I already have a thread here in Creative Corner, But I thought this wold not fit in there because it's not a painting. This is a children's story or a grownup's fairytale. I named it Mr. Simone. (Oh, and some sentences and words may be a bit strange sense English is my second languish) If you have any suggestions on how to make it better please tell me.
Mr. Simone was the kind of person one would expect spent his evenings looking through old history magazines finding and correcting mistakes, to later send a academically and profoundly written letter to the magazine in question implying that they should make a public apology for there misinterpreted date or accession. He was the kind of man who one would expect had never sat foot outside his one house, except from the occasional stroll to the post office to send a letter to a history magazine or two. One would furthermore expect that Mr. Simone had not seen or heard a lot in the 80 years of his life. But in this case as so many others first impressions and expectations are very wrong.
Mr. Simone had never been in love, he had never had time. As a child he had often been very sick and spent most of his time indoors. But none of that really mattered now. Actually, none of that had ever really mattered to him. He did not at all care about the affections other people, with the acceptation of his mother who was dead sense many years. But even that was less important than the task that now lay before him, and had done so for many years.
Some might say that Eugenie Simone was a dreadful neighbor, a sad old man or even a freighting warlock. In reality he was none of these things. In reality Eugenie Simone was a hero. Set on a mission to save the world, as it seemed. It all sounds so dramatic ones one reviews it in retrospect like this. And the curios ting to the matter was, that it was not dramatic at all. There are many disasters in the world, such as failing economy, starvation, the bus being late on a busy morning, poverty, natural disasters, the lack of milk in ones super market, wars, computer failure and on top of that the global worming. But Mr. Simone had an all together different mission.
As early on as the age of seven, during one of his many periods of bed-resting, little Eugenie had stumbled upon a book that came to change his life. He was so intrigued by the fantastic opportunities that was presented to him and so frighten by the horrible possibilities. He had found the book in his parent’s library the day before and, as he was not allowed to barrow books from his parent’s, had hidden it underneath his bed until that very morning. The name of the book he had long sense forgotten but not its content. This was a book like no other, every word was filled with an unimaginable feeling of a presence, of what exactly what, was a more difficult task to figure out. Every page glimmered in the weakness of candlelight, as he read it. Or at least that is how he remembered it. Mr. Simone knew by now childhood memories are so often sort of an overstatement, particularly the ones of grate importance in people’s lives.
After he had in a state of amassment finished reading the book he sat in bed for 50 minutes just starring out in the dark room wondering about life, all the small insignificant things he in his seven years on this earth had accomplished. When the 50 minutes had gone by, he had made a decision. The seven year old boy had decided to save the world. He got started the next morning. As his parents were fast asleep little Eugenie sneaked out of bed, the wooden floor was cold under his feet, but he hardly even noticed it as he sett of down the hallway staircase.
Ones in a while Mr. Simone’s neighbors would see an extraordinarily large package arriving on his doorstep. They never took much notice of it, and most of them just dismissed it as being a big piece of furniture. None of them had ever made an effort to get closer and none of them had, therefore ever heard the odd sounds emerging from the packages. In addition, to not paying attention to the old mans strange deliveries no one paid attention to the enormous quantities of food that the Mr. Simone must devour, sense every weeks supply of food seem to disappear at least as fast as if he had been feeding a family of ten. But dispute the lack of interest in the man, all of them had once or twice tided to imagine what it would be like inside that marvelous old house. Because even if the neighbors did not like Eugenie Simone, they did however adore his house.
The house was a tremendously grand building Eugenie’s parents had left him when they had passed. And it was an extraordinary thing to imagine that Mr. Simone had lived in that house his entire life. Of coarse none of the neighbors had lived there quite as long as he and cloud therefore not really know. But imagination is a curious thing and can make one believe in the most unbelievable of events, though most people did not really care. If Mr. Simone was ever talked about, someone would quickly change the subject to something more interesting, such as the new brand of toothpaste in the local supermarket.
In lonely afternoons Mr. Simone use to sit and think about that morning, the first thing he had done, once he had gotten down the slippery cold staircase, was to collect all sorts of eatable things. Amongst which he particularly remembered a jar of pickled peaches, that looked as if they had been put there several centuries earlier and had been forgotten ever sense. Other things he came across were a big bottle of vinegar, a wooden box filled with garlic, a number of versus spices of witch he scarcely recognized half. As he went through cabinets and dowers in the kitchen he new that the wondrous book was still waiting for him underneath his bed. When he was done he merely walked back up the stairs with the food neatly packed in a basket. As he finely got back up to the nursery he hid the basket next to the book and lay down in bed awaiting the awakening of his parents. After the regular morning visit from his mother the boy had the entire day to him self if one does not count the fifteen minutes it took for the cook to bring up his lunch. Mr. Simone liked the memory of that first significant day. But he particularly liked the memory of that feeling. The feeling of getting started on something so big, so monumental that it cloud change the course of history.
Saving the world was never a simple task, and even more difficult for a seven year old boy. Because of his young age saving the world seemed almost incomprehensible, and there are, for that very reason, not to much to tell about his earliest years as a hero. Once the internet came, attending to matters became less difficult, and by than there was no more need for secrecy because both his parents were long gone. No more climbing out of the windows in the middle of the night. No more running to the forest to set traps. And no more tiptoeing thou the backdoor and up the hallway staircase, carrying and concealing a pore little animal.
If only one of the neighbors would have just been a little more curious. The wonderful existents of still unknown creatures, and of unbelievable animals would have been discovered. If only one of the neighbors children had ever sneaked up to that old and beautiful building, to look thou a window. Or the postman had ever went in to ring the bell and accidentally cached a gimps of the wonders hidden with in that house. They would have seen unicorns and griffins snacking on a jar of pickled peaches, that dated back to the 1990’s. A hungry dragon with a collar on witch the letters REX were printed, trying to open a box of chili. And an uncountable amount of other fantastic pets, that Eugenie Simone had saved from extinction. But no one have ever tried to get closer to Eugenie Simone. Because after all, Mr Simone was the kind of person one wold expect spent his evenings looking through old history magazines finding and correcting mistakes.
Thank you for reading it.
