Feed my sheep
Feed my sheep Stefan Jarnik
Short story
Copyright © Stefan Jarnik 2012 All rights reserved.
Christmas Eve. The last of Santa’s little helpers are roaming searchingly through the innercity streets. True to their mission they must find children and make them smile by giving them Christmas presents. Time is pressing. The professional beard bearers could have gradually reduced their present´s stock in the run up to Christmas, so now, mere hours before the distribution of Christmas presents begins, their success rate is modest at best, despite all their persistence. It even seems as if today all the little people could have been banished by decree from the city centre, because wherever you look, grown ups are restlessly rushing around. These adults are mainly those who had been indifferent to the Christmas consumption adverts in recent weeks. At best, they had left their Christmas shopping to the last few days before Christmas; most had even saved it in provocative manner until the last few working hours on this Christmas Eve. The shops are closing. The avid shoppers, however, are still demanding admittance. But they are turned away by the visibly tired workers who stand in the shop doorways, summoning their last feeble attempt at kindness. Customers on the shop floors stand in long queues at the tills, the cashiers process purchases in record time. Having been channelled through the sales process, the shoppers gather in bunches in front of the exits, burdened with packages and bags, preventing each other from leaving the shop. And in front of the doors are standing all those who have not managed to enter the shop. Several of them talk fiercely to shop workers, gesturing. Others have repentantly, humbly given in to their fate; they exude a mixture of disappointment, resignation and exhaustion. Almost simultaneously, the crowds stream out of the neighbouring office buildings onto the streets trying to get home as quickly as possible. The shopping streets and main roads are overflowing, cars are travelling at a snail’s pace. The snowfall over the past few hours has caused further gridlock on the roads. Buses and trams are full to bursting, taxi ranks are emptied. The smell of Christmas baking, mulled wine and punch exudes from the few Christmas stalls that are still open, as it has over the last few days. But today, the customers driven out onto the street don’t notice the smell. Very soon, families will be opening their Christmas presents together. The bulwark of hustle and bustle, which has increasingly settled over the citizens of the town during the last few days and weeks, begins to crumble. Thoughts of joy, relaxation, comfort and community will soon cover the metropolis, and it will be shrouded in a cloak of peace and quiet in a matter of hours. The streets will be empty, covered in a fresh layer of snow, as if no one had ever set a foot on them.
At the same time, in a secluded lane far away from the city centre, a very busy figure appears. He arranges cardboard boxes into a meagre home, lining it with old, worn-out sacks. The figure shivers from the cold, his limbs ache. Slow, arduous movements finish the home. The building owner awkwardly enters his temporary shelter, seals it closed with a cardboard box and covers himself with the last remaining sack. A middle-aged man. Fate and his own inability have forged him into homelessness with no way out. The snow grows heavier, the wind howls incessantly. It sends the falling snowflakes whirling back upwards in a spiral. The homeless man remains sheltered, only the odd snowflake creeps into his home from time to time. Spontaneous bouts of coughing cause him to cramp. “Just don’t move too much, otherwise the hut will collapse,” he murmurs quietly, barely audible, to himself. And he’s hungry. Even the last sip of drink from the bottle was a while ago. He hasn’t eaten for days; he’s barely had a drink. His empty stomach torments him. He stares mindlessly and monotonously at the cardboard in front of him. The sacks stave off the cold somewhat, the shivering dwindles with time. The homeless man’s body slowly relaxes. But not his mind. His mind hasn’t been able to calm down for a long time now, and it certainly hasn’t found peace. Oblivious to his surroundings, the man begins to talk to himself. “Hmm, it’s Christmas outside… how many Christmases is that now?” Deep in thought, the homeless man scratches his cheek and chin nervously. Holding both hands out in front of him, he tries to count on his fingers the years he has already spent on the streets. It is clearly difficult for him to concentrate. The strong gnawing feeling of hunger, the lack of alcohol press him hard. As such, he keeps getting confused when counting; his mind keeps failing. After several unsuccessful attempts at counting, he balls his hands up into furious fists that he quickly relaxes again. Understanding his mistake, he finally uses the finger on his right hand to count on his left hand, concentrating as hard as possible. He gingerly moves from finger to finger and delights a while in his success. Finally, after counting all the digits, he counts the thumb again because the years that he has spent on the streets apparently number more than five. The man reflects for a moment, staringly looks at his hand and bursts into stunned tears at the evident hopelessness of his existence. His body shaking with the fit of crying, he lets the tears run freely. If someone
Short story
Copyright © Stefan Jarnik 2012 All rights reserved.
Christmas Eve. The last of Santa’s little helpers are roaming searchingly through the innercity streets. True to their mission they must find children and make them smile by giving them Christmas presents. Time is pressing. The professional beard bearers could have gradually reduced their present´s stock in the run up to Christmas, so now, mere hours before the distribution of Christmas presents begins, their success rate is modest at best, despite all their persistence. It even seems as if today all the little people could have been banished by decree from the city centre, because wherever you look, grown ups are restlessly rushing around. These adults are mainly those who had been indifferent to the Christmas consumption adverts in recent weeks. At best, they had left their Christmas shopping to the last few days before Christmas; most had even saved it in provocative manner until the last few working hours on this Christmas Eve. The shops are closing. The avid shoppers, however, are still demanding admittance. But they are turned away by the visibly tired workers who stand in the shop doorways, summoning their last feeble attempt at kindness. Customers on the shop floors stand in long queues at the tills, the cashiers process purchases in record time. Having been channelled through the sales process, the shoppers gather in bunches in front of the exits, burdened with packages and bags, preventing each other from leaving the shop. And in front of the doors are standing all those who have not managed to enter the shop. Several of them talk fiercely to shop workers, gesturing. Others have repentantly, humbly given in to their fate; they exude a mixture of disappointment, resignation and exhaustion. Almost simultaneously, the crowds stream out of the neighbouring office buildings onto the streets trying to get home as quickly as possible. The shopping streets and main roads are overflowing, cars are travelling at a snail’s pace. The snowfall over the past few hours has caused further gridlock on the roads. Buses and trams are full to bursting, taxi ranks are emptied. The smell of Christmas baking, mulled wine and punch exudes from the few Christmas stalls that are still open, as it has over the last few days. But today, the customers driven out onto the street don’t notice the smell. Very soon, families will be opening their Christmas presents together. The bulwark of hustle and bustle, which has increasingly settled over the citizens of the town during the last few days and weeks, begins to crumble. Thoughts of joy, relaxation, comfort and community will soon cover the metropolis, and it will be shrouded in a cloak of peace and quiet in a matter of hours. The streets will be empty, covered in a fresh layer of snow, as if no one had ever set a foot on them.
At the same time, in a secluded lane far away from the city centre, a very busy figure appears. He arranges cardboard boxes into a meagre home, lining it with old, worn-out sacks. The figure shivers from the cold, his limbs ache. Slow, arduous movements finish the home. The building owner awkwardly enters his temporary shelter, seals it closed with a cardboard box and covers himself with the last remaining sack. A middle-aged man. Fate and his own inability have forged him into homelessness with no way out. The snow grows heavier, the wind howls incessantly. It sends the falling snowflakes whirling back upwards in a spiral. The homeless man remains sheltered, only the odd snowflake creeps into his home from time to time. Spontaneous bouts of coughing cause him to cramp. “Just don’t move too much, otherwise the hut will collapse,” he murmurs quietly, barely audible, to himself. And he’s hungry. Even the last sip of drink from the bottle was a while ago. He hasn’t eaten for days; he’s barely had a drink. His empty stomach torments him. He stares mindlessly and monotonously at the cardboard in front of him. The sacks stave off the cold somewhat, the shivering dwindles with time. The homeless man’s body slowly relaxes. But not his mind. His mind hasn’t been able to calm down for a long time now, and it certainly hasn’t found peace. Oblivious to his surroundings, the man begins to talk to himself. “Hmm, it’s Christmas outside… how many Christmases is that now?” Deep in thought, the homeless man scratches his cheek and chin nervously. Holding both hands out in front of him, he tries to count on his fingers the years he has already spent on the streets. It is clearly difficult for him to concentrate. The strong gnawing feeling of hunger, the lack of alcohol press him hard. As such, he keeps getting confused when counting; his mind keeps failing. After several unsuccessful attempts at counting, he balls his hands up into furious fists that he quickly relaxes again. Understanding his mistake, he finally uses the finger on his right hand to count on his left hand, concentrating as hard as possible. He gingerly moves from finger to finger and delights a while in his success. Finally, after counting all the digits, he counts the thumb again because the years that he has spent on the streets apparently number more than five. The man reflects for a moment, staringly looks at his hand and bursts into stunned tears at the evident hopelessness of his existence. His body shaking with the fit of crying, he lets the tears run freely. If someone
