Chapter 3:

Short Story 3: The Ball

An Experimental Collection of The Absurd


Precisely when he saw it, he knew what he was going to do. John being a plump fellow, sore after today’s charity walk around the countryside, a walk that made John feel like he was going to die, was just considering how long it’d been since he felt so exhausted. Not even work could compare to how he felt, so thoroughly wringed and brutalised. These complaints of his soon vanished after his encounter with the ball.

He was by a bicycle rack when a frustration emerged from seemingly nowhere. Seemingly nowhere because it would be unrealistic to say a football was the cause of his sudden frustration. But it was true that John was in anguish, split between complaining to himself how painful the walk was and his growing urge to kick this ball as hard as he could.

A block of sunlight on the ball seemed to John like a targeted laser sight. This laser sight was gifted to him by the heavens, aimed into being by his will to take fire, and so here he was being told by those heavens to pull the trigger.

“It was like fate,” said John, recollecting. “If it was fate, then I had to act on it.”

Then, in the middle of revving his legs, he paused. He thought about what his parents and schoolteachers taught him when he was a child: never let anger win. And John backed away. He sat on the bicycle rack but then, in a lack of self-balance, started waning.

“Oh, why—!”

He clutched one bar for support. With a sturdy grip, he pulled himself up straight, his palms sweaty. When he wondered what to do with his frustration, which, now that he’d embarrassed himself by almost falling off the rack, was at a new high, John considered the ball again. Would it make him feel better if he took his anger out on it? Probably. But the ball might’ve very well belonged to someone. John was only one corner turn away from the park, so someone could’ve forgotten to take it home. Yet despite that thoughtful heart in him not to kick someone’s ball asunder from the ground to the clouds, the feeling of frustration was still there. Only one kick would make John feel good again. The kick would fill him with a great sense of power. He would fulfil his duty, become a knight and slay the dragon. No doubt, he would feel better about himself if he only followed his urge to kick the ball.

“No!” screamed one side of himself.

“Yes!” screamed the other side.

But really who would care about someone kicking a ball? No-one would complain. It wasn’t like John could kick the ball so far that it would never be found again. If it entered a bush, he’d fish it out. If it entered a tree, he’d not be able to do anything about it, but, well, it’d work out, right?

Right! He was resolved to kick the ball again. The block of sunlight on the ball was starting to shorten, the day closing its eyes. Fate had guided him, and so the time to act was now, soon or never.

“Fate is guiding you, John,” he said. “This is your chance to feel like a main character, okay? So, you’ll kick the ball. You’ll do it!”

“Oh, I’ll do it, alright,” said John to John.

“Yeah, you will!” John replied. “Because you’re awesome, John.”

“Yeah, you bet I am, me.”

John, in shining armour, set siege against the mighty dragon. He rode his white horse across a scorched medieval land, past the slums and the many poor people whose lives were much worse than his own, and he raised his sword, a glint on its silver hilt, his every thought directed towards murdering that fowl creature, and finally he would put to rest the constant anguish it caused—until on that thought, John stopped. Did the dragon really cause any anguish? He saw it resting in those scorched plains, covered in arrows. Wasn’t it only there existing, having to defend against those who fought against it? John considered asking the nearby folk what they thought, but that would’ve been foolish. If he was wrong—if the dragon was his rightful antagonist—he would be a sure disappointment to the people, after proposing something so ridiculous.

Well, John wondered if asking that question really should be ridiculous. Because what if the dragon really wasn’t at blame? The slums were always in bad shape; the people living there didn’t suddenly become miserable just because the dragon came to sleep in those plains. So, then what caused this anguish?

“Oh.” John realised. He very much so realised. His armour shone under the sun, and his shadow extended beyond him into the ragged slums. The anguish he felt was his anguish, for his pride as a supposed knight of the people. He’d served under the gold flag of the capital, which always hung on the great buildings of the wealthy, flickering like a fire. He would’ve been happy just to receive praise—from his companions, from his king, from his people. He didn’t need to see smiles. Just words of acknowledgement. “You are a hero.”

Kicking a ball—how stupid, he thought. He was disappointed that he even considered resorting to something so unnecessary. More so he was disappointed that the reason he entered a charity walk wasn’t humble or kind, but solely so he’d receive praise. And while the charity participants were certainly praised altogether, no-one praised John specifically.

“I might’ve wanted to think that wasn’t it, that that wasn’t what I’d hoped for,” recounted John. “I wanted something for all that sweat. But I didn’t get anything back for it.”

Soon John finished recounting his story. He looked around shouldering a dejected face, the look of a defeated hero. His eyelids were depressed under his hefty eyebrows, but they softened when he, seemingly in the realisation of something, saw the lamp by his side flicker. The bulb was faulty. John asked if he could help change it. He did. But then, as soon as he finished changing it, he looked sad again.

“I’m not asking for praise anymore,” he said. “I’d been going to the gym since before this story happened. And that wasn’t for praise. I just wanted to take control of my life somehow. Really, I don’t know if I’d have felt better kicking that ball. But honestly, I’m glad I didn’t.” He laughs. “Oh, also, I found out who owned the ball. Some 40-year-old guy came by in a Liverpool jersey. Very bouncy and energetic. He rainbow-flicked the ball over my head and left without a word of acknowledgement.

“If anything, that was when I finished realising I wasn’t the main character. The guy didn’t need to say anything to me. He didn’t need to acknowledge me, since I was only on the side. I was just sitting there on the bicycle rack, imagining John the knight who ignored his duty. John, the knight without honour, without praise. That knight would go on to leave the dragon to fly back home and went on with his life. He started helping the people with their own daily lives, doing odd jobs and the like, and before anyone could acknowledge him, he left without a word, just like that. Like that 40-year-old man was just living, so was I.”

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