A Beginner's Guide To Literary Theory: A Short Story

 I refuse to add guns to my stories. If I pull out a gun, it somehow becomes my responsibility to ensure that it fires by the end of the story. Some guy called Chekhov insists, it seems. A friend of mine who's an English lecturer and who's now sitting opposite me says so. But I don't want to be dictated by these theories and limit myself by them. 

How does it work if my reader also knows about the gun rule? The moment he sees the gun in my first chapter, he will be waiting to hear the gunshot in the last chapter. How does it work for an ambitious writer like me? I want to be the sole owner of my writing. I want my writing to be boundaryless. My words should shoot out of the pages unexpectedly and wound the reader. I want that quality for my writing.

I slowly tried to get up. I could sense that the entire world was slightly tilted. I could sense my senses going to war against my brain. I could feel my insides struggling to break away from me and force themselves out of my mouth. I need to reach somewhere urgently, and I tried to remember where. My loin seems to be bulging out and forcing me to assuage them through a pain that is slowly building up. My ears were hearing the uproarious buzz formed by dozens of men speaking around me. 

My legs are wobbling, and I had to grab the table to stand upright. I was aware of the disruption that this act caused to the things laid on the table. A half-bottle of cheap rum, two glasses, and the dead remains of an ugly half-eaten bird on a greasy plate revolted against my attempt. I forgot to mention my friend, the lecturer, whose upper half is being supported by the table. He is blabbering something about the structure of a story.

My companion was trying desperately to fix a cigarette on his lips. I wanted to check if he was lighting the filter side of it, but my eyes aren't letting me. I stood there, swaying lightly, holding the tablecloth, and trying to concentrate my eyes on him. I wanted to tell him something. But his eyes are on the lighter that he held in his unsteady hands, trying to light it, all the while his cigarette rests in an unnatural position on his lips.

I lifted my pinky finger, but just then he lit the lighter and tried moving the flame to the place where he felt the tip of his cigarette was. I wanted to caution him about lighting fire on his lips, which I imagined were already inflammable due to the contact with alcohol. But he abandoned his attempt, threw the lighter on the table in despair, and looked at me with irritation. When he saw my raised finger, he gave an uninterested nod and picked a bare bone from the plate and tried to chew on it.

I moved towards the loo, or where my inebriated senses told me it was. I heard a mention of Chekhov's gun from somewhere behind. I was lucid enough to realise that was my friend, the English lecturer's voice, reminding me of it. Who else will mention literature theory inside a seedy bar that blares item songs from movies and a single red bulb illuminating the entire shabby hall?

I hoped my unsteady steps were taking me towards my destination. I also hoped that the lecturer would forget his shitty theories by the time I finish my business in the loo and get back to the unfinished business on the table, if the bugger doesn't gulp it all down by then. I located the dirty panel door in the stinky washroom, pulled it open, and entered.

The stench was enough to drop anyone's head. The place was pretty big for a dirty, third-class bar. There were six cabins and a long line of open urinals, a wash basin, and a tissue dispenser. Sound of someone vomiting inside a cabin. Someone is leaning on the wall, possibly passed out. I went inside one cabin and finished my business. I felt relaxed and in the mood for a smoke. I foraged my pockets and found a cigarette. No matches. I sat there for a few more minutes. A sliver of head ache. Nothing a snake can't clear.

I came out. The other man, who was vomiting, has left the place. Will the passed-out guy have a match? I staggered towards him and slightly tapped his shoulder. He fell headlong in front of me. I jumped back. His shirt was quenched in blood. My head was feeling. I left out a shriek, but the sound never came out. Then I saw it. Below the washbasin, near the waste bin, there is something black lying. The shape seems familiar. Someone has gotten rid of it after their work is finished.

I picked it up. It was still hot. I turned back, opened the door, and entered back into the reddish luminescence and ear-splitting music. I tried to locate my table. It took a few turns of my head and a lot of concentration, but ultimately I saw it. The lecturer's head was dropped on the table, and one of his hands clutched the bottle. One glass was lying on the floor, and I think I also saw a bit of his vomit there.

In spite of the growing commotion inside and outside my head, I stumbled towards my table. I negotiated the treacherous walkway and finally made it. Then, with my right hand, I shook the lecturer's head. When I saw that one of his eyes was open and he was looking inquisitively at me, I pointed the object towards his head and said,

"This is the last sentence of this story," and then pulled the trigger.