50 Word Stories – Shattered Unseen

77894623-BC44-494E-8F9F-094CEBA6E038

50 Word Stories: Shattered Unseen

We both had terrible eyesight; it was the only way we could stand each other. So when she smashed my glasses in a fit of hormonal rage, I wasn’t that bothered. When she ran away and fell over our garden wall, I was less so. She’d smashed the wrong ones.

50 Word Stories: Those Eyes

In the middle of the night, I wake up screaming. I don't remember the why, how or when of my terrors just those terrible, haunted eyes. They flick open like Venetian blinds, quick and bright, then stare into my soul. I hate them. I really do. They're just like mine.

My Eyes

My eyes are my giveaway. They abandon me when I need them most, look away when I wish to gaze, hide behind black plastic and still fail to respond. My eyes are my bane, my downfall, my shame. They weep when I would wish them not, flicker when I would wish to stare at the rain, blink too often. My eyes, how I hate them! Yet, still, they gave me you.

The Annoying Thing About Glasses (A Personal Post)

Now, you may think me a competent person… What do you mean, you don’t? Goddamn! Anyhow, I have an inbuilt mechanism that makes me rather robotic. I can and prefer to do things a set way — it’s just the way I am.

As luck would have it, most things I do, I usually do right straightaway. If I do, I shall always do them right. I can write something, put that writing away, then come back a year later and continue with an exact same sentence that if I’d checked a few lines further on is already there. Freak!

In real life, I was and still am good at sport — I’m good at editing, too, because that was almost ‘sprot’ — particularly anything that involved balance. I loved football, rugby, cricket, running and the list goes on, and I’m lucky to say I was good at them all without ever really trying. I write this to illustrate that I am not a bumbler.

So, why tell you all these personal details and eccentricities? Answer: to highlight my failings. I’ve found my nemesis: reading glasses.

About six months ago, I bought my first pair of reading glasses. It never bothered me having to wear them and still doesn’t. If ever given the chance to wear sunglasses, I’ve always jumped at it, as the pinching effect on my nose and general lessening of glare helps me avoid the headaches that wreck my life. This has continued with reading glasses. However, and referring back to earlier, I do things a certain way. I also like things to be just so. I can’t stand my glasses being dirty, smudged, breathed on, or any other such impairment of vision. Unfortunately, from the very first time I touched them and because of my aforementioned foibles, I can’t stop putting fingerprints on them. I’ve done it wrong once and always shall. It drives me mad!

I can hold my glasses at their furthest points and slip them on my head from distance: they’ll be smudged. I can wipe away all forms of residue and have them breathed upon before they even get near me. I can use the softest cloths, the best wipes or even wear gloves and still my glasses will be smudged. It is failing I have. I am ashamed of this inability.

One day, I hope to correct this truly irritating quirk. I will approach my glasses case, unzip them, remove my specs and place them on my head to a view of crystal clarity and smile at my aceness (I just made that word up). ‘Tis a dream I have. Ah, one day.

I’m sorry if this baring of self has disappointed anyone, really, I am. If you view me any less, I apologise. But know this, by the time you’ve finished reading this story, I’ve already smudged my glasses enough times to make me red with rage. Yet still, I write. Yet still, I try.

Richard

King of Smudges.