Fictional Stories

Olea. – An Original Short Fiction Piece

The morning bloomed, as beautiful as ever. Mr. Grimm licked his lips as he awoke to the familiar rose-tinted hue of his life. He wore his Glasses every day, precisely and proudly. No one ever questioned whether they blocked enough sunlight, and he was happy with them.

The morning bloomed, as beautiful as ever. Mr. Grimm licked his lips as he awoke to the familiar rose-tinted hue of his life. He wore his Glasses every day, precisely and proudly. No one ever questioned whether they blocked enough sunlight, and he was happy with them. Never did the thought of judgement based around his favorite accessory flutter through his jumbled mind, anyways. He barely noticed the crimson stains on his bedspread. He could scarcely see the disorganization of it. His curtains were a pearly white, well, faded and white; as if the oyster who painted them had optic neuritis (He read about that, once). His carpet was also white, shagged and aged, he would often sleep barefoot just so he could run his toes through the familiar, fuzzy, fingers every morning. The colors in his home never really mattered to him though. All colors had a unifying and rosie complexion that comforted him during the day-to-day, so shopping was a pretty simple task. He remembers the day he picked out the curtains and the carpet, he looked through all the different shades of rose and found the one that spoke most clearly to him. Spoke distinctly enough so that he could feel that wave of relief, guilt-free relaxation, a practical (and legal!) high. Not too vibrant, never too dark, but just right, and rose.

    He had already spoken to The Father by the time he reached the kitchen table, for Mr. Grimm was blessed in ways that not many (he knew) are. The birds were singing their usual songs of contentment and love, his favorite was perched on the windowsill. He stopped at the ‘sil and intimately stroked the glass, carefully outlining the silhouette of the pale-red Warbler. He twitched, as the warbler did, and surveyed him as he flew away. His finger slipped, and he turned to the table once more. He was blessed by the gift of prayer, bestowed upon him by his own father, a heavenly adoption, one might say. He fixed his breakfast only as he knew how, carefully… with steady hands trembling, nose running. A fried egg, an ounce of hash, and one sausage link (cut into thirds); and while he prayed quietly, his mind exclaimed. He knew no other way to bully his body into being worthy of such a magnificent feast! Such a perfectly crafted feast (Blesséd, he says), his mother prayed to many gods before she died. Well, before he killed her, as he so swiftly reminds himself. She prayed to so many, and when Grimm was much younger, he remembers amazement being what he felt.

“STOP.”, he says.

She prayed to the correct one that night, but she did the unspeakable, she did not praise him alone. How could she? The true God is the only God, he is selfish. He is relentless. He is forgiving. He sent his everlasting wisdom through the fist of his father, and he was saved.

He grunts and gulps as the last sausage-third slid down his sandpaper gullet, and he prepares for the rest of his day.

    As he slides on his cap-toe boots, 

“One sock, one shoe, and repeat.,” He recites confidently.

His father was always such a smart man when it came to showing Grimm the validity of the world. He respected him for that. He respected his stern tone, his authoritative stance, and his well-timed disciplinarianism. After all, he knows the fate of his soul laid in the hands of his Father in the midst of that world-shaking night. He accepted these Glasses! Oh, the wonder of the world Mr. Grimm discovered when he first placed these lenses upon his damned eye sockets. Through these glasses he was able to clearly see: He did not lose anything… he gained everything.

    As he centered his plate in the sink, he was upholding the law.

“Perfect.”

He kept his Glasses beaming, just as he was told. Never for a second did he stray, and he viewed this as a considerably respectable prerogative. His morning walk, always staged on the emptiest, most cacophonic sidewalk, gusty and pale. The cars, the guardrails, and the divots in the concrete, all sights he eagerly anticipated. Their beautiful hue, the calming sensation as he gazed upon each one of them, calculated and careful. Two magenta cars, one blushing van (Ha!), three warbler friends, and 22 divots to the café. He felt calm as his coffee spilled, dribbling drunkenly all over the oak-wood floor.

“Already stained, anyways… anyways, always,” he says.

The painting in that café reminded him of his father, and he stumbled gracefully toward the canvas, spills and stains in tow, to complete the ritual. However,

“Devilish!!,” he grunts,

“Dev…dev…dev-I-lish!,” he repeats.

The man in the fancy suit excused himself to tidy up his now ruined outfit, he cluelessly and hurriedly struts to the restroom. Grimm lost sight of his Father when they collided. He had stepped on the grout for God’s Sake! His Glasses had nearly lost their grip on his untamed sideburns, and with a huff and a gasp, he readjusted. He sees the hues return to their rightful place.

“Repent.,” he demands himself.

He foundered to the door. A woman walked forward, a hazily familiar shape. He slightly fumbles, confused by the lack of female memories he possessed. She does not remind him of his Father, nor his father. She reminded him of… her. His gait progressed steadily, but his eyes were tightly fastened. In that moment that lasted forever, his heart stopped racing and his hand stopped trembling. Frozen in this place, in this mind, in this time. He didn’t even notice the door as it swung open, he only felt himself float. The air smelled of rose, the world turned to a vortex of motion, calm and blurry, a flurry of eternal motion.

 He lay motionless on the cold linoleum floor, neither trembling, nor mumuring.

    “Are you okay?!,” she exclaims whole-heartedly.

    She held out her palm, her gracious olive palm. Olive, what is olive? Never before has he seen ‘olive’… A color that has never existed, and does not exist? 

Mr. Grimm could only stare in amazement at such a wonder of creation. It was beautifully dark, you could frolic along the fluorescent-lit-shadows of her skin. She shuffled. Trance interrupted. He gasped. He remembered.

    So he stands, he marvels vicariously at the mysterious maiden: features portraying a vibrancy he had the inability to describe. 

She spoke something gracious, but he couldn’t hear it. All he could see were his glasses in her olive palm, snapped.

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