A bad choice(Short-story)

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It was a morning. I had had to get up in the dark and walk and bike to the college. I sat down for the class, having not done anything in college for the preceding two days, feeling uneasy in the unfamiliar surroundings.

I was a scholar in literature. I knew the works inside out. I could spot fakes without a problem, and find commonalities between stories. I told all that to my classmates, and then laid eyes on the book we were to talk about for our exam next week.

I was stumped. It was a book I had long heard of, but never seen. I looked at the cover on the table, but the cover was wrong. The cover did not match the contents. I looked at the class, but they also did not look like the people holding the books. I could tell the girl sitting beside me (whom I knew to be a poet, and a professor, if I remembered correctly) was writing, but I could not see what was written.

I heard a whisper from behind. It was the president. "Is someone here seeing something strange?"

I pushed the book aside and stood up. "You better not disturb him," he said, pointing at the door. "He thinks he is a poet."

She nodded and walked to the door. "Are you a poet?" she asked me.

"No."

"Sure you are!" said he from behind.

She shut the door, and turned back to me, breaking into a smile. "Let's talk about this in peace."

We stood under the tree and talked calmly for half an hour. We talked about two hundred years of form and poetic style and an interjection which I could not make out, but to which she nodded.

"Are you reading common poetry or weird poetry," I asked at one point.

"Just very weird poetry."

"Loss of progressive nature, hun holo boutu when you sulk and rant. Of course you are wordsmithing double, and triple, and quadruple, yes," I said, speaking poetry with her, with some excitement in my voice in voicing this poetry.

"Who gave you the knowledge of spoken poetry?"

"I read it in the book."

"Is it a history book? History is helping us with the arts. Speak in a dialect if you want to, but leave the books alone, you can do that."

"I will not."

"What do you want?"

"I want you to be a vehicle that carries me to the place where the poetic has been lost. I know names well."

"Names are some sort of nonsense. Why do you not learn the rules of language and ordinary poetry? Every language has its own grammar, and so does poetry. That's all, no more, no less."

"I am not your student. I come here on my own. Sit down and we will talk. We have many things to talk about."

It was a morning. I had had to get up in the dark and walk and bike to the college. I sat down for the class, having not done anything in college for the preceding two days, feeling uneasy in the unfamiliar surroundings.

I was a scholar in literature. I knew the works inside out. I could spot fakes without a problem, and find commonalities between stories. I told all that to my classmates, and then laid eyes on the book we were to talk about for our exam next week.

I was stumped. It was a book I had long heard of, but never seen. I looked at the cover on the table, but the cover was wrong. The cover did not match the contents. I looked at the class, but they also did not look like the people holding the books. I could tell the girl sitting beside me (whom I knew to be a poet, and a professor, if I remembered correctly) was writing, but I could not see what was written.

I heard a whisper from behind. It was the president. "Is someone here seeing something strange?"

I pushed the book aside and stood up. "You better not disturb him," he said, pointing at the door. "He thinks he is a poet."

She nodded and walked to the door. "Are you a poet?" she asked me.

"No."

"Sure you are!" said he from behind.

She shut the door, and turned back to me, breaking into a smile. "Let's talk about this in peace."

We stood under the tree and talked calmly for half an hour. We talked about two hundred years of form and poetic style and an interjection which I could not make out, but to which she nodded.

"Are you reading common poetry or weird poetry," I asked at one point.

"Just very weird poetry."

"Loss of progressive nature, hun holo boutu when you sulk and rant. Of course you are wordsmithing double, and triple, and quadruple, yes," I said, speaking poetry with her, with some excitement in my voice in voicing this poetry.

"Who gave you the knowledge of spoken poetry?"

"I read it in the book."

"Is it a history book? History is helping us with the arts. Speak in a dialect if you want to, but leave the books alone, you can do that."

"I will not."

"What do you want?"

"I want you to be a vehicle that carries me to the place where the poetic has been lost. I know names well."

"Names are some sort of nonsense. Why do you not learn the rules of language and ordinary poetry? Every language has its own grammar, and so does poetry. That's all, no more, no less."

"I am not your student. I come here on my own. Sit down and we will talk. We have many things to talk about."

We sat down for more than an hour. It was a very pleasant talk. The smile never left her face. I talked and she seemed to listen. I could tell that she knew good poetry. I could tell that she knew many words. She knew the grammar. She knew the languages. I could see into her memory and know the literature and its forms.

"This is a nice place," I said. "I have lived in this place before, but did not know that you were here, either. I have lived here a while ago."

She did not say anything. I hoped she was still listening. I looked to the windows once to check if I was in the same room as I was last night, but I could not see anything. It turned out I was in a different room; blue lights with white curtains replaced the fluorescent lights in the room, and crimson walls contrasted the blue walls inside the room.

"You have been here before," I said.

"I have. For a long time."

"I am a poet."

"I am a poet."

The two words sounded just the right way, added to each other, like "poetry" and "poet".

"I do not care if you are a poet, but I am very interested in the lost poems. I wrote a book once on the lost poetry. It is a poetry book."

I was surprised to see the flash of recognition in her eyes, but I did not say anything to that.

"You have been here before. Show yourself to me," she said.

I smiled. She was asking a rhyme.

"Show me, or you will die a slow death," she said.

"Are we in a play?" I said.

"Of course not," she said. "Life is a play."

"What makes you think you can kill me?"

She smiled. "You have no idea who I am."

"Then I will be even more careful. Perhaps you ought to tell me before you make any move."

"I am the author of this lost poetry book."

I took a deep breath, and looked at the cone, and then walked around it, looking upwards, slowly, carefully