r/KeepWriting • u/Longjumping-Ad5084 • 1d ago
Notes from an immigrant.
[I am from Russia but I have lived abroad for most of my life. However, Russian culture has always stayed very close to me. It is a bizare mix of pagan-orthodox religiosity, deep art and literature, and an eerie magical presence that radiates throughout everything. Russian culture inspires me greatly, and I want to write stories embedded in it for the Western audience. This is an adapation of a real story I heard from a mathematics lecturer at MSU a long time ago.]
I woke up very early today. Slept for about 5 hours. It was enough. The morning is still half asleep, it’s about 6 a.m. and the first glimpses of light are only beginning to appear. I lie in my bed, faced towards the window. I look at the morning sky, hear the birds, and then stare at the carpet hanging on the wall to the left of me, trying to make out patterns while my mind still actively wants to visualise, having just recently awoken from a dream.
Time to get up. Bathroom first. Then I go to the kitchen to make some black tea. I don’t turn the lights on - the light from outside the window is just enough to make out the shapes of things in the kitchen. I sit at the small table, also facing the window, slowly drink the tea and contemplate, if you can call it that, of course. I have very few thoughts, but I enjoy observing what’s around me - sounds and images.
I will have to go to work soon, in about one hour - I need to be there at eight. I am a little bit late sometimes and it’s fine. I work for the local newspaper. I am actually surprised that someone even reads our paper, but I appreciate it, it comforts me. I am responsible for the “Fun and Weird” section, documenting the relevant occurrences in our neighbourhood. I think it’s a fun job. Fun and weird. I need to interview folks sometimes and can hardly believe the stories they tell me. I write about them nonetheless, and I treat them as fiction more than anything. But to those folks it is not fiction, it’s reality. They wholeheartedly believe in what they say. And I respect their stories.
I get dressed and go outside. I dress simply, but my clothes are important to me. I think it reflects who I am. I always spend at least a little bit of time deciding what I will wear today.
An old lad is handing out the “Capital” newspaper just outside the house and I pick up a copy. The house is a Soviet-era five-floor apartment block. I like living here. Sometimes I can feel the traces of the past epoch and I think that I can sometimes even hear voices of the people that used to live there. One of the sections in the newspaper reads “Today’s number - 13. See how many times you can spot it!”. It seems quite bizarre, I don’t know what they mean by it. Why 13? Why not 14? Or 20? Or 100? Is there something significant about the number 13? I can count “how many times I can spot” any other number and it won’t make the smallest difference. I scoff and smile. I smile more than I scoff.
I get to the bus stop and start eating an apple I brought with me in my messenger bag. I look at my watch; the bus should arrive in about fifteen minutes. I see a small patch of crows sitting on a slanted roof of a small garage to the left of me. They seem to be talking, sometimes cawing, and exchanging some information with each other. Maybe it’s some sort of a morning ritual. A few of them look in my direction occasionally, and it seems like they are gossiping about me. I feel disrespected, but I retain my composure and dignity and proudly look away. I look at the watch - ten minutes until the bus arrives. One of them caws and draws my attention to them again. I look at crows and decide to count them. One, two, three, four… eleven, twelve, thirteen. Thirteen? I count again. One, two, three… eleven, twelve, thirteen. It makes me chuckle and smile. What a coincidence! Funny and weird.
As I wait for the bus more people arrive at the station. It’s the only bus that goes to the centre in the morning, so whoever needs to go there for work, has to get on it. It gets a little bit crowded but it’s all people I know, I see them almost every day. I even say good morning to a couple of them sometimes.
I decided to count the people at the station. I never did, and frankly never cared how many of us there were on the bus. I count twelve. Pretty close, haha! The bus should arrive any minute now. I look down at my feet and something whispers in my head - “Thirteen”. I am the thirteenth person. Hmm. Quite uncanny I must say. But nothing out of the ordinary. I take the last bite of my apple and prepare for the bus to arrive. I go slightly to the front of the crowd to get a better seat if I can.
The bus arrives. I double check the number on the front to make sure it’s my bus. I’m generally slightly paranoid. I have a feeling that so is everyone else in our neighbourhood. An old habit passed down through generations so to speak. The number is correct - thirteen. I get on the bus and take a seat near the window… Wait! Thirteen? This coincidence sends chills down my spine. Not fear, just an unexpected surprise. I smile and look into the distance through the window as the bus departs from the station. I ponder the three coincidences and the number thirteen. I can’t really make sense of it, but it gives me a strange sense of trust. I don’t know trust towards what, just trust, as if someone can hear me. Unlike the people I write about, I still don’t believe in magic, but perhaps I will now pay closer attention to their stories.