The Good Samaritan revisited
This is my first short story written in the comfort of ignorance, and darkness:
"Is there no one to help me? Please give me a chance!" rang out the plaintive cries, muffled and strangelydevoid of feeling for the words they echoed forth.
It was a typical city morning with desire, the eternalseductress, dictating the slave march. The morning sunshone, red and sullen, a grudging, mute witness to thethankless millions underneath, a nondescript mass drivenby unbridled greed. The numbing monotony of the steady footsteps maintained its rhythm, betraying no sign of the cries being registered.
This was the future. Man had learnt from his ignominiouspast, had emerged edified, and the present was unblemishedby any shades of feeling which might impair the gloriousvisions of tomorrow. But vestiges remain... if only to tieup loose ends - to remind those who forget.
A step faltered and came to a halt at the gaping mouth ofa black ditch. A young man with a feline disregard forthe curiosity that arose within, peered into the darknessof the pit that seemed to define nothingness. He couldn't discern anything it might be carrying within; give no face to the voice that begged for succour from its entrails.
Looking around, he saw the world carrying on with its duty.The voice seemed to fade before it reached any of those othermodels of efficiency. Stopping one of the passers-by - anotherwonderful man with a mission, he attempted to find more about the faceless voice which had so brutally exposed his own deplorably human nature. The answer was simple: "If this isn'tyour goal, why bother, man?"
Unsatisfied, the samaritan, after a few moments of contemplation,called down the pit, "Is there anyway I can help?" The wordsdrifted down the pit, echoing retrospectively, presenting themselvesin a new light to their speaker.
Suddenly, life seemed to stir inside. The mindless voice, shakingoff its languor instead assumed a tone of gratitude. "Please getme ouf of this hell-hole! I'll be forever indebted to you if youcould help me!".
"Easy enough", said the samaritan and began looking around for anaccessory, preferably inanimate, to assist him in this humaneinterlude to an otherwise tailor-made mold of existence. His searching gaze rested on, and transfigured, a derelict coil of ropeinto a lifeline for the unfortunate victim reinventing existencein the stygian depths of his enclosure.
Within seconds, he had secured one of the rope around a huge treestump, the remnant of an indolent oak tree, unable to justify itsexistence and consequently reworked to suit the more pressing needsof an ever increasing sedentary work force.
Dropping the other end of the lifeline into the ditch, he asked the man to hold fast. "Call out when you're ready, and I'll haul youout of your misery in no time", said the samaritan. A few moments ofsilence ensued before the voice called, "I'm ready!".
But for the fact that it arose out of the same ditch, it was difficultto identify this triumphant voice, suffused with an almost indulgentpleasure, as the same deadpan one which had been begging for helpa little while ago.
Evidently the ditch was fairly deep, for the entire piece of rope,nearly twenty feet long, had been swallowed whole. After a long inspiredhaul, he could finally see the silhouette of his beneficiary. Strangely,the voice had fallen silent after the initial excitement, which helpedthe samaritan regain his composure and remind himself that it was onlya momentary diversion from his real duty towards mankind.
At last, a head showed up; It was limp. Broken at the neck. He had neatlywound the lifeline around his neck like a hangman's noose. He had beenrescued at the first pull of the samaritan's able arms.
The samaritan wiped the beads of sweat from his brow, picked himself up,and armed with a lesson learnt, reported for work 13 minutes late.
"Is there no one to help me? Please give me a chance!" rang out the plaintive cries, muffled and strangelydevoid of feeling for the words they echoed forth.
It was a typical city morning with desire, the eternalseductress, dictating the slave march. The morning sunshone, red and sullen, a grudging, mute witness to thethankless millions underneath, a nondescript mass drivenby unbridled greed. The numbing monotony of the steady footsteps maintained its rhythm, betraying no sign of the cries being registered.
This was the future. Man had learnt from his ignominiouspast, had emerged edified, and the present was unblemishedby any shades of feeling which might impair the gloriousvisions of tomorrow. But vestiges remain... if only to tieup loose ends - to remind those who forget.
A step faltered and came to a halt at the gaping mouth ofa black ditch. A young man with a feline disregard forthe curiosity that arose within, peered into the darknessof the pit that seemed to define nothingness. He couldn't discern anything it might be carrying within; give no face to the voice that begged for succour from its entrails.
Looking around, he saw the world carrying on with its duty.The voice seemed to fade before it reached any of those othermodels of efficiency. Stopping one of the passers-by - anotherwonderful man with a mission, he attempted to find more about the faceless voice which had so brutally exposed his own deplorably human nature. The answer was simple: "If this isn'tyour goal, why bother, man?"
Unsatisfied, the samaritan, after a few moments of contemplation,called down the pit, "Is there anyway I can help?" The wordsdrifted down the pit, echoing retrospectively, presenting themselvesin a new light to their speaker.
Suddenly, life seemed to stir inside. The mindless voice, shakingoff its languor instead assumed a tone of gratitude. "Please getme ouf of this hell-hole! I'll be forever indebted to you if youcould help me!".
"Easy enough", said the samaritan and began looking around for anaccessory, preferably inanimate, to assist him in this humaneinterlude to an otherwise tailor-made mold of existence. His searching gaze rested on, and transfigured, a derelict coil of ropeinto a lifeline for the unfortunate victim reinventing existencein the stygian depths of his enclosure.
Within seconds, he had secured one of the rope around a huge treestump, the remnant of an indolent oak tree, unable to justify itsexistence and consequently reworked to suit the more pressing needsof an ever increasing sedentary work force.
Dropping the other end of the lifeline into the ditch, he asked the man to hold fast. "Call out when you're ready, and I'll haul youout of your misery in no time", said the samaritan. A few moments ofsilence ensued before the voice called, "I'm ready!".
But for the fact that it arose out of the same ditch, it was difficultto identify this triumphant voice, suffused with an almost indulgentpleasure, as the same deadpan one which had been begging for helpa little while ago.
Evidently the ditch was fairly deep, for the entire piece of rope,nearly twenty feet long, had been swallowed whole. After a long inspiredhaul, he could finally see the silhouette of his beneficiary. Strangely,the voice had fallen silent after the initial excitement, which helpedthe samaritan regain his composure and remind himself that it was onlya momentary diversion from his real duty towards mankind.
At last, a head showed up; It was limp. Broken at the neck. He had neatlywound the lifeline around his neck like a hangman's noose. He had beenrescued at the first pull of the samaritan's able arms.
The samaritan wiped the beads of sweat from his brow, picked himself up,and armed with a lesson learnt, reported for work 13 minutes late.
posted by Jo Atman at 4:13 PM
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