I have tried to keep it as close to it as possible when translating to English.
A STORY FROM THE 90S
When it is cold outside, and while one is watching the warm sparks of the fire in the fireplace and when he hears an old song from somewhere, then he knows that he is feeling something familiar. But is this strange sentiment of repetition after a dream he’s had last night, or last month, or year? Is it a dream or is it something real?
Yes! I remember… How many times have I been staring at the hypnotic flames! And this song? It is also coming from somewhere! This voice is the person who is closest to me at that moment. But this voice is coming from a person I will never meet. I remember about something which has turned into nothing, in an idea and this is why it is so unique. Unique like the childhood. Unique like dreams which haven’t changed but only have turned into… a memory.
Back then, in the 90s, I learned to count. And I never stopped. Apples and pears, hours and years – they are all put somewhere in a dusty cellar. And so many portraitures! Black and white and in colour. During the 90s for us there was a past but there were no memories. Because childhood has no memories. For childhood even the past is “there somewhere” – ahead on the road you are running on without turning back. The 90s were the years of my childhood and this is why they are the most special – just as special as the 70s, 80s and the 60s.
And what’s best than childhood in the village – where the houses are the whole world, the horizon is its shores and the Moon is closer and more familiar than any other place on Earth. Over there imagination is like the wind – flying over unknown lands and brings clouds and sunlight – some strange air, from which you can catch the aroma of cool forests, dry sands, old libraries and even the gentle steam of a bread which has just been baked. When you live on the edge of an ocean of yellow fields you have enough space to run and chase white clouds.
And so, when it is spring, children might not realize it, but it is the youngest time. Then nature is also ten years old and there are so many things waiting to be found. It is a period when questions are more important than answers and you are impatient to see what the new dawn will surprise you with.
And this is such a morning. Clouds are like warm white foam which is crashing in the far away hills and returns once again in the dark blue sky. Everything is so sublime that I am overwhelmed but I can see it and it is making me dizzy – magic which only a child can see. In that moment I am thinking that all my ancestors are above – on a white cloud and are watching at me and are happy. To fly is probably the first thing I have ever asked for. And then I am feeling like flying – ants are people and people are ants, stones are mountains and the mountains are stones, the spring flowers on the trees are clouds and the clouds are spring flowers.
In a day like this I am never lonely because my friends are always waiting for me by the front door and they are always enough for our next adventure and game. They have forgotten that yesterday I told them that I don’t want to be friends with them anymore because it was so long ago and it is foolish for grown up people. Now is the moment everybody to share the thing they kept in their mind all night long so we can go and do it together. Eager to speak one will tell the military story his grandfather told him. Somebody else will show a book of mushrooms which he took from the top shelf which he could reach for the first time stretching on his toes.
And I will tell the last night’s episode of The X Files I watched on the black and white TV “Junost”. My imagination was caught in such a way that colours appeared alone. It was a story frightening as darkness but equally intriguing. For a travel to the Moon and even the stars. So we must do that travel – because even the idea of it tickles our thoughts and attracts us – somewhere high. I wonder where these strange creatures live while they are not in our imagination. We have to go there! But where?
And so strange it turns out that Dobromir has heard his father to tell how a shepherd has seen some strange lights from the hill at west. Oh! Why did his father begin this story when he was going to bed? He couldn’t hear anything about them! But at least he knows where they have been encountered. And that’s enough.
Shepherds can be trusted of course – they are wise like the trees which grow in the fields – also as old. They have seen many things being out every summer night – when we go to bed they wonder in the night fields. Ah if I could go out in the night when everything’s asleep under the blanket of silver moonlight. Then the spirits of dead people could be seen in the same pale grey colour and they are looking for you to tell you their stories.
There’s excitement in us all and we know we have to go there. There are the answers to many of our questions and there are twice more questions than answers. But this is not even the most important – because you never know what adventures the way to there will send you. We have to avoid the enemy forces Plamen’s grandfather talked about. They will surely try to stop us on our way. It is good that Plamen listened carefully and remembered how to make ourselves rifles and how to win the battle. The old antenna was ideal for the barrel and Dobromir had bunch of magazines – enough to arm a whole army with bullets.
And Krasimir suggested that we find mushrooms – if there is a whole book about them they must be very good for the health and to help us on our quest. Fortunately we found two jars with mushrooms in the basement. Comparing them to the graphic he pronounced their name – field mushroom. And we all agreed they will do. I draw the map very fast and we know where to go.
It is never easy to farewell with home, especially when leaving on such a long and dangerous quest. I know however, that no matter when I come back, even in a week time, nothing would have changed. This is the place I would like to stay the same forever. So that there always is aromatic cherry compote, I would always see grandma grooming the yard and grandpa taking out his instruments to craft something. And the old tree in front of the house to bloom every spring…
So difficult it is to leave this house.