Donovan Falls in Love

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Donovan Falls in Love

(A Short Story About Falling)

Donovan is a dreamer, and he has eyebrows as thick as two fingers combined.

We will not start this story like that dead guy Orwell did: “It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.” We pan our lenses to Donovan the dreamer. He would ride inside the spaceship called “His Brain” and fly into the moon of his thoughts, in wild orbit motion. And he would do this often. One day, the entire class – the sophomores – would talk about a lot of things. Of course, the master storyteller is Miss Pudgywinker – the old-maid – slash Granny Goose – slash Literature teacher. She wears glasses thicker than the two-hundred pager Book of sonnets; but nothing and nobody is thicker than her tales. She would start the first hour telling of the escapades of Charlemagne and Roland; she brings Achilles back to life with her magical tongue; and never bores the whole pack talking about Shakespeare, and Tolstoy, and Shusaku Endo. They loved her stories. Donovan was a better lover. He lived inside her stories.   The high-school dreamer would imagine himself riding Rocinante of Quijano, in pursuit of his lady love Dulcinea del Toboso, or his Juliet Capulet, or his Maria Clara… or Lindsay Spinoza. However, she was never “his”.

Two weeks ago, Donovan was in his awkward P.E uniform, playing Basketball in his more awkward stance. He dribbles the ball like playing Yo-Yo. He runs like Rocinante with acute hemorrhoids. When he throws the ball up in the air to shoot it, it will always come back straight to his face. Imagine Don Quixote in the NBA. Shakespeare wearing Kobe’s Jersey. The hunchback of Notre Dame playing power forward. I told you, he’s awkward. But nothing can get more awkward than this. When the big guys made fun of the high-school hunchback, the musketeer came to the rescue. “Stop it!” It was the voice of the most beautiful lady in the kingdom of Northbridge High-School. “Stop it, or I’ll kick you all!” The boys flew away, not because they were afraid of her. But because she was too beautiful to be slandered. She found authority in her words. The sun was radiating a blinding light behind her, and her figure shone like a saint with a halo. “Come Donovan. Don’t mind them…” He saw it all. He heard it all. He loved it all. He was standing steps away from her – three meters seems like mercury and Pluto. He needed to zoom towards her. He needed to take a step and part the Red Sea between them. He needed to walk on water. Step. What Am I going to say to her? He muses, and then takes a slow step. What is this that I’m experiencing right now? Step. “Donovan, faster!” Her words were ambrosia and poison at the same time. With eagerness, he wants to live a thousand lives. In fear, he dies. He then caught her own gaze. Right at that moment, he paused. “Donovan?” She seemed ecstatic. One reality consumed Donovan this time: “She knows my name.” She knows him. She sees him. “Is she feeling this war inside me too?” That doubt did not just pause him. He wanted to go back. Step back. If she could not reciprocate the feeling, it seems like all the Arabian Nights were dawn, and all the stories end in Nostradamus’ fiery end. Seems like the end of the world. That was the half of Donovan – dying a thousand deaths in fear and trembling. Another part of him – the heart in his brain, the impulse in his breathing, the melody in his silence – longs to move forward and kill all the Spartans in front of him, and even inside of him. “I’ll be going Donovan, bye!” Lindsay Spinoza walked away before he could quote William Faulkner or Salman Rushdie. She walks away. The End.

The End?

Donovan wants to start Book two. He devoured himself with skimming people and greeting books. This time, it’s final. Love is all or nothing. It’s either you give your all, or it is not love at all. There’s no middleground. If you give your all, the danger is – you might be losing your all. But you gain yourself. You gain of becoming the man you always wanted to be. Not Romeo. Not Hercules. Not Rama. But you. If you say no to the risks of love, you lose yourself. You lose because what you love the most defines who you really are. You lose your definition, your meaning. But fear is in the middle, Donovan sighs. For him, that fear is like that white flag inside his chest. Now, he has to make a decision. He chooses this: he wants to tear down the white flag with the scissors of love.

And so, Donovan stood in the middle of the Literature teacher’s story. This is his all or nothing moment. Miss Pudgywinker – the silenced old-maid – slash surprised teacher – slash awkward – zippered her mouth. “Miss Pudgywinker,” Donovan starts his own speech. “I would like to announce to everyone that I have found my own star in the galaxy.” Everyone fell into silence. All ears were lent to Brutus. Fear contested Love, stared straight into her eye, and trembled. “…and I want to reach that star today.” He got out of his armchair and went straight to the first row – straight to Lindsay Spinoza. “Lady Lindsay,” he paused in a two-second guttural. “Lady Lindsay, my star, will you fall on me today?”The whole class was wide-eyed. Even Miss Pudgywinker – the amazed old-maid – slash blushing lovebug – slash literature teacher – was putting her left palm on her mouth and her right fist on her breasts. Lindsay Spinoza was under a roast. Everybody was waiting for her reply. But sooner, she did. As strong as she was, she gave a simple answer: No. The class was half shocked, and half happy. Donovan was neither both. “Okay,” Donovan whispered. Riiiiiiiiiiinnnnnng. It was the end of the class. And it was a good conclusion to the story. The sophomores, plus Lindsay Spinoza, ran out of the class while Donovan slowly went back to his chair and got his bags. Miss Pudgywinker – the downhearted-old maid – slash secret musician – slash ex-tourguide slides towards Donovan who was left alone with her. “Hey, are you okay Donny?” Donovan, turning back to her, with raspberry eyes and a calm face – sighed. He got the white flag out of his chest and tore it apart. Lord Alfred Tennyson was right. It gave him freedom. “Yes Miss Pudgywinker, I’m okay.” Then he got his bag and slowly walked outside.

Miss Pudgywinker – the confused old maid – slash Literature teacher – slash single forever – made big zeroes with her mouth and nose-holes, and a blank on her eyes. She made a sour grin as she was erasing the last marks of the black Pentel Pen on the white board. She wiped the squirt of little liquid off of her thick glasses with her small thumb in circular motion. She Paused. Now, in line with Romeo Montague, Adonis and Sir Lancelot is Donovan, the dreamer. She soon got from her breast something. It was a white flag. It still isn’t torn yet.

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*Twister Jover, the author,was wide awake three to five in the morning of November 26, 2012 with the whole world in his chest and a white flag on his right hand. The thing that was killing his courage, was the very thing that was making him alive in the most awkward of hours. Thus, Donovan woke up from his dream.

Sequel to this short:

"Lindsay Learns to Wait"

[http://crossjover.wordpress.com/2014/07/05/lindsay-learns-to-wait/]