2021 English Short Stories

Sell Your Soul

Streets of London were calm in the day, the birds of the sky were eye music flying in choreographed melody. Light grey birds of heaven were like dazzling beams from the seawater dapped by wind; their light in eternal blue otherwise, gliding like free spirits. In every winged arch they became the tips of a drivers' wall that brought a surge of sweet earthly joy to music both for eyes and souls. The path in front of the busy feet, burnt in the sun as shadows scattered closely behind. Centuries of grand design and sculpture came together in the wide avenues to form that electric yet peaceful cityscape. As the sunlight grew dim, the towers began to glow.

Beams of light from offices ignited the city pathways as if we were in a great and ancient forest. The sidewalk glistens under the early morning sun, washed clean by a thousand raindrops and then a thousand more. It is as grey as the granite of the mountain peaks, new life growing in the crevices, tenacious, vibrant - tall wands of green upon wind-blown soil grains, each one so precious to the life it supports.

Late winter nights, Jason looks like everyone in his denim and deep brown duffle coat lined with white sheep's wool, as he walks down the side streets. The alleyways where you could stretch your arms on both sides to explore the homes and feel the walls that were constructed centuries ago. The alleyways where it felt as though history had its eyes on you. There was something a little hippy about him from the way he walked to his course, long hair that bumped off his shoulders every time he dodged busy workers like me.

I'm a lawyer, attorney lawyer to be precise. So of course, I can lie and manipulate, but it's "why" that counts. I do what I do to bring about a better and more peaceful world. I have never been satisfied with the government's requests. I try and fix society for the long term, I write the Terms & Conditions that no one reads. Now, place your bets as to who that benefits.

We don't use the word "government" anymore, we lost our taste for being dominated. We have public services administered volunteers. They run the necessary departments for society to function – agriculture, transport, health, building materials, law. It wasn't easy to get from the destructive model to this one, but after a period of building up our social systems we went down the libertarian model with a few modifications. All services were free, all run by well qualified volunteers - every one of them a wonderful soul.

As I scurried down the busy streets, late for work. Buildings shadowed the bright and brave sun that would normally be winking at me with its beams and blinding my vision. It was only when I reached the oversized automatic sliding doors of the entrance, that the cool breeze reached my skin. As I travelled in the plain sliver box to the top floor, my imagination ran wild. Imagination is intelligence.

With it you can see every perspective and triangulate truth. Imagination is part of what builds me, for when I am free in that mode, when I am in the creative stream, I become a better version of myself. I always dreamed of working in a creative environment, although when I got the call for a high paid government job, I quickly jumped on the opportunity. As a ding of a bell sounded, the shiny silver doors opened, and I entered the room of dead silence. My eyes darted towards my office where I could see a tall, hunched figure pacing back and forth. Where something critical is present in the line, "Anxious" is natural. It's all right to sense it. You must be educated by all feelings. What is unusual is that there is still that impression. Any feelings should be short-term visitors, and others should last longer.

Slowly and carefully, I walked with my head focusing on the floor towards the office door. Entering I meet the eyes of a man is somewhat too tall for his build, where he a few inches shorter he would be all the more handsome for it. It was as if he stopped growing only to be stretched on one of those medieval racks a half-foot more. His face was mostly obscured by a red scraggly beard that clung to his skin like winter ravaged ivy tendrils. He meets my gaze not with the shyness of a stranger but with a blunt refusal to avert his gaze first. Without warning he began to confess, of what I don't know.

"I am not a bad person, believe me please," he begged as I placed my brown leather satchel down on the short stubby desk probably found in a antique store, "they made me do it, I never meant to take it."

My head shot up to meet the deep brown eyes of a worried man. My mind racing, why was he here confessing to me?

"Sir, I understand you may be innocent, but I don't believe you," I hesitated. I have always dreamed of this moment; the chance to be in the room where it happened, and it was late when I realised what had been said "I don't believe you are guilty but there are people in this building that would argue otherwise."

I could tell he was a little apprehensive, but that is the most natural of emotions when we see something or someone that has the potential to destroy the dreams of our lives. What's more, the emotion was mirrored in my soul. I may have just ruined my future.