The Final Round

[nerner]

Been a long time (7 months, give or take) since I posted a story around here and I started to feel like a bit of a phony in these parts. So here I one that I knocked up over the last 2 hours or so. Comments appreciated as always. Need to dust the cobwebs off of my writing style. Anyway, whatever, here goes. Enjoy it guys.

 

 

The Final Round

 

Mr Mifsud wasn’t a good golfer. And unlike some people, who have the money to buy the equipment and clothing to disguise their inferiority, he doesn’t have a need for fancy equipment. Mr Mifsud is confident that his old driver, bought by his father’s father in a small store in Dhahran whilst he was on one of his frequent business trips to the West and then handed down through the generations, remains fit for it’s purpose. He would never buy another club. And this driver will continue to be handed down, from proud father to disinterested son, until it breaks apart. Whereupon it will be given pride of place somewhere important. Or something like that. You see, Mr Mifsud didn’t particularly like thinking ahead. He much preferred the here and now.

 

He strode purposefully towards his car. Another thing which had great sentimental value to him. Which Mr Mifsud despised. He was not the kind of man who liked commitments. Given the choice he would much rather have the frantic, passionate and short company of an escort at night instead of the warm, cosy and seemingly infinite company of a wife. As far as Mr Mifsud was concerned, women were only good for f*cking and, well f*cking. As a man who admitted to having the shortest possible attention span he would no doubt get bored of a permanent relationship and have to give up half of his meagre possessions to her in a messy divorce.

 

The trunk of the car opens with a well oiled click, and he places his club inside. Today is the day of another round of golf with his “friends”. People who would screw him over happily if it meant another few thousand in the bank. Not that he cared. Friends were nothing but unwelcome distractions, hindrances, another road block on the path to enlightenment. Just pieces of meat.

 

Buddhists say that the soul is all that is real. As long as man believes that the world around us is real and not the soul he is trapped. Doomed to suffer the endless reincarnation known as Samsara. Of course, Mr Mifsud was not a Buddhist, nor was he Muslim. In fact, Mr Mifsud has no faith. He knows the truth.

 

The soul is not real. He knows it. When he cuts his arm his pain is real, as is the instrument that causes it. Blood is real. This world is real. The soul? The way he sees it, the whole conception of religion is wrong. The soul is just a vehicle which Christians, Jews and Buddhists all use to try and spoon-feed morality into our subconscious. Freud had it nailed down when he said: “The unconscious mind is a repository for socially unacceptable ideas, wishes or desires, traumatic memories, and painful emotions put out of mind by the mechanism of psychological repression.” Mr Mifsud couldn’t have put it better himself. When you infiltrate the subconscious, you control the person. Mr Mifsud was always good at manipulation.

 

He was at a crossroads. Physically, subjectively and ideologically. It was time to take action. The golf club was on the right. He travels straight past. His friends won’t miss him and he certainly won’t miss his friends. He travels onwards, to the bridge. The water here is deep and treacherous. A fantastic place to hide a body, especially if nobody is making an attempt to look for it. Mr Mifsud congratulates himself on his plan. His skilful removal of his relatives was the final piece of the puzzle. A few strikes with his trusty driver and nobody will ever come looking for him ever again.

 

The turning for the bridge is coming; he puts his foot down on the accelerator pedal, hard. Nobody else is around to see what he is about to do; this is it, the moment he has been preparing for since before he could remember. And then, suddenly, he is airborne. The blue sky flies past. He really couldn’t have picked a better time to do it. The light wind is making the water slightly choppy. Tiny white ripples travel frantically towards the shore, desperately wanting to know what it feels like to have the sand beneath their feet before, inevitably they fade and die, die like the dreams of many a man. After an age the car finally hits the water.

 

Blackness.

 

The sea swallows the car whole, like a hungry snake devours a mouse. Minutes pass with no stirring on the surface. The greedy water shows no remorse. This is not the first life that it will take, nor will it be the last.

 

But then a hand appears. Mr Mifsud gasps for air, still clutching the golf club like an obscenely thin, metallic baby. The matted hair and dried blood which was stuck to the end now runs down the shaft. Well he couldn’t just leave it in the car could he? This driver will continue to be handed down, from proud father to disinterested son, until it breaks apart. Whereupon it will be given pride of place somewhere important.

 

Mahmoud Ghalib Mifsud is dead now. In his place, like the proverbial phoenix, rises a new man: Thomas Richard Lane. Humans are but an inedible meat with a mind to him, and he is now their hunter.

 

 

[Abel.]

I liked this. My immediate thoughts were that the piece is well written and flows well, which I always like as it helps immerse the reader. Anyway, the concept and written style are both intriguing; the premise of a conventional short-story is broken in favour of exploration of philosophical concepts. Nevertheless, this all fits in well with Mifsud's character. I like your representation of life's subjective conceptualisation, is life something to be pondered upon due to its profound nature or simply something for one to live through? I really did enjoy this piece, mate, thought-provoking, for one, for example, Mifsud has clearly been granted little inspiration or, importantly, freedom in his life, exemplified by the monotonous ritual of imparting the family driver to the son of the next generation. Mifsud seems content only during his final hour wherein he claims his own life, to ultimately take ownership of it. Great read, mate, I hope to see more from you.

[nerner]

Thanks elanman. I didn't actually start out with him killing himself, rather with him being murdered whilst playing his round of golf. However once I wrote about the single driver I knew where I had to take the piece.

 

The whole thing with the exploration of his philosophy was in part because I read a book which does much the same sort of thing throughout and I was itching to try it out myself. I think I integrated it reasonably well into the passage by my standards.

 

Once again thanks for your comment and I'll probably post another story in about 6 months or so, so keep your eyes peeled.

[Tyler]

Yeah man, like elan said this is a very well written piece. My personal joy with it was the fact that you really did strike on Metaphysical elements, which by far is my favourite subject to talk about.

 

You better get a new piece in 6 months or else!

[nerner]

Wow, positive reactions. I generally only write when I want to, and I am rather prone to going off on a tangent. I suppose that this was one of those pieces where the tangent actually makes the story worth reading.

 

Thanks for your comment and good luck with your blog.

[Tyler]

I get you there. Usually the older pieces on this forum that include my credit were written out of sheer boredom and wanting to contribute to the forum. I was actually thinking about making a short stories thread for myself, since I constantly get ideas I want to share that don't need their own topic individually.

 

 

You're a good writer nerner, and I see you contribute to this forum pretty well. That, and your avatar scared the sh*t out of me first time I saw it. Keep up the writing

[Mokrie Dela]

to hell with the bump, it's technically off topic and therefore against the rules to post this elsewhere (ie the social club)

 

 

I loved this. Although Nothing really happens in it, it doesn't feel it. I felt an air of mystery, and you manages to spike my intrigue (i forget what the correct word is there, not spike... Im tired). I'd like to see more .

 

 

The soul is not real. He knows it. When he cuts his arm his pain is real, as is the instrument that causes it. Blood is real. This world is real. The soul? The way he sees it, the whole conception of religion is wrong. The soul is just a vehicle which Christians, Jews and Buddhists all use to try and spoon-feed morality into our subconscious. Freud had it nailed down when he said: “The unconscious mind is a repository for socially unacceptable ideas, wishes or desires, traumatic memories, and painful emotions put out of mind by the mechanism of psychological repression.” Mr Mifsud couldn’t have put it better himself. When you infiltrate the subconscious, you control the person. Mr Mifsud was always good at manipulation.

My favorite passage right there. Especially the first few sentences.

 

Nicely written man.

 

[Josh]

Thank you Mokrie Dela. It feels like every post in WD is a bump nowadays to be honest.

[Mokrie Dela]

Thank you Mokrie Dela. It feels like every post in WD is a bump nowadays to be honest.

That's cos this place is quiet. The elite, executive penthouse don't have too many people in it.