He killed a short story

Under the setting sun on Thursday, I went back to my apartment, intending to take a shower and prepare for tomorrow's meeting, but my mind stubbornly recalled the windfall of this trip to the ancient town - the old man who killed a short story .

Early the day before yesterday, I woke up in a star-rated hotel in Shenzhen, took a temporary leave of absence from the company for three days, and spent five hours on the plane and bus. When the leather shoes knocked on the smooth bluestone board with a crisp sound that the city does not have, I am grateful for the freedom and ease of leaving when I say go. But now that I think about it, it seems that I just obey the arrangement.

The town was built in the Southern Song Dynasty, and there are more than 100 houses, all of which are typical Huizhou architecture. The academy in the center radiates outwards like ripples. Viewed from the air, it is a circle composed of many gray puzzle pieces of similar size, surrounded by a river. The whole circle is divided into six equal parts by six narrow rivers like a pizza, and there is a complete bluestone slab as a bridge on each river. It can be said that the whole town is a "Southern Song Dynasty Residential Architecture Museum".

I put my luggage in the homestay I booked when I was waiting for the flight in the morning, and put on the brand-name casual clothes and sports shoes I bought in Shenzhen yesterday. In the sound of the gurgling water, I was like a high school student, shuttled between the ancient walls of green tiles with novelty.

At the time, I thought it was just an ordinary trip.

02

The scorching sun and thirst in the midsummer afternoon urged me to get into a small shop in Linhe, order a glass of the signature iced plum juice, and sit by the window.

The owner is a slightly bloated middle-aged man who watches the store alone. Obviously my presence has rescued him from boredom. He happily makes drinks and keeps talking - it's too hot this year, and there are very few tourists. Ask I'm not here to see friends.

I politely handed over my business card and, seemingly casually, revealed that this was my fifth summer at the industry giant, in charge of half of the brand's business in southern China. I learned that 20 chain hotels will open in Shenzhen next year. In order to let these hotels choose the bathroom products of this brand, I went to Shenzhen on business last Friday. I successfully signed this big order yesterday, so I decided to take a vacation for myself. , come around here. If you have friends who need bathroom products in the future, you can contact me.

Unsurprisingly, the boss praised me for being young and promising, which must have comforted my parents. In the future, I will marry a gentle and beautiful wife, and have a son who is as smart and handsome as me. In addition, his children will be half as good as me in the future. Satisfied.

So I asked the boss how long he had been married, how many children he had, and then, in his gushing about the twins, admired the wall across the river from the window.

I have never seen such a special wall.

The rough surface has been mottled by the hands of the years, and the deep and shallow layers of gray occupy the snow-white background. But this is natural and delicate, and it cannot be described from the outside. It can only be like a drop of ink falling into the water. evidence.

I allow myself to indulge in my imagination: what kind of love story has happened in such a mood of ink painting? If it rains suddenly, will the heroine pick up her sweetheart with an oil-paper umbrella? How did she know that the oil-paper umbrella in her hand was made by the actor for her? In such a small place, the story of a man and a woman falling in love at first sight is so desirable!

"Squeak-squeak-", a small cart entered my field of vision. The old man just appeared on the other side of the river. He stretched out a bamboo pole, used a net bag to pick up fallen leaves and weeds floating on the river, and dumped them into a yellow bag on the garbage truck.

The old man's hair was almost completely white, but it was unnaturally lined by the white T-shirt on him - too much white. I have been engaged in outdoor work for a long time, but there are not many wrinkles on my face. Although I have tanned a little, I can still see the original whiteness. Two fluorescent strips on the fat dark grey work pant legs hide the shoes.

He only held a bamboo pole, but his hunched posture seemed to be carrying an Everest on his back, and there was a bit of indescribable arrogance in his movements. That frown that couldn't have been tighter, I've only seen it on one client's face. The client's company was about to go bankrupt, his father became a vegetative state, his mother had dementia, and he still owed more than one of our company's balance payments and 3 months' salaries to the employees, his face full of anxiety and sorrow. But the old man in front of him looked indifferent and didn't care about his surroundings.

No matter how you look at it, his posture is much older and heavier than his actual age. This peculiar contrast aroused my curiosity, and I continued to observe carefully, trying to speculate on his past.

The sound of "dong" brought me back to reality - the boss put the plum juice on the old wooden table in front of me, and the ice cubes collided with a pleasant ding-dong sound.

"Is this old man here again?" The boss followed my line of sight and looked out the window, "It's a pity to work hard."

"Is he not a local? He doesn't look like it." I took a sip of the plum juice with a straw. It was too sweet and a little greasy.

"He used to be a writer and came here to travel, but it didn't take long for him to go crazy. It's been 10 years. I just celebrated my children's fifth birthday when he came. It was spring."

"He's a writer?" Is an old man who lives by salvaging fallen leaves from the river a writer? I'm even more curious, "How could it be crazy?"

"Maybe the writer is more sensitive," the boss wiped the table after returning to the bar. "When he was taken away by the police, he cried and shouted, saying that he killed a short story."

03

The next afternoon, I had already visited the town and wanted to go outside the town, so I crossed the slate bridge and walked towards the woods not far away.

"Squeak-squeak-", the old man appeared again. Today, he is also wearing a fat overalls on his upper body, using long iron pliers to clamp the garbage on the ground into the yellow bag of the small cart.

There was no one else around, and I thought he was still cleaning up the fallen leaves. I am getting closer and closer to him.

Suddenly he crouched down, picked up a cigarette butt, and touched his trouser pocket with his other hand, but found nothing.

I quickened my pace, took out the remaining half-pack of cigarettes and a lighter from my pocket, handed one, and made a gesture to light it for him.

I booked a bus and a plane for tomorrow morning and didn't want to miss this opportunity, even though I'm not very good at dealing with elders.

The old man's cloudy eyes looked at me for a while, then lowered his head to take the cigarette. Children and fantasy writers might liken his two fingers holding a cigarette to a dry tree branch.

I don't have the habit of smoking, I carry it with me just for socializing, any stranger may bring me the next or even several orders, smoking is the easiest way to build friendships.

I lit one too, and stood side by side with this strange old man in the shade of a midsummer tree, smoking a cigarette in silence. I noticed him taking the first few breaths hard.

"You also want to know how I killed a short story?" After half a cigarette, the old man spoke first.

"Ah... I just heard someone mention it yesterday, and I happened to meet you," I was a little embarrassed, "it's okay if you don't want to mention it."

"Sit down and talk!" The old man lifted the knees of his trousers, sat cross-legged against the tree trunk, raised his hand holding the cigarette, "Can you give me another one?"

He was wearing the black cloth shoes commonly found in small shops in the town, and the edges were badly frayed.

I sat down beside him, put half a pack of cigarettes and a lighter in front of him, secretly glad I didn't choose white yesterday.

The ground is a little warm, but the wind is blowing constantly in the woods, the coolness is wrapped in moisture, and the fresh smell tells me that there are lively streams in the woods, which breed a vibrant green.

I picture myself sitting in a landscape painting, quietly and intently preparing to listen to an unusual past event.

04

The old man's narration is calm.

At that time, he agreed to divorce because he was determined not to have children, sold the house and got half of the money. After changing several industries, I didn't like it very much. After resigning again, I spent my 36th birthday in a rental house alone. My only hobby is reading novels. I have participated in several short story competitions in the past two years, and all of them have won places.

Speaking of which, his voice was full of nostalgia and yearning, as well as a hint of pride.

He accidentally saw from the Internet that there was a short story competition that was due in 10 days, so he decided to come here for half a month to complete the entry. The theme of the competition was "Grow flowers in your heart, and your life will not be barren".

He conceived a fantasy story for this purpose. On the thick clouds, there is a flower shop selling dream seeds. Confused children will come to the store to choose a dream seed in their dreams. After signing a contract with the flower shop, they will put the seeds plant in the heart. As long as it is watered as promised in the contract for the next 20 years, the seed will sprout and grow until it blooms.

I admire in my heart that this story is full of childlike innocence and hope, and it is the type that both adults and children will like.

The seeds in the flower shop not only have career dreams such as "stars, animal trainers, and war correspondents", but also wishes such as "making the family happy, only dreaming, and having a sister".

He wanders the town during the day, chatting with people, looking for inspiration, and creating after dinner. The novel was just half-written when it happened.

He dreamed that the children who had picked the seeds had grown up. The seeds bloom beautifully in their hearts, but they are full of resentment.

"I'm already an A-list star, and occasionally I get ridiculed by netizens for being too thrifty when I take a taxi. When I fall in love, I have to be sneaky and trembling. Shouldn't people be more tolerant of me? Why do you want me to be such a wronged star?!"

"My brother was bitten to death by the lion I was responsible for domesticating! He was only 16 years old! The lion was also injected to death. My parents refused to forgive me. They hated me. What should I do..."

"Do you know how I felt when I flew to a country 7,000 kilometers away to report on the war but lost my legs? You let me be a reporter in a wheelchair in the future?"

05

He gently comforted them that these were all accidents, and encouraged them to try another way to keep the flowers in their hearts blooming.

When he wakes up, he makes fun of himself for worrying about the future of his characters.

"Maybe I'm thinking about it!" he thought at the time.

But they didn't let him go, and began to complain in his dreams every night. More and more of them.

"My family is very happy because they thought I was studying in Canada. I didn't dare to tell them that I had dropped out of school a long time ago, and I didn't dare to come out. I was afraid that they would be sad and disappointed. Do you understand my torment?"

"Only dreaming makes me numb, I can't be happy anymore. Whatever I want, I can achieve it when I fall asleep, the reality is so disappointing by comparison. I'm more and more reluctant to wake up, but can't sleep Now, look for sleeping pills everywhere. It's irresponsible to create such a dream when you don't know anything!"

"I have a sister, but what I want is a sister who can chat with me, walk and travel, not an autistic! When I touch her, she screams like crazy, you think that is also A dream come true?"

He gradually lost his patience, and said to them seriously: "This is a dilemma that everyone may encounter, not the fault of dreams, let alone me."

He spends the day catching up. He is eager to win.

The fear of the night and sleep kept him on all the lights in the room 24 hours a day.

The owner of the homestay came knocking on the door. He only said that he was in a hurry and did not want to be disturbed.

Only he knew that it was not "people" who disturbed him.

"It was you who imposed these dreams on us and made us suffer in exchange for winning awards, but now you say it has nothing to do with you, you are too selfish!"

"You only care about making your story look good, and you don't care how painful our future is! No one cares about us, we are just cannon fodder, your victims!"

"No wonder no one loves you!"

"You deserve to grow old alone!"

...

He couldn't bear it anymore, and finally roared: "I have a good heart, how can you blame me so rightly? It's all your own fault. If you don't face problems, you will only blame others! My work and marriage are not going well, who can I blame? Who am I to blame? Am I not trying to create my value and meaning? I only have this hobby, why do you want to destroy me?"

He gradually became unable to distinguish between day and night, and he either resisted and argued all day long, or complained and sighed. But he still tried his best to meet the draft. He doesn't want to give up.

When the deadline came, he sent the work to the designated mailbox.

"You are just characters I imagined, not even ghosts." He lay down in relief, the corners of his mouth raised weakly.

He thought it was all over at last, and he didn't have to live on coffee anymore. However, as soon as he closed his eyes, he saw that they were waiting for him.

"I still finished this short story, I won!" Before they could speak, he jumped up and argued, "You are jealous that I can change your destiny, and your destiny can only be given by me!"

picture

06

"Do you know how to kill a short story?" the old man breathed out slowly, "First you have to sincerely regret creating these characters before you completely collapse, then apologize to them, and promise to make it all go away with your own hands. "

He petitioned the editor to delete his entry and disqualify him, even though the editor said his entry had reached the semi-finals and had a good chance of winning.

He tore up the handwritten outline, worried, turned the wastebasket upside down, picked out the scraps of paper bit by bit, and threw them down the toilet to flush them away.

Deleted the document from the laptop again and emptied the recycle bin.

"Dong dong dong!" Someone knocked on the door, but he couldn't hear it.

It's not enough to slam the computer on the floor and slam on it, you have to pick it up and swipe it against the wall.

It was late at night, and the resident downstairs called the police.

"Di! Huh-" The owner of the homestay opened the door with the spare room card, and the police rushed in.

He was seen huddled in the corner under his desk, emaciated in less than a week, with tears on his face lifted from his knees.

He said he hardly ever told anyone the real reason for his crying, because he rarely met a quiet audience like me.

At that time, he remembered arguing with his classmates in the middle of elementary school, and forgot that he was holding a utility knife in his hand, and almost slashed the face of his classmates.

Like the guys in the dream, the classmate's parents, his mother and teachers all scolded him without explanation. Two days later, his father who came back from a business trip grabbed him by the collar and threw him against the wall.

Other classmates were asked by their parents to stay away from him, and since then, he has been abandoned by the world.

"Everyone who has nothing to do with this matter is blaming me, but no one tells me how to make up for it or avoid it." His voice trembled slightly, and he didn't raise his hand with the cigarette for a while, "No People have asked me how it happened, no one cared that I was unintentional, and I even lost the chance to speak."

He didn't find a chance to apologize to the classmate until he graduated from elementary school. He stopped talking to his parents and making friends.

07

In a trance, he was taken to the city by the police, given a diagnosis of a mental breakdown due to stress and boxes of capsules.

When he woke up, he realized that he could not go back to the past. He begged the police to keep him here for the rest of his life, he loved the town. He got a job as a sanitation worker in the scenic spot. Out of sympathy, the owner of the homestay gave him the attic to live in.

"There's always something, and no one understands why it happened, but it just happened." The old man breathed out another cigarette, "Some people say I'm crazy; some sympathize with me; some people say it's an excuse for me. Others gave me various suggestions, such as going back to my ex-wife to get back together and live a good life. What other people think has no meaning to me, and even if someone believes in me, they can’t understand how I feel.”

Now he can sleep soundly without taking medicine. Although he couldn't read and write, and he no longer dreamed, he finally said goodbye to the confusion that lasted from elementary school to middle age. He was very content.

08

Before you know it, it's almost dusk.

The old man held the lAt the mercy of the wind, it quickly disappeared in the air.

He said, that's all, since I met it, it's better than what others told me. He handed me the lighter, which I politely asked him to keep.

"Then I'll go." He picked up the cigarette butts on the ground, crumpled the empty cigarette case into small balls, stood up on his knees, and threw them into the bag on the cart together, without slapping the dirt on his trousers.

I had to stand up too, turned around and walked towards the town.

"Wait a minute!" His voice came from behind, and I hurriedly turned around.

"You're not a writer, are you?" The worry on his face was sincere, "It's like this, although I haven't heard of a second person in the same situation as me in ten years, I'm not sure if it will be contagious, I usually ask first, and I forgot about smoking in a hurry. You...are not a writer?"

I quickly denied it with a smile, saying that I was selling big brand bathroom products, and it was a regional sales. This time I was just here after a business trip. But the worry in his eyes did not dissipate.

I realized that this old man was alone with incomprehensible pain and was worried about causing the same pain to others.

At that moment, an unspeakable fear and an inexplicable heaviness intertwined into my body, preventing my right hand from reaching into my pants pocket, which was holding a business card holder.

I remembered giving the owner of the beverage shop a business card, and pretended to be relaxed and said with a smile, you can ask the owner of the small shop, right next to a stone bridge, is the one with a pair of twins, I told him yesterday, He knows it all.

I heard the rare incoherence of my own words, the hollow laughter, and the sudden dryness of my mouth, but I dared not swallow.

The old man's eyes returned to their original turbidity and defocus: "That's good... that's good...". He murmured and turned away.

Watching the thin figure push the garbage truck away, I returned to the town, bought a pack of cigarettes and a lighter at the first convenience store I passed by, leaned against the wall by the river and started smoking, one after another, watching the sunset It sank unhurriedly from the horse head wall.

The ink on the wall was still smearing silently. If the wall could talk, I don't know how many stories it would tell me beyond my imagination...

09

In the setting sun on Thursday, I returned to my apartment, planning to take a shower and prepare for tomorrow's meeting.

Thinking of the drink shop owner's words, I smiled bitterly in my heart. I am an orphan, I bought this single apartment by working hard, carrying a mortgage for more than 30 years, and have no plans to get married and have children. The value of my life is not determined by marital status or fame, and the satisfaction of interests is simpler and purer. Of course I don't bring this up to anyone.

Blow-drying my hair, I opened my laptop on the soft sofa and started writing the outline.

Yes, I'm also an amateur short story writer with a passion for creating love stories - a secret I've never told anyone. In recent years, being single has become the mainstream, and the more you can't get it, the more desirable it is. This time I went to the town to find inspiration.

I arranged a love story with very simple characters in a small town surrounded by rivers. The love tricked by fate is as twists and turns as the bluestone path in the town.

The next day, I had a star day at the company and everyone was throwing a smile of approval. The contract signed in Shenzhen is the largest order since I joined the company, and it will bring me a considerable commission and year-end bonus. After the meeting, the supervisor hinted that I was expected to be promoted and raised at the end of the year. I'm planning to go to the auto show next month and maybe buy a regular one in installments after I get promoted next year.

The memory of the old man has been thrown out of my mind, and occasionally I think of the shock at that time, and I always laugh at myself for being too young.

Forced to kill a short story by a character? Only a writer who is not confident and strong can have such an illusion.

Maybe in the future I will write the experience of the elderly into a short story, after all, it is a rare material.

I started writing the main text according to the outline, and by Saturday night, a third of it was done.

In fact, I'm pretty close to winning the prize. Before the Spring Festival, I accidentally saw the New Year's luck on the Internet. Regardless of the zodiac sign or the zodiac, this year is my rising year, which is suitable for expanding my business. Now it seems that my work and interests will usher in a new level.

When I closed the computer, I was smug.

10

They are here tonight.

It was a young man with half of his forehead missing. "Tick. Tick." The light-colored jacket kept dripping gasoline, and the bloody smell mixed with gasoline, which was extremely pungent.

I immediately recognized him as the male supporting character in my short story.

"Look at how cruel you are at such a young age!" He pointed at me, "What did I do wrong, you want me to die in order to fulfill my unfaithful fiancee and her lover? Still awake-"

Before the words were finished, there was a "Boom", and the fire was soaring into the sky. The overturned car exploded, and he was pinned down by the body, unable to move. This is the plot I designed.

I bounced off the bed, sweating profusely, gasping for breath, a heart pounding in my chest.

Wash your face with cold water, open the refrigerator, and fill a bottle of Baisui Mountain in one go. Not enough, fill another bottle. Change the sheet and lie down again.

It's the heroine's turn.

"It turned out that you harmed me!" She was a real beauty, and her tears were even more moving, "You know that my fiancé and I are childhood sweethearts, and I have long regarded myself as his new wife, why did you deliberately let him misunderstand me? Change of heart? Why did he die tragically without giving me a chance to explain? Shouldn't writers have sympathy? Do you still have heart?"

11

Two weeks later, as I traveled halfway across the city, I saw a counselor who had only secured an hour for six appointments. I couldn't wait to tell her that in the past two weeks, the three protagonists, their parents and the elders of the clan had surrounded me every night to denounce me, asking me if I could not see others because of my lack of love? If I don't get married or fall in love, I can't wait to have a lover and die? They are all from short stories I am writing. The essay contest closed today, and I've only written half of it.

Then, exhausted, I was asked to answer a series of questions - "If you don't look at the photos, do you remember what your parents looked like?" "Do you have photos of your parents at home?" "How often do you go to the gym?" "Do you have any? A friend who can talk to your heart?" "When was the last time you chatted with a friend?"  …

On the taxi home, I held a small packet of sleeping pills in my pocket and wept silently. I have to admit, I was infected by that old man.

The end of fatigue is despair. Sleeping pills do nothing.

They shared the same hatred and refused to admit to entering my dream, claiming that I had to break into their world and that I would not let them go.

They asked me who else I wanted to write to death? Why can't they all be left alive? Why create misunderstandings and surprises instead of unity and peace? The hostess pushed me to apologize to her.

I apologize.

12

After the National Day holiday, I received a generous year-end bonus, together with the dismissal compensation.

After coming back from Shenzhen, I couldn't go on business trips anymore, I never laughed again, I was just tired and taciturn. Supervisors and colleagues have long turned a blind eye to me.

After I left, I packed all the books and magazines in the apartment into cardboard boxes, taped them into closets, and got rid of a lot of clothes and clutter.

Before the Spring Festival, I found a new job as a janitor in a small church in the outer suburbs.

I handed the keys to the apartment to the agent, paid the mortgage with the rent, and moved into the chapel's doorman.

There is a small cemetery behind the church. I think they chose me because I was young and quiet and could help when a new tombstone came in; I hardly spoke when someone came to sweep the grave. I like to sit in front of the cemetery and watch the sunset.

I think I'm luckier than the old man, I know I'm not the only one in this world, I know what I might be like in ten years, and I have an apartment.

But I still felt the same bottomless loneliness as him.

I regularly go to get my medicine dispensed and take it on time. As long as you don't think about that short story, "they" don't appear.

But every morning, I would write a sentence on a piece of paper. Just one sentence, and then put the pen and paper back in the drawer as if you never wrote.

I have long decided to finish this short story. Now that you are in the center of the whirlpool, you must find a way to adapt and find a new way to keep the flower in your heart blooming.

I will write more short stories, just quietly and slowly, to avoid being noticed by "them".

I'm not going to kill any short story. I will not give up.ast half of the cigarette in his hand, and let the weightless mist pass by