North of Utopia

By Giuseppe Cristiano

Money, wisdom, and lies. Who are we, and who do we become? What are the forces that guide our destiny and lead us down the path we follow? Are we the masters of our fates, captains of our destinies? Or are we mere drunk sailors whose ship is being pushed around by the waves in countless directions towards a destination that isn't ours.

In this book, the slippery slope of the decadence of a young writer shall be explored, and we shall carefully explore what it means to be in a downward spiraling disaster. Are our morals a bad joke that is dropped at the first whiff of temptation? Or golden treasure that must be protected at all cost.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Seagull Editions
• Release date: May 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223200611

Book preview

GIUSEPPE CRISTIANO

NORTH OF UTOPIA

© 2021 Seagull Editions s.r.l.

www.seagulleditions.com

Chapter 1

It was a beautiful Monday morning, and the sun was nearing its peak. The weather was cool and lazy, but the streets were busy and alight with activity. There were thousands of people on the street, walking, driving, or even jogging from one point to another with determination and haste. Grant Johnson was among these thousands of people, but unlike most people on the street who were moving with a destination in mind and determination in their steps, Grant was simply shuffling one step after another.

He had no destination in mind, and wherever his legs were taking him to, he had no determination to arrive. His mind was lost in deep thoughts, and his heart was broken by the latest blow of rejection that he had just received. His soul was in pieces, and his spirit wailed in misery.

Grant’s feet finally led him to the public park, and his body sat on a bench, almost taking no permission from his mind. As his body sat on the bench, his mind got to work on the great task of solving the mystery behind his failure.

A whole year had passed since Grant had graduated college and began his journey to becoming a writer. However, after many months of submitting his manuscripts to publishers, Grant was coming to a painful and sad realization; making money as a writer was very difficult.

Grant had always loved writing, and he always knew that he had the knack for it. From a young age, he had been a book worm and the first things he wrote as a kid were so impressive that at age twelve, there was no question about what his future would be. He was going to be a writer. Everyone agreed, including him, and he dedicated his life to making his dream a reality. He had gone to the best college his parents could afford, and when he was through with his program, he moved to the big city to follow his dreams.

However, the city turned out to be very different from what he thought it would be, and his writing career was a far cry from the smooth ride he had imagined. To be fair, Grant was no fool. He knew that becoming a successful writer required hard work, talent, and determination. He didn’t expect to do it with his eyes closed and minimum effort. However, never in a million years would he have guessed or even suspected that getting his foot in the door or publishing his first work would be such a colossal challenge that seemed impossible.

It seemed like the universe was against him, and the forces of destiny had conspired to frustrate his dream into oblivion. After twelve full months in the city with lady luck shunning him with disdain, Grant began to suspect that the city itself was against him.

It was a crazy thing to believe, but Grant was almost certain that there was something awry about the city, something determined to change him into a twisted version of himself. He couldn’t fully fathom why he believed this to be true or concisely comprehend the ways the city was changing him, but he was convinced that it was him against the world and the city itself was amongst the ranks of his enemies, holding the position of General.

As Grant sat on the bench, the voices in his head began to creep out of the shadows of his mind. Grant knew that they were going to have no good words of encouragement or advice for him. For the past few months, the voices in his head have maintained a steady sermon of condemnation and blame. The companions of his consciousness, the angel of his encouragement, were now demons tormenting him with his failure to no end. Grant wondered why his mind had turned against him. Since childhood, the voices in his head had been his partners, guiding him with their stories, inspiring him with their characters, and even taking on roles to help him write better and fulfill his dreams. However, they seemed to have abandoned that noble task and taken on the sinister mantle of cynicism.

He braced himself for the first blow of their mental attack and was mentally preparing to defend himself as best as he could, for that was after all he could, when rather than the voice of a fallen angel, Grant heard the voice of a man. He looked to his right, and to his greatest surprise, seated next to him was a fallen man.

The man looked miserable and defeated. His face was a network of wrinkles and folds, and his eyes were so sunken in that they seemed to be receding into the darkness. His expression was one of deep sadness and sorrow. But it didn’t look like he was sad about anything at that particular moment. He seemed to have a sad resting face, a face that belonged to a man who was miserable and tired of life itself. His hair was rough and dirty with bald spots here and there, while his grizzly beard covered a large portion of his lips and chin, with tiny pieces of old forgotten meals hanging from them.

The mans clothes were old and tattered. He was dressed in a pair of blue jeans that had more holes and tears than crazy jeans from the latest fall collection. However, it was clear that his jeans weren’t the work of an eccentric designer but the result of the elements going to war against his clothing. His upper body was covered in a shirt that used to be a nice lumberjack shirt and a windbreaker that had seen better days of cleanliness and wholeness. Today, the windbreaker was torn at both shoulders and seemed to be a bit too small for the old man. Grant noticed the mans shoes last and was shocked to find a pair of boots held together by duct tape and a sockless toe poking out of the shoe, a flag of the pathetic state of the footwear.

Grant realized that he was staring at the man and decided to stop. It was only then that he remembered why he had noticed the man seated beside him. The man had said something. However, Grant couldn’t remember what the man had said, and he wasn’t even sure he heard it in the first place.

I’m sorry, what did you say? I didn’t hear you?

I asked what troubles you, the old man said as he stretched his lips into a polite smile

Life, I guess, Grant said, not certain that he wanted to get into a conversation with the homeless man.

Ah, the old man exclaimed softly. Life is what troubles us all, isn’t it? The fact that we are alive means we would face troubles from time to time, and it is, therefore, easy to assume that the root of all our problems is life itself. I hope this isn’t the stream of thought you are going with? I hope you aren’t considering the possibility of ending all your problems.

Suicide? Grant asked in shock as he realized what the man was hinting at. A questioning smile by the old man cleared all doubts that Grant had of what the man meant and forced him to answer the mans tactfully asked question. God, no. I wasn’t thinking of killing myself, Grant replied. He waited a few seconds and then added, At least not yet. Thoughts of ending it all haven’t crossed my mind for now."

That’s good. You are young, and your future is filled with opportunities and possibilities. Checking out now is going to be you basically walking out of the game before you really give yourself a chance to win. So, if it isn’t the fact that you are alive that troubles you, do you mind telling me the specifics of what ails your spirit?

Why do you care? Grant asked.

Because I’m curious, the old man replied. And I am also confident that I can help.

Really? I doubt it, Grant replied.

The old man smiled and his face for a brief moment took on an angelic form before reverting back to its sad, miserable state.

Try me, the old man said.

Fine. I am a writer, and I am trying to get a book deal in order to get my work published. There. Do you still think that you can help?

Yes, the old man replied.

How? I don’t mean to be rude, but you don’t strike me as a publisher or someone with the resources to help me publish my book.

The old man chuckled and shook his head slightly.

You are right. I am no publisher. And your assumption that I lack the resources to help you publish your book is also somewhat right, especially if you are speaking strictly of financial resources. However, this wasn’t always the case. A few years ago, I was a well-published and highly successful author with a steady income and a sizable fortune. But that is in the past. Today, I write poems, and that is why I wanted you to tell me what your problem is so I can write a poem for you, the old man said as he pulled out a notepad from the pocket of his worn-out windbreaker and produced a pen from the same pocket.

The white sheets of the notepad and the elegance of the luxury pen were a wide contrast from the man"s clothes and overall look. The man got to work scribbling on the notepad, and a few minutes later, he tore the page he had been writing and offered it to Grant.

But just when Grant was about to collect the piece of paper, the old man changed his mind and withdrew his hand. He flipped the paper over and put his pen to his mouth in thought for a few seconds before scribbling a little bit more and then reoffering the piece to Grant.

This