No Gift for Sara

On a more serious note, here's a short story I came up with in 2007 and again in early 2011. You can view the thousands of corporate sponsored violations of my copyrights through the index links at the bottom of my page. My scripts show the most violations, with the lion's share going to Saturday Night Live from 2007 to 2010. Stephen was so grief stricken over his shattered love affair that he lost his job and his apartment and ended up in a homeless shelter. There he spent his days in the lounge, listless before the big screen TV, watching whatever the majority of his fellow transients chose. [2015: ...and hearing the chorus of one of his songs play through an overtime period.] Many there were mentally ill, and he, in his depleted condition, fit in well among them. 'Does that guy even blink?' said one of his observers. It was December and there was no escape from the excitement generated by the approaching Christmas holiday. He stubbornly avoided visual contact with as many faces as possible and let the leftover voices in his sphere blend into an impassive drone. It was therefore by his ears that he first discovered Sara, whose meek voice penetrated in lilting tones. She wanted to give her bunk mate an elegant makeup kit for Christmas. 'A girl like you needs to stay pretty for her admirers,' she said in words slightly muffled by an apparently nerve damaged jaw. For the first time in weeks, Stephen looked up and caught sight of her face. How much more rewarding is the smile that must fight its way past facial paralysis? It is like a beautiful flower bursting through the gray concrete. His gesture caused a stir. 'It's alive,' said her beneficiary, who was indeed pretty. 'Sara, I think you cured him!' Time passed more easily from that point. Stephen no longer felt sorry for himself and was even a little ashamed about all his needless sulking. He tried to make up for it in the time he had left in the shelter. As his term of homelessness drew to a close, he did his best to smile and be pleasant. In turn, he was warmly accepted by those around him. No longer was the shelter a place of torment to him, but an oasis of humanity, resounding with lively conversation and defiant laughter. He felt he owed his recovery to Sara. Whether she was in the cafeteria, offering her dessert to a newcomer, or out in the square, handing out cigarettes, or merely responding to the incessant ring of her cellphone with patient good humor, he kept his eye on her and continued to draw inspiration from her. When Christmas arrived, an assembly was held in the lounge for the handing out of gifts. When Sara's name was called, no one came forward. Stephen immediately went looking for her. He found her by herself, out in the square. She was talking on her cellphone in morose, unfamiliar strains. 'I'm just the same as any other woman... I want a man to love me...' Then her little voice broke apart against a torrent of carefully hushed sobs.
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