The Reflections of a Narcissist

By Daniel L. Lowery

Daniel L. Lowery shines a light on modern romance through this provocative collection of short stories and poetry. The characters in The Reflections of a Narcissist pursue their libido, lust and love around the globe, but never abandon their own vanity in the process. They always want, yet rarely want to give what they need to achieve their desires. Often it is the chase that provides their only satisfaction in life and in the end they frequently discover their much sought after prize was not worth the price they paid to get it. The writing is full of twists, turns and surprises that will leave the reader wondering if love is even possible in our contemporary world. While the characters may be left feeling empty, the readers are sure to feel full of laughter with every page they turn.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Daniel L. Lowery
• Release date: Jul 21, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310631207

Daniel L. Lowery

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Daniel L. Lowery writes books that challenge the status quo. While looking for solutions to his own David and Goliath struggle, Lowery noticed very few management books geared to the independent business owner. CEO’s, vice-presidents and other executives could draw on the acumen of Churchill, Robert E. Lee, Sun-Tzu and a host of other historical figures for their problems, but the issues of the smaller entrepreneur were scarcely mentioned. Puzzled by the lack of material on this subject, Lowery spent the next seven years researching the best methods for smaller businesses to compete against their giant adversaries. From that research came Battling The Corporate Giants: The Ultimate David and Goliath Story: a book truly written from the trenches of corporate warfare.Recently Lowery has spoofed the Creationist movement with Paradox Lost. A book that evokes such literary masterpieces as Paradise Lost, The Divine Comedy, Faust and more to satirize the false idol of Intelligent Design.Now Lowery explores the narcissistic world of contemporary romance with his provocative collection of short stories and poetry, The Reflections of a Narcissist. A book that holds a mirror up to modern love and reveals a society laughing at its own narcissism.Daniel L. Lowery resides in Ramona, California with his wife Claudia, son Ryan and daughter Larissa. He is always looking for a good opportunity.

Book preview

The Reflections of a Narcissist

by

Daniel L. Lowery

Copyright 2016 Daniel L. Lowery

Smashwords Edition

Preface

Some of you may believe in higher powers, some of you in crystal balls, some in astrology, fortunetellers, soothsayers, saviors, saints and sibyls. Others in signs and auguries and omens and divine revelation, but as for me, I believe in the mirror. In its reflection I find the answers to all of life’s questions. Here, I see all the solutions to life’s great conundrums. They are written in the lines of my aging face, the graying hairs on my head and my declining body. In the following stories I will wear many disguises, not just in characters, but in first, second and third persons, in nouns and verbs, and all the rhetorical devices I can conceive, yet rest assured, in the end the stories and words are all really a reflection of me.

It matters not if I write about a man, a woman, a boy, a girl, the young, the old, the middle-aged, a dog, a cat, a mouse or even a platypus; they are all in the end--a reflection of me--of my id, my ego, my self-absorption, my self-interest, my self-seeking, my narcissism--as all writing really is. And, in my reflection, you may find a reflection of yourself--the reflection of a narcissist. That inexplicable feeling of finding yourself on the page. Of identifying with a character, a situation or story that gives you the feeling that it is really about you. Here you are invited to indulge that inclination to the fullest. So, check your false modesty here at the first page and come into my world, the world of a narcissist--the reflections of a narcissist. All writing is narcissism.

You Think, Therefore, I am

I am--always who you say--I am

and never who I am.

And, if you are confused

what of you think I am?

You always tell me to be this and that

and I always try to be.

And, if I ever was who I am

I probably wouldn’t recognize me.

Still, I am who I am

even though I am who

you want me to be.

i am--aren’t--i?

The Other Way

I saw you looking at me

while you were looking the other way.

And, as we were trying

not to look at each other

you smiled just enough

not to smile.

And in that instant

we could have been lovers,

but I couldn’t find the words to say

what our eyes had said.

So, you walked on

and I, I looked the other way.

Poor Bruce, Poor Bruce

They had been dating for six months and still nothing clicked. He couldn’t really define what clicked, meant, but he knew it when he felt it. Possibly, he thought it was that feeling between a man and a woman when everything meshes and feels right—that no matter how wrong it may have been—it was perfectly all right now. When he could spill soup on her and she would laugh. When he could step on her foot during a dance and she would still praise him on his dancing. When he could knock over her lamp and she would tell him, she really wanted to buy a new one anyway. That feeling that no matter what he did she would think it was funny, clever and always like it. That’s what clicked meant.

Despite the lack of a clicking sound, there were a few positive signs. They both loved pineapple on their pizza. They both loved walking, dancing, studying and craft beer. Her parents liked him. Her friends liked him. Now if he could only get her to like him, he was sure they would feel that click.

He was so sure, in fact, that he was willing to forego all those months of lovemaking, just in the faint hope, that his lovemaking with her would eventually be worth all the abstinence. And, he kept waiting and counting the good signs that he felt would led up to their night of bliss. Every smile, half smile, quarter smile, smirk or turn of the mouth was noted and met with glee. As was every frown, knitted brow and stern eye noted and met with despair.

He kept asking himself, When will we make love? When will we make love? And, he read the all the signs as if they were tea leaves in a bowl and he would search for his answer constantly shaking them around to achieve some new result. And, he kept waiting…

When she announced she was taking a trip with her old friend, Bruce to a rock concert he surely thought he had misread the signs. This was a bad sign. A really, really, bad sign. He must have missed a signal somewhere. His tea leaves had failed him.

He wanted to kick himself for being so patient. What a chump he had been. She was playing him for a fool. Now she was going out with this Bruce person. He was going to swoop in on all his hard work and enjoy all the fruits of his labors. He found himself cast as Atlas with Bruce assuming the role Hercules duping him into holding the weight of the world. He could hear the gods laughing at him and he didn’t like the sound.

Even though she assured him that Bruce was just an old friend and that there was nothing going on between them, he felt no lighter a burden. She explained that this was a regular occurrence between Bruce her. They made a pilgrimage to their favorite band every year and she couldn’t possibly back out now. Why couldn’t he understand this? He seethed like a volcano as he listened to her explanations, but would not blow his top no matter how much she provoked him.

Of course, I understand. I hope you two have a wonderful time. All the best to the both of you. Really, really…no, I mean it. He muttered as he managed not to explode at Bruce. Oh how he would have loved to kill Bruce. No, murder is too good for him he thought. I should torture him. Slow, elongated, drawn out torture—that’s what Bruce deserves. And, his mind he turned over all the excruciatingly painful ways he would exact his vengeance upon Bruce: burning, boiling, drawn-and-quartered, stretched, and disemboweled...these were just few methods he churned over in his mind.

Then the Friday before her excursion with Bruce, she came over to visit him. Tearfully, she told him that she would not be going with Bruce to the concert after all. Bruce called to tell her he had cancer—testicular cancer—and he would have to go to the hospital for surgery immediately.

Oh, my God, he said as compassion flowed from him. We have to go see Bruce, we simply have to.

In the hospital room before surgery, Bruce received all the sympathy and consideration he could convey. And, he found that Bruce was not a bad guy after all. He had a great attitude about sports; he knew all the trivia he knew and could talk up a storm about their team’s prospects for this year. He even liked pineapple on his pizza. Why had he ever been so angry with Bruce in the first place?

After surgery, they visited Bruce to keep his spirits up. He resisted the temptation to make half the man I used to be jokes and she observed his kindness toward Bruce. They snuck in some pineapple pizza and feasted on it as the wished him a speedy recovery. Strange how just a few days ago he had wished Bruce such a painful agonizing death, but now, as he witnessed his suffering, he wished him in all sincerity nothing but the best. He actually meant it too, the poor guy. They promised to share a few craft beers with him when he felt up to it. They left him with several good lucks on his chemotherapy before they departed home.

On the ride home, he felt the distance between them converge. She snuggled into his shoulder as he drove. At her place, she asked him to come inside. They threw their clothes off, falling into bed instantly and he heard and unmistakable clicking sound. And, as they made the most glorious love that either of them ever felt, they repeatedly chanted, Poor Bruce, poor Bruce.

Just Don’t Think About It

When I think

I try not to think about it.

Others, wouldn’t even blink about it,

but I try not to think about it.

I realize there’s no point

in making a stink about it.

So, I have a drink about it

or two or three or five or six…

Then all I can do

is think about it.

I try to think of something else

when I try not to think about it.

For some, this practice may work,

but for me, I doubt it.

Maybe there’s something I can do,

but I’ll have to think about it.

All the World is a Romance

All the world is a romance

and each of us are but lovers playing our parts.

First, we are the wide-eyed virgins, full of poetry and song

destined to be disappointed by cruel fate.

Next, we are hormone raged youths stumbling and fumbling

our way toward our ultimate goal.

Then we are the bold adventurers constantly seeking

greener pastures, the next hill, the horizon.

After that, we are the suave sophisticates always with

the right joke, the right drink, the right dance move at the right party.

Then comes the aging lotharios hiding gray hairs

and protruding bellies as we journey over the hill.

Next, we are the middle-aged charmers balancing

kids and careers against what little time we have for love.

Followed by that comes the seasoned diplomats who prefer to settle

rather than engage in protracted battles with the object of our affection.

Finally, we are the dim-eyed