Ulterior

• Wilson Zhang, Grade 8
• Short Story
• 2012

It was a cold winter day as the man whistled a nameless tune along the small alleyway. A heavy fog cloaked the town in a sort of darkness that didn’t let you see anything beyond ten feet of you. The freezing breeze blew his hat off and it fell into a small puddle by the side of the street. He didn’t stop to pick it up.
Suddenly the man stopped walking and looked to his left.
Somehow a beam of sunlight had been able to penetrate the thick fog, coincidentally fell on a poor busker sitting on a bench. He played mournful music on a beautifully crafted grand piano to those nearby, as if the day wasn’t sad enough. The piano was so perfectly made that it would sound great even if the player didn’t know how to play the piano. It was obviously extremely valuable.
He stared at the beggar and asked him, “What are you playing?”
The beggar replied, “A mournful song for those passing by.”
“But why would you do such a thing?”
The beggar gave the man a look as if the answer were completely obvious. “So they might feel sorry for me and put a few coins in my hat.”
The man took out his wallet, pulled out ten dollars, but left his hand hovering right above the pianist’s hat, giving the impression that he wasn’t quite sure of what he was doing. “However, before I do, may I ask, why don’t you just sell the piano?”
The beggar merely said, “Because then I would be rich and nobody would need to give me money anymore.”
With a puzzled look, the man gave him the ten dollars. The pianist returned the puzzled look as he pocketed the money. “Why did you just give me ten dollars?” he questioned as he leaned closer towards the man.
“Because money isn’t what life is all about.” With that, the man walked off.
The beggar could hardly believe his luck. He had just gained TWENTY DOLLARS!! That was worth a fortune these days.
But the unusual man was just hiding behind a crate of decomposing apples. He pulled out a small contraption that looked like a pen. It had a trigger on top of it. He had known that the thief had stolen another ten dollars from him.
He pushed the trigger.
The beggar abruptly felt a strange feeling in his pocket. He immediately pulled the twenty dollars out and stared in horror as the notes began to glow a fiery red.
His last thought was, “…I…I think I’m about to die.”
And he did. The tiny bomb hidden inside the second ten dollar note detonated, blowing up everything within a one metre radius including the beggar, his grand piano and the rotting bench.
The busker may have died, but the melancholy melody continued in the man’s head.
So, what is the moral of the story? Well, I guess that’s for you to know and me to find out.