The Doorbell by Maya Spore

The doorbell sounded in the silence of the house. An eerie sound that resembled the bells, made of spent artillery shells, that warned the soldiers on the battle field near Ypres, during World War I, whenever there was a mustard gas attack. It was an often dreaded sound, that announced death and mutilation, promising to kill another dozen of soldiers on these Fields of Craziness at the Western Front in Flanders, their bodies left behind in the dirty mud, infested with flies that feasted on their flesh.

Flies, that always seemed to know where to find a good meal, and always seemed to propel at the misery of humans. Flies that will no doubt survive mankind far ahead in the future, like they had also survived the extinction of the dinosaurs millions of years ago. Those fierce and mighty animals that once dominated planet Earth, but are now only remembered by their cracked bones, buried deep into the soil, forever waiting for a dusty archeologist to stumble onto their remainders and carry them to some forgotten museum, on display for fat-bellied tourists that would point at them and make funny noises, to scare their offspring and learn them to look at these artifacts of time as some kind of a joke, instead of the silent witnesses of a fantastic era they truly are.

The same tourists that would go to the opera house in the evenings, dressed in Hawaiian shirts and sitting on the front row, the cracking sounds of their potato chips and the belching, after they had gulped another liter of Coke down their throats, clearly audible throughout the theater. A fat finger pointed lewdly at the dying actor on the stage, while everybody could clearly overhear their discussions like, “Real blood? No, this is definitely tomato paste,” enervating both the rest of the audience as the actor in question, who, having signed to play this inferior role of Romeo in this modern reworked version of the famous tragedy by William Shakespeare, dreams of playing the role of the classical Romeo just once in his life at the famous Teatro alla Scala in Milan, the world-renowned opera house that hosts the most famous operatic artists but also many historical costumes and props that go back in time until even the Roman Empire.

The Roman Empire, that once dominated the world as it was known back then, with its mighty legions that crushed down every feeble attempt at resisting them. An Empire that raised many famous emperors like Gaius Julius Divi Filius Caesar Octavianus Augustus and Gaius Julius Caesar. Their family name, Caesar, which depicted once their noble inheritance and even grew out to become a personal title, representing their absolute power, but which slowly diminished over time to become the names of a mere salad, and a temple of gambling in a well-known city of the United States of America, stashed away deep in a burning hot desert, where a vast number of people try their luck every day and night, their eyes often filled with greed but sometimes also with fear when the small bucket of coins, that is held in their trembling hands and is getting emptier much faster than it gets refilled, is the only thing they are still owning and the fate of them and their family is depending on the movement of a few stupid gears inside a shiny box with blinking lights and childish sounds.

And it was with the same look of fear in her eyes, with the same desperation reflected in the blue-grayish mirrors of her soul, as if she expected a visit from Hermes himself – the messenger of the gods of the Olympus – to bring her the bad tiding that there had come an end to her short life, that Maya walked unwillingly to the door, opening it with reluctance.

It was her neighbor, who returned the package of salt she had borrowed earlier that day.


Why do I think this is bad?

Well, if it shouldn’t be obvious after reading this, it is bad because it not only has the longest sentences ever, but it goes on and on about the sound of the bell and keeps drifting further away from the actual story.

In fact, it drifts off that far away, that it even returns to the original scene, forming a perfect circle of reasoning.

And then when it is finally concluded, after all of this building towards the high point, it turns out to be nothing, ending up with 860 words to describe the simple action of answering a door.


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3 thoughts on “The Doorbell by Maya Spore

  1. Brilliantly bad. Your sidetracking is eloquently expressed. It’s quite hard to read this without getting out of breath because of your sentence lengths. Well done!

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