Realism
an excerpt

In a world of realism- where myths and fantasy no longer exist, there is a little boy. His name is unknown, for he was born without one. He was cursed to never have one. Nobody ever spoke to him, because if they called out to him, they might call him something- and calling him something would give him a title. A name.

It was all he wanted.

So he wandered the world of reality as every one of his mythical companions began to die off.

Some of them were hunted- some of them died of old age, and yet others, deemed immortal, finally saw the last glimpse of light as the world of Real came to be.

Immortality was now nothing more than a word in a database. A fantasy.

But still- He existed. He wandered the world.

In all of his travels, he had never once come across anyone who could see him. And pretty soon- everything seemed so lifeless.

'In a world of reality,' he said softly, 'I supposed one, such as myself, will never find a home.' He was sitting on a bench next to an older woman who was feeding the dull gray birds on the concrete.

She didn't reply.

'Do you have a home?' he asked her.

The birds cooed. The woman reached into her paper bag and took out more crumbs, tossing them on the ground. But still, there was no reply.

So he kneeled, sliding off the bench. He got down to eye level with one of the birds, 'Do you have a home?' he asked again.

But the bird merely pecked his hand to get to a breadcrumb, and continued its own business.

So he got up, and brushed himself off. The little boy began to walk again.

He traveled to places where the people spoke in rough languages. He walked through parties where the women spoke with gentle, high voices. He tiptoed past sleeping gypsies. He slipped into towns, cities and villages.

But nowhere that the little boy went, could he find a single person who would speak to him.

In a small, green house, there lived a little girl. She was a very lonely girl, for she had few friends. Her name was Anne.

Anne was nine years old and blind. Her entire world was nothing but darkness, and textures and sounds. There were no colours, no shapes, no real world to her.

There were days when little Anne wondered if the rest of the world realized everything the same as she did. Of course, she knew that there were so many things that she could never experiance that others could.

As she walked through the little house, she kept a light grasp on the wooden rail, listening to her own light footsteps. The feel of the cold linoleum in the hallway gave way to the soft carpet in her room, signaling where she was.

Anne could hear her mother in the kitchen washing the dishes. She loved her mother very much, but had a hard time being around her all the time. She had a pitched voice that was just enough to give Anne a bit of an ache in her head whenever she listened to her for too long.

She wondered if other mothers were like her own. She wondered if they dressed themselves in perfumes. If they smelled of wax and honey when they kissed their children on the cheeks. She wondered if they were brightly coloured, or if they were not coloured at all.

Anne made up stories, to pass the time away. She pretended she could see again, although she didn't understand, really what it might be like. She had no idea what a stream looked like, or a tree, or a house, or a car. She didn't know what colours they were, but she knew that the sky was supposed to be 'blue' and the grass was supposed to be 'green'. They all appeared the same to her. Blank. Empty. Void.

She pretended like she knew about all of them.

But she didn't know what colours really were, or what they'd be like. All the ideas that she had were shadowed with her blindness. She could pretend that she understood, but she knew, that it was just pretend and nothing more.

And that, she felt, made her alone.

Now it just so happens that the little boy came across the little green house one day in his travels. He had been sleeping in a cave with a mother Deer and her young, but he wondered if there was anyone in this house that would be able to see him, or speak to him, and maybe even give him a name.

He peered into a window, and saw an older woman washing dishes. Her dull red hair was unnatural compared to her fair features. She was humming as she washed.

But she didn't seem to notice him. In fact, she took no notice of him at all, even as he rapped gently on the window.

Still, the little boy took advantage of the back door, and stepped inside, calling out, 'Hello!' as he did.

Nobody replied.