Back in the day I wrote a short story while living in Paris, I felt it was high time. You can read it here.
During one of my roaming trips through Europe I stumbled into a pick up football game. I joined in with the local french kids and started playing. At some point I remember playing the perfect pass, a beautiful curved ball in front of the running attacker that had only to slide into the goal. A thing of beauty.
While I was still savouring the achievement, marveled at its beauty, I looked around. Absolute disdain, obliviousness. No one had even noticed that moment of sporting poetics. I couldn’t believe it. And that thing stuck with me.
Later I went on to write a dystopian story of how a sensitive, creative soul feels absolutely alone when there isn’t anyone around that shares any of his aesthetic sensibility.
The name takes from the brilliant and foreboding “Nathan Barley”, a clairvoyant tale of how the idiots are winning.
Read The Narrative of H. T. Roti here.