"Yours Is a Short Story" by Christian Barragan

Yours Is a Short Story

Halfway through the day, Doran still had little clue as to how to classify his life. He strutted out of his university classroom and paraded toward the botanical gardens nearby to gather clues as to the nature of his story. What genre could he be living in? Better yet, for what age group? Most importantly, what length? He basked in the remarkably clear skies and inhaled deeply, only to be met with the faint scent of cinders.
As he approached the gardens, he edged toward a girl from his class, Tamaya, to whom he believed himself to have some sort of attraction. She wrapped a book tightly against her body as she pranced through the gates and settled down on the bench beside the fountain. Curious, he entered after her and leaned against a nearby plant, watching her open her book from the corner of his eye.
The possibility dawned on him, this could be a teenage romance! As though in response to his epiphany, Tamaya glanced up from her story and smiled. Doran snapped his fingers in frustration. No, he knew for a fact she was twenty and he was, to his knowledge, also twenty. She closed her book and walked toward the exit, eagerly peering back at him. He hesitated, but couldn’t lose his only clue.
Doran followed Tamaya for a few steps, eager to get a glimpse of her book. Perhaps it was an instruction manual for how to build a time machine? Science fiction? He pulled out his cell phone which, to his disappointment, did not house an AI to verify his identity. A simple code guided him through the blank lock screen and into an equally empty set of applications. As Tamaya sped away toward the university clocktower, he recognized the word “Frankenstein” etched on the cover of her book.
He slumped onto the lid of a trash can beside the bench, unaware that he had dipped his rear in the stagnant water accumulated on top. The clouds above the garden darkened and clumped together in a menacing gesture. He glanced to his side and noticed a small bug...a worm?...crawling up the leaf next to him. It calmly, unremarkably, squirmed toward Doran as he came to a horrible realization. It’s realism.
You’ve come a long way, Doran. Beware what you look for. There is no time for delay.
The worm spoke. Shit, it’s surrealism.
Ok, now for the audience. Young adults? No, I said shit. Shit.
Losing marketability. Adults then. Adults with pissy attitudes, like me.
A surrealist story geared toward adults. A writer would starve waiting for that to make money. Maybe this is a tragedy. Then we’d both be dead.
Surrealism.
Doran frantically darted his eyes around the garden. Every branch he saw morphed into an arm grasping for his throat. Every flower, a vessel for the scent of death that wafted toward him. The ravenous man-eaters curled inward as the charred stench of embers permeated through the soil. He shot upward and centered himself, backing away from the prying eyes of his assailants. He stared closely at the bug.
I know you must be confused, Doran. But I must turn you toward —
A small glimmer winked at Doran from the side of the bug. A modest, metallic flash.
It is science fiction!
He peered at his phone, realizing it had remained unlocked this entire time.
Doran swatted the leaf aside and barrelled out of the gardens, dropping his traitorous cellular as he imagined a swarm of nanobots careening over the mounds of information accumulated on the device.
An overbearing sense of dread overcame Doran as he ran outward toward the front of the university, regarding the skies above him. The unfamiliar clamor of thunder erupted from the clouds.
Thunder obviously signaled danger’s imminent arrival. Aliens? An alien invasion right before finals would be problematic. What were the odds of the semester’s units still counting toward a degree after Earth’s destruction?
Doran squeezed his last ounces of energy into his legs as he arrived at his only place of solace — the abandoned shed at the edge of the campus lawn. He stopped just shy of the entrance.
With a sharp inhale, he glanced upward to where he supposed the writer would be and yelled, “I need another clue! How do I end?”
After several moments of silence, he pushed himself through the decaying doors of the shed and locked himself inside. He paced wildly, peering through the windows at either side, noticing nothing. He closed his eyes and steadied his breath, attempting to synthesize his thoughts.
No aliens. No nanobots.
He didn’t even want to say sh*t anymore.
From the window’s view, an oncoming car tipped over and crashed into the university clocktower. The concrete pillars of the building buckled as the flames ate away at the structure's integrity. With a final gasp, the building toppled onto its side, spilling chunks of debris into the street and coughing flames onto the nearby trees. The proud flora withered as the smoke billowed upward, further tainting the murky skies.
Length.
He had overlooked the most important factor. The difference could be an eternity of development or a single moment in time stretched to comfort. There had to be clues laid out over his lifetime to deduce this development.
The shed began filling with a tyrannical heat that encircled Doran, gradually diffusing through every inch of his being. In a panic, he tried desperately to remember what came before this deluge of realizations, but the only thing he remembered was the sound of thunder. He strained his mind further but the only other thing he remembered was the bug that had spoken to him . . . five minutes ago? He strained his mind further but the only other thing that he remembered was Tamaya’s exit from the gardens. He strained his mind further and . . .
Oh.
It became apparent to him.

christian barragan

Christian Barragan is currently a senior at California State University Northridge. Raised in Riverside, CA, he aims to become either a novelist or a screenwriter in the future. His work has appeared in Pif Magazine, Coffin Bell, and Twist in Time Magazine, among others.

Headshot: Christian Barragan

Photo Credit: Staff