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A youth called Genius (short fiction)

He abandoned his sickish body into the street, bent by the load of placard hanging around his neck, his present goal in life, awkwardly scratched by the hand that forgot the writing techniques during the last decades and he desperately knocked at the remembrances' door hoping maybe some saint would open and let him enjoy the image of the one who was a long time ago the youth called Genius, in whose name actually he was trying to collect coins daily, until enough to build him an obelisk. The gate was opened by a group of peaceful horses and it was not too long a way till he managed to see in a green field, behind a school, hysterical teen girls screaming in sync with Adonis incarnated in a wild boy, centaur repressed in his tight pants made of leather torn off the skins of his horsed brothers, in order to enforce his song streaming out of his soul. While the uncontrolled were expecting him to jump off the improvised stage into their apparently fragile arms, some cooler girls were speculating the chance of becoming the first lady, impregnated by the touch of Genius, whose song caressed their fantasy. On the edge were resting his good old days good old pals swallowing beer together with his usual rivals, commenting his talent and glam. Beyond the entire hubbub the ugly and resigned young women retired harassed by the thought that Genius would never have bent anyway his rays over them. And maybe they were right.

“Silly ones” mumbled somehow touched the new comer into the territory of memories, the beggar whose broken guitar has remained in another dimension for the sole purpose of collecting dropping coins. He knew that in the real world, the more detached and less passionate you act, the more successful you're meant to be. Over there, the splendor of Adonis isn't enough and the tremor of his voice hardly qualifies as poetry, but weakness. Hot virgins cool down there and become disciplined servants of a system or of the system makers. They grab again the etiquettes book and research diligently their place into the world, next to simple men, sturdy and dressed in blue. The Adonis gives up his sexy leather trousers, as the surplus from the cornu copia of self confidence gives him sensations of bursting up, leaving him naked and emptied inside; the verse from the peak of his voice found its destination and eternal rest up into the very skies and he remained exhausted and wrinkled just like an out of tune bagpipe. The concert is over. Amnesic, girls forget the reason of their hysteria and run away in flock towards other temptations. Youth has enough of these, praise the Lord, but none is nourishing enough: size XS appetizers, made to enrage.

The old man stops breath taken, but the youth called Genius strolls further as if he is a ghost, badly disgusted and inclined to philosophize. “It's her! It's her!” silently sweated the bony and dirty beggar. The boy considered her at most a breaks' mate, one that you can talk quietly several words and who inspired him, that's true, but à la cold. He'd never bend his locks over, to cover her waggishly. She's pale and distant , you can see she's not from around. She lacks love in her words, but her wisdom attracts him as a magnet for another few minutes. She's neither ugly nor beautiful and he can't estimate her general value. “Ask her name!” begs him the old man, helplessly. “Ask for her visit card!” He'd like to help him, jump onto his back, caress his hair and box his ears as a parent does, but the horses from the gate gallop menacingly towards them. For a second, the boy bends to kiss her, then pretends to unbalance, it seems the effort isn't worth it, the exhaustion after concert – you know, dance can't stop inside of him, butterflies smooth whisper to him that the glitter of his existence resides in something he already has, that nothing really matters after all and that a Genius such as himself rests forever fresh and able to regenerate. The girl of no color stays behind, the youth called Genius jumps happily from one foot to another, has no worry in the world and concocts high notes and staves, the green field swallowing him, unconsciously. The smelly old guy falls humbly at the feet of the pale creature and implores her in the name of the lost child: “Fortunaaa…!”

The failure nightmare awakens from trance the alcoholic living at the street's corner and he nods thankfully, shaking his wild grown and clotted hair when hearing a sound of scattered coins. Fortuna, the same pale goddess, vapid and inodorous, but sober in an elegant way, wearing Prada, happens to throw charity for the non-promoted Genius, whilst walking in a hurry on the avenue of Success.

Copyright © Katiusha Cuculescu, 2004