NEEDLEWRITER

He was after all a rascal. Adored miscivious behavior from when he was
little. Started smoking around he was fifteen, good time. First cigarette at
six years old, and got ofcourse in trouble, they forbode him. Now thirty, he
is a heavy smoker. Not important really. Mostly his puberty years were the
problem, his addiction to weed and alcohol. Stopped after few experiments
with ecstasy and his trouble with induced psychosis. Now he’s all about
writing, in the intelectual sense, after ten years of wandering what really
happened. Poems, essays, stories his favourite. Novels he only reads, and
drama bores him to death. “Just fucking dialoge” he always says. Normal
intelectual. But down under, deep in, he is a rascal. Real big time selfmade
reality manipulator. To get what he wants. And he always does. He likes
singing too, mostly into alternative genres. Like indie, alt.rock, grunge,
metal and so forth. But what about him makes others itch? Their voice is
awaited. Ex-psychotic, off of meds, reads, writes, has fun, sometimes sad
and angry, the usual guy. A little bit queer that is odd, weird.
/They enter. The chorus that represents others called The Others. It’s like an amhiteatre of
them, The Others and poor little/big Neštorow in the middle. Like an
Panopticon of judges exploring him in terms of doxa and superego.
Poor little/big Neštorow. The eyes, theirs. Looking into him, through him,
around him. Mumbling about him, gossiping. He has no idea what are they
talking about. Concluding or anything. They are masked and wigged.
He would cry if he weren’t who he were. The odd guy. “What are they up to?
Fuck it. Don’t know” he thought, hiding his smile.
They were twelve of them, The Others, around of him in a half circle and
just inspecting. Mumbling, whispering, writing something down, passing it
on, using microphones to talk to a distant Other. / He, Neštorow sweated
his soul out trying to catch a glimpse of understanding what they are up to.
No help even when he concentrated the most of his abilities, mental onto
them. And the physical stiffs. He’s out. Can’t. Just can’t. Unsurpased
judges, the Others were, voice of their suspicion and doubt could not be
broken through. But who the others were that The Others were employed
by. Who were the talkers about Neštorow, and why? What did he do except
being odd, weird, queer? /Is it because he’s a rascal, or the nice word for it,
naughty? Plain sexual maniac some might say. Nah. Something else.
1 / 3
“What the fuck is he?
“An insect?”
“No, no, look at his eyes, probably an crab or lobster.”
“Let’s suposse at least he is human!”
“Playing a dog?”
“Let’s not be childish, dear people. Probably a hologram.”
“You mean he is from a computer like a ghost. We should call The
Detectors.”
“Stupid, he is an android, a robot, because he would glitch if he were a
hologram.”
“Hmmm…..”
Neštorow got big time nervous. Got nothing to do with him, but them. His
anxiety grew and grew. Soon, he thought, he will no longer bear it. He’ll pop
up, he’ll explode. / That is his confession. He hated when he didn’t know
what the situation around him was about.
His real eyes slowly started to appear. The Others did not notice. They
were still at it, communicating with each other.
“Where to send him?”
“Oh, you… Not him, let’s call him it. It’s some sort of being.”
“But what to do with it. A physical labourer or something other.”
“Hmmm… Is it grown up or childish?”
“Shold we make him fetch and bring back or bite and protect?”
Then suddenly one of The Others screamed in surprise.
“LOOK, IT’S EYES.”
“Aaaah.” said the other eleven
“A fucking alien among us.”
“Our mistake, our mistake.”
“Poor little mister, our dearest apologies.”
“How about we let you go? Call it even.”
“Must have been a tremendous war.”
All twelve of the Others noded between themselves. And he, the boss of
them lifted a hammer huge as an scull.
2 / 3
And “BOOM” sounded the hammer like an drum from the core of Earth to
the Sky.
And they all in one voice said, compasionately :
“FREE TO GO.”
THE END.