Short Happy Stories

Volume 2 is now available! The book contains 50 stories. Order here, or inquire at a bookstore.

An Interpretation of Eyes

Her eyes are not focused on physical reality.

Her eyes are neither eyes of despair nor eyes of delight.

Nor are her eyes eyes of acceptance.

Something about her eyes… They almost seem, somehow, to have exited time. Or… something.

They really make you wonder.

Maybe she always believed that a powerful sequence of external and internal forces could push her to a particular point—at which she would simply collapse. And it would be a profound collapse, after which no exertion could even be imagined.

But maybe just one minute ago she reached what she’d feared would be the point of collapse—and didn’t collapse. To her true astonishment, even though external and internal forces pushed her and pushed her and pushed her, she’s still standing. Somewhere beyond frustration…

My tentative conclusion: her eyes—which still seem to have no awareness of my existence—are a combination of exhaustion and stunned satisfaction.

“Hello,” I say. This is the second time I’ve said that.

Just like last time, she doesn’t react.

I want to accomplish at least two things today, so I can’t keep standing here like an idiot.

So I say—maybe, unfortunately, a bit too loudly—“Hello!”

Her eyes change: they connect with my eyes. Maybe nothing else exists.

“I’m so sorry!” she says. “Part of me knew you were there, but another part of me…” She smiles. “So. What would you like?”

Standing there, separated by a few feet and uncountable unknowns, I admire this girl because she has clearly overcome… something.

“A large coffee,” I say. “To go.”

Universe Fantasy

A red car on a black road in a red desert speeds toward a blue town on green land next to a blue sea, on which a white boat carries hopeful passengers infected with the white death, which will deliver bright lives to darkness; unless death won’t be dark but bright; we can’t yet know due to limited sight.

Looking up in the night, space sprawls, dark, so dark, vastness emphasized by infinitesimal brightnesses too big for anyone to reasonably imagine… and you wonder… whatever you wonder.

And eventually, once again, the night ends.

And somehow, for now, there is, in the exact center of absolutely everything, that red car speeding on the black road in the red desert. As anyone who has been there knows, the red desert can easily seem endless and timeless. Purely overwhelming. Like it’s chanting, in deep silence, at the speed of ages, “Compared to me, you are nothing.”

A blink of an eye divided by eternity.

But somehow, right now, between that red car’s windows, mystery human consciousness fuses with the smooth grandeur of Frank Sinatra’s voice—and the entire bright-dark-bright-dark universe feels oddly conquerable.

Thank you, Frank, for the fantasy.

Perspective

Three lines of lightning divide the strange wet sky. Rain falls at a significant slant. Wind tries to sweep the jungle away—so nothing will remain except a shiny desolate surface—but the jungle seems to say “I don’t want to go away.”

A long striped tail curves among wind-slanted plants.

The long striped tail adds danger and thrill to the jungle—because the long striped tail leads to a big tiger with pointy white teeth.

In this exact moment no part of the body touches the ground: the tiger has leapt.

The high point has already been reached: the descent is underway.

Is the tiger’s leap the result of thunder-delivered terror?

Or is the tiger actually disregarding the encompassing storm? Trying to pounce onto a creature concealed by wind-slanted plants?

Though you can see the tiger’s right eye, it’s difficult to interpret.

Maybe it’s an eye of fear.

Maybe it’s an eye of wild excitement.

Maybe it’s an eye of some other emotion.

The only thing that can be said about it with certainty: it’s the eye of a tiger.

Actually, that isn’t true: the eye isn’t an eye at all: the eye is paint. Paint put onto a canvas by Henri Rousseau in 1891.

In 1891 Henri Rousseau was still working where he’d been working for twenty years: in a toll office on an edge of Paris.

When asked about his jungle paintings, he would sometimes describe his own experiences in a jungle, back when he was a soldier in Mexico.

The almost certain truth: he never took a single breath outside of France.

But he certainly visited Paris’s Jardin des Plantes, where he would walk among intoxicating exotic plants—feeling like he was moving through a dream—and examine exotic taxidermied animals.

When he would sketch one of those dead marvelous beasts, he was maybe filled with more awe—a sense of the wondrous possibilities of the world—than someone who has actually seen those beasts in their natural habitats. Seeing something where it belongs can so easily feel… underwhelming. Oh yes, you may think upon seeing the most remarkable thing, that is that; of course it’s right there; I see it and I get it. Is there anything more interesting around here?

But if you don’t see the beast in its natural habitat… If, instead, you only see a relocated isolated version… What astonishing work your imagination will do!

You can suddenly have—despite your absence of direct experience—your own sturdy perspective.

That’s imagination regarding the unknown. There’s also imagination regarding the known. Imagination you can use to see everyday things as though you’ve never seen them before.

Year after year after year, while sitting in the toll office with an easily dull view of the toll gate and some unexotic trees and a factory, Rousseau maybe refused to succumb to boredom—and, over time, muscularized his imagination. To the point, maybe, of looking at that spectacular bizarre view of the toll gate and some unexotic trees and a factory and wondering how anyone could possibly consider it dull.

Probably not too far away—well, actually, in another of Rousseau’s paintings—four moustache men are at play. In an open space between trees. Under a sky that is mostly blue. In the distance are some grey clouds.

The moustache men are wearing silly striped outfits. Two have light blue and light grey stripes. Two have orange and yellow stripes.

There is absolutely nothing serious about these moustache men, playing whatever silly game they’re playing, clearly enjoying themselves.

One moustache man has his hands in the air—just above his head—and he is about to catch or just threw the ball—now and forever suspended in the air—and he is looking at you. Like he’s wondering, not without hope, Will you play?

Another moustache man looks like he’s punching the air or grabbing the shirt of the just-described moustache man. Though it’s hard to tell exactly what he’s doing, it’s easy to tell he’s committed to what he apparently views as his purpose in the game.

Another moustache man prances with pupils turned in the ball’s direction and hands that could be ready to receive the ball—but his whole demeanor suggests that he would be just as happy to not receive the ball. Because prancing around is fun enough.

The farthest-back moustache man is not in the middle of a particular motion—but he does seem to be, like the first moustache man, looking at you. Curious about what you’ll choose to do. His own plan, if he has one, is a mystery.

The trees to the right and to the left don’t look rooted—as though some Being brought them from Elsewhere and simply set them down; and, somehow, they remain unfallen.

While the players and the bordering trees are painted with a similar degree of detail, the ground is simply a gradient: light brown to very dark brown. An odd effect of the gradient: the four moustache men almost seem to float.

All of this is quite peculiar. Unrooted-but-balanced trees. Floating moustache men. And, of course, us. Peculiarly suspended in Existence. Wherever you will ever be, there will never be nothing. And, right now, wherever you happen to be, look at all of the things all around! Isn’t this amazing?

Maybe we ought to learn from those moustache men, playing their silly game in their silly striped outfits. They look like they’re having so much fun! Maybe that—fun!—should be our approach. To life. Why not? Maybe life isn’t a game—but who the hell knows what it actually is?

What we do know: unlike the lone tiger in the rough jungle, we do not have to exert near-constant effort on basic survival. So… why are we so often so serious?

And… when considering the size of a life within seemingly infinite space… within eternity… how does seriousness help?

Well… maybe being serious is a way to trick yourself into believing that you actually matter.

Many painters and critics of Rousseau’s time were very serious. They seriously trained at Academies. They seriously talked and talked and talked about what Art should be like. They looked at Rousseau’s paintings and laughed with condescension.

Snidely they commented on how self-taught Rousseau—who only really started painting when he was about forty years old—didn’t follow rules of perspective or proportion, resulting in unusual relationships between things.

Snidely they commented on how his paintings seemed childlike.

How many of them used even a single moment to wonder if everything he was doing was actually intentional?

Immediately discounting Rousseau was easy, because they—those oh-so-serious painters and critics—understood that methods had been developed to render the world with precision, the way it objectively is; and Rousseau obviously wasn’t using those methods.

But if the world can only be perceived by individual creatures, how can it be objectively anything? And, for all we know, if there weren’t any perceivers of the world, there would be no world. In any case, each person must perceive at least somewhat differently than every other person; so to paint by using an established system—a system you did not create yourself—is ridiculous. Or, at the very least, lazy.

Rousseau says, in my imagination, An artist should express his own particular perspective as purely as possible, without using anyone else’s tricks.

Or… maybe my thinking is completely wrong.

Maybe Rousseau never painted his genuine perspective.

Maybe, instead, he labored and labored and labored to paint the way he wanted to perceive.

Maybe he believed that painting a more pleasant perspective would teach him how to live a more pleasant perspective—and the world would, effectively, transform into a better place.

But of course I don’t actually know how Rousseau was thinking.

What I do know: after he retired from the toll office, he almost never had enough money—his pension was small and his paintings didn’t sell well—so he would go out into the streets and play his violin.

And, even though his paintings didn’t sell well, he kept painting. Until death. And, while there were some people, including Pablo Picasso, who loved his paintings, many people kept laughing with condescension; snide comments kept reaching his ears. Until death.

And now I’m standing in a wonderful museum in Paris, looking at his painting of a ship at sea in a storm.

The ship is big.

The waves are also big.

The ship can’t hide from the waves—because if you’re in a storm in the middle of a sea, you’re in a storm in the middle of a sea.

Through a sky of greys, rain falls at a significant slant. Falls onto the ship and the sea and two proud French flags and three smokestacks releasing dark grey smoke. The dark grey smoke is proof that the ship is still trying to move its own way—refusing to let the big waves control what happens.

The most peculiar thing about this storm scene: though the conditions are very rough, Rousseau has managed—partly by using some bright colors, partly by doing something I can’t figure out—to achieve pure jauntiness.

Yes: this storm scene is almost unbelievably uplifting.

Rousseau has demonstrated, once again, that you can paint any subject any way you want to paint it.

You can’t stop a storm from being a storm—but you can choose how you look at the storm.

You can be grateful that you’re able to experience any storm at all; and, with airy amazement and a smile, keep moving along.

Angels

The Ongoing Tower ascends from mud to cloud.

Each story was built by a different generation.

Stones are lodged in the mud.

Glass divides a cloud.

The Ongoing Tower would not exist without countless inspirations.

Have hints been whispered by angels?

Lacking Vision, a naked bird endures yet another unsoftened winter on a naked branch.

Meanwhile we—somehow—do not lack Vision.

We house tremendous quantities of bees, so you can put a spoonful of honey into a cup of hot tea.

We cut down trees and melt metals and kill animals to make instruments, so we can dance.

And I arrange words in very specific ways, hoping to make a fortune.

The Man of Gloom

For The Man of Gloom, the whole world was a tomb. You could feel his feeling when he entered a room. It loomed.

Forty-four years had passed since The Man of Gloom had been cruelly deposited into Existence, and eighty-eight weeks had passed since his wife had left him—saying, just before closing the door, “You’re just too gloomy.”

But her explanation didn’t seem reasonable—for he was, after all, The Man of Gloom. (Once, when asked when his gloom began, he said, gloomily, “My gloom bloomed in the womb.”) He didn’t understand why his wife had suddenly punished him for being the way he’d always been.

Her departure did, however, give him the warped satisfaction of having yet another seemingly valid reason to indulge in gloom.

The day was warm. The Man of Gloom was sitting on a comfortable chair in embracing sunlight with a refreshing gin and tonic at hand and a big newspaper in his hands. The big newspaper blocked most of his view and told him about awful things happening all around the world.

Awful, he thought as he finished an article, and shook his head.

Awful, he thought as he finished another article, and sighed.

Awful, he thought as he finished a third article, and shook his head while sighing.

Sitting there, in sunlight and gloom, he believed that anyone who lived with enthusiasm had consented to make delusion home.

He reminded himself that he was forty-four years old. He reminded himself that his life was likely at least half spent. So what? The world stinks!

He felt the cold glass with his left fingers and thumb, lifted the cold glass to his mouth, took a sip of cold beverage while listening to the movements of ice. The gin and tonic tasted… like clarity. Then arrived a perfect breeze: strong enough to provide a nice little relief, but not strong enough to cause newspaper difficulties. Part of him knew that his immediate situation—sitting there just outside his back door—was not at all bad, was indeed quite pleasant. But he considered such pleasantness a trick: an attempt to distract him from real reality. But, with the help of his newspaper, he would not be tricked: he would remain committed to his perception of a crappy world.

His close study of a long article about a horrific sequence of events in Africa was interrupted by a laugh. Instantly The Man of Gloom folded a corner of his newspaper and looked in the direction of the source and saw his neighbor standing on grass, bent over a telescope. “Wow,” said his neighbor in apparent wonderment—which naturally exasperated The Man of Gloom: his neighbor was obviously trying to make him curious, obviously trying to elicit an inquiry that could turn, if he wasn’t careful, into a friendly conversation.

The Man of Gloom unfolded the corner. Once again those big pages and small words dominated his vision. Soon he was picturing a massacre described by an ambitious journalist with perhaps too much dramatic relish.

“Jim. Hey Jim,” said The Man of Gloom’s neighbor—for The Man of Gloom’s name was Jim. “You’ve got to see this. I just got a special solar filter for my telescope, and… Let’s just say it wasn’t a waste of money.”

“What a relief,” said The Man of Gloom in a tone that said “I’m not interested in pursuing this conversation.” And he did not remove his eyes from the newspaper. But here’s the strange thing: despite displaying absolutely no external indication of interest, The Man of Gloom actually was curious about how the sun looked through the telescope.

With discernible hesitance, his neighbor said “Do you… I mean… Don’t you want to take a look at the sun? It… It really is worth a look.”

The Man of Gloom was relieved his neighbor was essentially insisting. Such insistence meant he could go over there and act like he was only going over there because he didn’t want to seem rude. With odd emphasis he folded the newspaper and, with his back very straight, went over to his neighbor and the solar-filtered telescope and bent a little and placed his right eye in the proper position.

The sun! The sun! The sun!

What power! What certainty!

How strange—to stare fixedly at something your eyes have always avoided.

“I can see,” said The Man of Gloom, “leaping flames.”

“The solar flares! Yes!” said his neighbor. “Especially on the top left.”

“Yes… There does indeed appear to be… special activity over there.”

“You know, a bunch of earths could fit into any one of those solar flares. And… Also, the solar flares aren’t actually flames, but… Never mind. Anyway, I was going to… Oh, right. Apparently, like, a million earths could fit into the… into the main part of the sun. How do you process that? I mean… That little sphere is one million earths. Roughly. Something like that. At least I think that’s what I read… But I almost wonder if I’m getting that wrong. Because… A million earths! Sorry to repeat myself, but… I’ve just never been able to grasp that. Still can’t, obviously.”

“Some things are ungraspable,” said The Man of Gloom, with his eye still at the eyepiece.

“Another crazy thing about the sun is the fact that the most outward part of its atmosphere is hotter than the surface. The core is the hottest part, and things get colder as you move from the core to the surface—but then, as you move out from the surface, the temperature increases. How does that make sense?”

“That’s… weird. Yes… that’s very… weird. I guess it’s just another one of those things that… just… just…” The Man of Gloom finally removed his eye from the eyepiece. Turning, he did something he had never done before: “Would you like a gin and tonic?”

“Oh!” exclaimed his neighbor, shocked—for he pretty much knew that Jim was The Man of Gloom. By the end of their very first interaction, he’d formed the sturdy assumption that Jim would never exit his gloomy world, would never submit any friendly offer. And when he was preparing to tell Jim about the new solar filter, he even experienced some clear fear: how would Jim react? But he’d disregarded his fear because he found those solar flares so thrilling, and felt it would be positively wrong to stay silent when Jim was so close.

And the result…

Jim just offered him a gin and tonic!

“The tonic part sounds great,” he told Jim. “Thanks. It’s getting pretty hot out here.”

“It is, isn’t it?” said The Man of Gloom—and immediately thought, with disgust, What an inane expression of agreement. When did you start… just… just saying things just to get along?

Something about staring at the sun…

A million earths… burning and burning and burning… endlessly burning…

That isn’t correct.

Someday the sun, too, will be gone.

Everything seems so insignificant, so pointless… There’s obviously no reason not to be gloomy about life. However… if everything is indeed pointless… there can also be no reason to be gloomy about life. Pointlessness means there can be no reason not to be any way you want to be. That should be liberating!

So… How do you want to be?

In the days that followed The Man of Gloom made two decisions.

One: he decided to stop stopping himself from smiling as soon as a smiling sensation began. For as long as he could remember, he’d suppressed his smiles—because he’d wanted everyone to know that he was Serious. But now he would maybe even, on occasion, force himself to smile.

Two: he decided to expand his wardrobe’s palette. For as long as he could remember, he’d worn only black—because he’d wanted everyone to know that he was mourning Existence. But now he wanted some other colors, some lightness. He went shopping and bought some grey pants and some brown pants and a dark green shirt and a dark blue shirt and a dark red shirt. One store had a light blue shirt he came very close to buying—but it was just too light. He wanted to be lighter, and he was getting lighter—but he just couldn’t get that light. At least not so fast.

In the weeks that followed The Man of Gloom embarked on a new relationship. His sister was responsible for the introduction. Many things about this new woman he liked; some things about this new woman he didn’t like. But she was cheerful, and some recent thought processes had delivered him to the tentative conclusion that there is nothing more important than cheerfulness. If you are cheerful, he theorized, almost every situation will be better for you and, more importantly, for the people who happen to be around you.

And so, with great effort, The Man of Gloom tried to be cheerful. He seldom achieved genuine cheerfulness—but, more importantly, he usually seemed cheerful. His instincts kept challenging him by pointing him toward gloom—but he had started to suppress those gloomy instincts; and, as weeks and weeks and months continued to pass, the suppression of those gloomy instincts became easier and easier and like a new form of breathing; and though those gloomy instincts provided no indication that they would ever go away, Emily never even suspected, as far as he could tell, that he was The Man of Gloom.

Something he again and again, every day, told himself: It’s better to not be who you actually are, so you can become someone better.

In the years that followed The Man of Gloom and Emily got married, and twice brought new life into the world, and celebrated every Thanksgiving with his sister and her husband’s family, and celebrated every Christmas in another part of the country with Emily’s parents—and he felt simultaneously inauthentic and authentic. He felt inauthentic because, despite all his efforts, he still pretty much felt, within, like The Man of Gloom, whom his wife and kids didn’t know. But he felt authentic because he loved the family in which he was enclosed, and knew that the family would not exist without him and specific decisions he’d made.

Once, on his way home from a work trip, he ran into his ex-wife in an airport. Apparently she was now living in this other city. They had a pleasant conversation, during which she remarked on how ungloomy he seemed, and he smiled (was this one forced or natural?) and said he was happy to see her, happy to see that she seemed to be doing well. Then he asked a question about her career. He didn’t want to tell her about his big transformation. He didn’t think she deserved to know anything about it; because she had left him—and sure, yes, overall he was definitely glad—so glad—she’d left him; because he respected his new life… but… Back then, before the divorce, he’d thought they were in this awful world together, each with only the other for true understanding and support… And she’d left him. Looking at her in the airport as she formed words with her mouth, he decided she looked like she’d aged twice as many years as had actually passed—and he smiled again (there was definitely nothing forced about this one). “It’s been great to see you,” he said, “but now I’ve got to catch my plane. Safe travels.”

The Man of Gloom catches his plane and, as the city below gets smaller and smaller, finds it easy to suppress all gloom. All that is required is the remembrance of our puniness. But here’s the strange thing: despite his awareness of his insignificance, of the almost certain pointlessness of this tiny planet, he somehow—while watching someone walk down the aisle, while hearing two sneezes emerge from a few rows back—believes everything is inevitable and deeply connected and moving toward something bright.

Upon stepping into the house, The Man of Gloom is proud of the fact that nobody sees The Man of Gloom: his wife sees Jim and his kids see Dad.

Feel free to contact me at evanpellervo@gmail.com.