A partly nearly almost short short story

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(note: this ends abruptly, but purposefully)
A Bowl of Caramel


When people asked, Jeremiah would respond
“I am.”
and their lips would turn inward and their eyes outward, both becoming juicier with the
stress of resisting reticent chills along their backbones from meeting such a famous, beautiful,
young man.
People would ask him all the time - “Are you famous, Jeremiah?” or “Jeremiah, are you a
great and powerful?” and he would revel in the caramel that ran through his ears - he would bask
and sleep and dance in the sound - the beautiful sound of his own name.
All the time, never stopping. Wherever Jeremiah went, people were there, gazing into his
eyes, thinking they could see the wonders there and questioning him. Lovers would love him and
taverns would drown him without cost. People uttered his name, like caramel. All the time.
The world was a bowl of caramel.
Jeremiah had a mansion. Filled to the brim with old furniture it was, and the air was caked
with the smell of plaster. He loved the smell of plaster - so pure and clean, so natural and festive.
The carpet was brown, the walls were flesh-colored, and the ceiling was blue.
He had escalators installed, elevators and moving pathways - even a teleportation
machine. Even so, his legs were made of steel for all the walking he did, over the green
mountains and into the low valleys. His eyes saw eagles from above their wings, his ears heard
the cries of a newborn across the oceans. He smelled the caramel as it neared him, and listened
intensely as his name was called by the world. His bones held muscles of superhuman might, his
chest a poet’s soul.
Jeremiah would save villages from dragons and would not accept payment. He would
stop civil wars and refuse medals. People loved Jeremiah. The world was a bowl of caramel.

And outside Jeremiah’s heart, an old man waited in line at the cafeteria, eyes lolling with
age. His ears were stuffed with hearing aids, his nose with plastic tubes. His bones carried the
burden of flesh alone, but were weary and sick.
They were serving caramel today.

 

I know you were hoping for someone smart to drop by to give a comment or two. Alas this was not Amon Ra but the guy who totally missed the point of your previous story.

Still I missed the story. The storyteller's stories even. Based on your two stories, so far, let's say you have created a niche on SP for intriugeous and ponderous short or shortenend stories. And you see me crammed up in that niche with my flashlight ready for a bedtime story.

I like it and this time I won't blattantly utter some meaningless nonsense, given that I have not already done so.


I won't even try and decipher your intentions just let you know about my feelings when reading through.

I get feelings of someone familiar yet fictional. Someone wise yet ignorant. Someone caring yet distant. someone strong yet feeble. a double edged world balancing virtue and valiance poured with sweet thick caramel on its sides, ready to swallow even the sturdiest of knights.

Did that make sense. I hope so.

 

what the hell???

 

You know... I love this... FOr it's not just a story... it is vague... strange.... Everybody that reads this can "moderate" the story by images and thoughts.

You did a good job again... you are an interesting part of these boards....

 

"...and long thy lust for fame

yet it cometh to thee

posthumousy thy bloody moment of shame,

for that is the dawn over thy sea"