[Summer Contest Entry 2015] Roundabout

I don’t know why, but I really do hate summer.

There’s just something about the whole season that irks me to my core. It’s probably got something to do with the weather, or maybe it’s how annoyingly giddy everyone gets during this time of year. The other kids probably see it as their opportunity to bask in their youth but to me, it’s not quite as glamorous.

Summer’s always felt like nature’s cruel way of passing the time. It dangles a carrot right in our faces, tricking us into thinking that we’d finally be able to do something worthwhile so we continue to tire ourselves out, reaching for the unobtainable but before we even know it, summer’s already over and all that time’s vanished into thin air. That’s the thing with time; you don’t realize how little you have until it’s all gone. Youth truly is wasted on the young.

“God, I feel like shit.”

This is the effect that summer has on me. It saps out all the energy from my body and replaces it with enough gloom to make a man sick. So here I lie, gathering moss in this unbearable heat. If this is what rocks feel like then I sincerely apologize for all the times I decided to kick one around.

I can’t really help it if I’m not in the mood to do anything; then again, when am I ever? The heat this afternoon was the special kind, the type that’s taxing on the soul. So I did what I usually do on days like this: retreat into my room, shut off all the lights, and lay in bed wondering how anyone could enjoy this damn season.

I reach out towards the nightstand next to my bed and feel out for the steel wristwatch that dad got me for my birthday. It’s not the gift that I would have wanted but he insisted, spouting some nonsense about every man needing one. He also made sure to get an expensive one, complete with a foreign brand name that I couldn’t pronounce. Truth be told, I had completely forgotten about it so it’s been doing nothing but collecting dust for the past months.

I pick up the watch and squint, attempting to read the time, but the darkness complicates things. I shuffle around, positioning it in front of the window, the faint streams of twilight reflecting on its silver wristband, and to my surprise, the hands had stopped dead in their tracks.

“The hell?”

Is it out of battery? No, I just got it. So is it broken or something? Wonderful. I can now call myself one of the proud owners of a thousand dollar paperweight! Whatever. I never had much use for the time anyway; the color of the sky tells me all I need to know.

I languidly get off of the bed, rummage through my closet, and throw on anything decent I could find before tossing my house clothes into a corner and shambling towards the window.

At this point, darkness had begun to encroach upon the sky, creating a fine shade of indigo. I slide the window open and look outside. I really should thank that bratty little sister of mine for taking the room upstairs from me. I shove my wallet into the pocket of my pants and prop my leg on the windowsill but the glint of the wristwatch catches my attention.

Well, if it’s not going to tell me the time, then it could at least be an accessory. Besides, I’d feel bad for dad if I didn’t use it. I stretch out my arm to grab it and strap it on to my wrist. With everything set, I lift myself up and squeeze through the opening head first, holding onto the wall to keep my balance. With the upper half of my body outside, I reorient myself and sit on the windowsill. Bending my legs slightly, I slide them out and hop off onto the ground.

It’s a warm evening, perfect for a stroll and much tamer compared to the searing temperatures earlier. It also happens to be a dark one, the street ahead only barely illuminated by the dim lights of the street lamps. I pick up the muffled sound of laughter coming from the front of my home. It creates heaviness in my chest, but that feeling quickly disappears, as always. It’s not like I’m doing any wrong. Sticking around—would just be too much trouble. It’s much easier this way. You could say it’s the path of least resistance.

Afraid that the negative aura of my room might spread, I shut the window tightly and walk off onto the road. Unsurprisingly, it looks like the heat had driven everyone else off.

I prefer it this way though. Summer has this way of making you sluggish. Everything you do feels like such a struggle, so much so that even having fun becomes a chore. But time, it continues to move at the same dizzying—no, nauseating speed that it always does. Months flow like weeks; weeks pass like days, and so on. With the rate things go, it’s no surprise that every day leaves me totally fatigued.

But this slow, deliberate pace, it fits me much better. These evening strolls are the only time I find any solace in these dog days. The road all to myself with only the distant buzzing of cicadas echoing in night air, it’s soothing, almost as if the flow of time itself had stopped.

After what feels like hours of wandering, I find myself in a place that I never expected to see again, the neighborhood that I lived in back when I was younger. I had unwittingly entered it but as soon as I saw the oh-so-familiar arrangement of houses, I knew exactly where I was.

Nothing had changed. It’s like I had just walked straight into a far-off memory so vivid that I swear I could taste the distinct flavor of watermelons.

I make my way through the neighborhood, recalling every insignificant moment as if it had happened yesterday. At the corner of the street, I spot the house of an old friend. It brings me back to those lazy summer days when I would come over with some of the other kids to play video games. All those fun times I used to have—all those friends I used to have, where did they go? The thought of knocking on the door ran through my head but I quickly realize that there wasn’t much sense to it. Chances are she wouldn’t recognize me anyway; I’m just a ghost from the past after all.

Breaking off from the road, I enter the park, one of my hangouts from back in the day. I follow the trail deeper in until I finally reach my destination, a small multi-color roundabout. It’s a lot more beat up than I remember, but that doesn’t change the sentiments I hold towards it. As far as I’m concerned, it’s still the same old roundabout that I would waste countless summer days, much like this one, goofing around on.

I grab one of its yellow handles and begin sprinting with all the energy I can muster. Once I feel that I’ve reached peak speed, I jump onto the spinning platform and hold onto the metal bar for dear life.

I don’t know how long ago it was when I was able to still have fun like this. It was simpler before, and a lot happier, or maybe it was happier because everything was so simple. I might have even enjoyed summer back then.

If only things could go back to the way they used to be.

As the roundabout comes to a full stop, I let out a wistful sigh.

Who am I kidding? I’m supposed to be an adult now but I’m still just a dumb kid. I haven’t changed at all.

As I’m getting of the roundabout, I realize how long I’ve been out; I must have lost track of time. Everyone should already be asleep at this hour, so it should be safe to go home.

As I make my way back towards the street, I notice some slight motion coming from my watch. I pull my arm up to my face to inspect it and to my surprise the hands had begun moving again. It finally dawned on me; this was one of those automatic watches, the kind that are powered by movement. Of course the time was all messed up but at least that’s one less thing to worry about.

Surely, more could have been done on these dull repetitious days but I thought they would go on forever. This leisurely pace, it became a way of living. So it’s only natural that, when I’m finally asked to run, I’d only tire myself out.

“God, I feel like shit.”

I don’t know why, but I really do hate summer.

What an interesting monologue, it also might as well have been non-fiction if there wasn't this descriptive side-story about the focal character's trip. I sometimes think about submitting something like a non-fiction philosophical monologue about life and living, what it means to love and have true love, the difficulties of growing up and taking responsibility, stuff like that. There's something about that melancholy dwelling that makes for a somber yet satisfying piece, like getting a good rant out.

This... was really good. I think it's actually my favorite other than Tau's. It makes me consider and think back on my life. It makes me contemplate on what has lead me to this point and my continued attempts to find a place in this world. It makes me see the sweet bitterness that is mortality. The realism put in this peace allows me to connect and sympathize with it. Splendidly done.

I don't feel the same way though. I am unable to connect to monologues like these. How does waking up, performing things as mundane as finding out that the wristwatch is out of order lead to me contemplating about my own life? I can't make that connection.

Ironic I know. I usually write angry monologues. Speaking of angry monologues, this entry would be made better in my eyes if it went into a hysterical tirade or written in a sarcastic manner like,

"I hate the summer. There is plenty of sunshine, the scenery is wonderful, it is longest season of the year, the economy is booming since everyone is in the mood to spend, the solar panels have increased output, climate alarmists can look forward to earning a lot of money penning articles claiming that it is the hottest day ever since the dawn of civilisation and my ex-wife might die of a heat stroke. Yet, I still hate the summer. Perhaps I should get a lobotomy."

(Admittedly, there is no purpose in that angry monologue but throwing out bizarre associations with the summer is quite entertaining)

Jokes aside and in summary what I found lacking was why the protagonist hated the summer which I thought was what the monologue was trying to answer. I know it is clearly stated that he doesn't know but then why the protagonist felt the need to go through day to day activities? What is the significance of finding out that the watch is powered by movement?

Why tell me this and what is the main point of the monologue? (The answer might be in the title but the monologue ought to address this and then say, "That is why I hate the summer.")

By the way, Sound of Destiny, now that I have expressed why I didn't take it to your story, could you try bashing reading my entry as well?

A Trip Up the Mountains

I actually agree with Leonard to some extent. Sorry to say, but I found this entry a bit of slog to get through. I'm not too keen on the references to time and the watch.

This piece needs a certain type of patience to be appreciated. Those who like to contemplate about themselves and life in general would love to take a look at this. There’s a beauty in its simplicity. I find myself taking deep breaths in the silence between the spaces.

Although I understand where Leonard and D are coming from. Halfway through the story, I have asked myself “what’s the point of all this?” and “What is he even doing?” But that is exactly the point. You have to ask. You have to reflect. And you have to find answers for yourself.



I particularly like this part, SD . And the piece in general.

I can't say that I agree with this approach to reading though I was taught in Literature class that this ought to be the way to approach literature.

Let me be crass here, this approach is basically giving the license for the author to come with whatever he wants. It doesn't matter if it is doesn't make sense since the reader can come to any conclusion he likes anyway.

I have argued this with some people who say that I need to use my 'imagination' to better appreciate what the author is trying to convey. To that I say, if that were really the case, I don't need the author to put in any effort to properly convey things. All I need to do is to imagine. Why do I need the author?

Finally, if I were to take that approach and come to an 'answer', I will be very sure that it would be different from your 'answer'. crazr thinks that this is a piece that makes one rethink his life. I say that the reason why the author hates the summer is because of how repetitive and meaningless each day is, not some statement about life. (Otherwise why call it 'Roundabout'?) Two readers coming to two different conclusions doesn't feel right to me.

Some say that is the beauty of literature - the fact that it can be interpreted in anyway. As a reader of non-fiction and contracts however, I shudder to think that a piece of writing can be interpreted in anyway the reader likes. This goes back to what I said about stories conveying things properly. A story that can be interpreted in many ways is very likely a story that does a poor job in conveyance.

i'll be the roundabout
the words will make you out and out
i spend the day your way
call it morning driving through the sound
and in and out the valley

===

ah yes, im just quoting a part of the song of the same name.

about the story, i have to tell you that im very bad with descriptive language, so im mostly just trying to figure out the gist on what's happening by reading some key sentences.

in which i believe the narrator was complaining about how his summer got rather meaningless as he grew up. it's one part i was able to relate. it worked out rather differently for me since i kind of enjoy doing nothing much and just having my own fun during this course of summer. and the dull times was during my childhood, yeah. so basically kind of the opposite. each people had different experiences eh.

sorry i couldn't appreciate it as much as everyone else since i didn't really understand the story details, but i think you did a plenty of effort on those other parts, especially adding the details out. that's something i didn't really tinker with when i write since my brain froze before i could think up the words. so yeah, i guess it's a good job on ya. good luck for the event.