OCCUPY
Occupy
(A short story)
There once was a boy who hailed down from far afar. His gist was what you would expect from a teenage man, but his attention laid upon subjects which weren’t his to fathom.
Moving in with a new family has got to be a tough delivery, even when morale doesn’t falter; and a reconstructed one at that may very well be a doomed endeavour. Even so, Jestin was of a mind to see the brightness of his situation, especially when he was given the best room in the house to settle in. Only an ungrateful heart would question it as misgivings.
A gathering was scheduled, to set ablaze any down-regulating movements from the neighbourhood contingency, to set in flame that this group of humans was a close-knit unit, for better, for worse, and all miles apart. The choice was hereupon to situate it in Jestin’s quarters, because, after all, this was and had always been the best room in the house.
The night was scintillating and clear skied, bringing the favours and guests, onto the balcony, brimming with lanterns, plants, and objects from far and wide. It hadn’t been adjusted to Jestin’s taste, and served as the communal dumping ground and mirrored expression out onto the world.
The balcony opened onto wild fields of purple hay, and the deep velvety blue of the great ethers beyond. While trivial wisdom was exchanged upon the ground of clay and ceramics, the real attraction was out there. A princess of white petals and shine, swirled in the grass, creating a magical illusion, where none was the wiser, impersonating a fire and light show, impregnating the land with her wits. As if the grass blended with her, it bent and shaped, only to explode and expose into the sky, at once ornament and firmament.
That’s the only memory of the party that Jestin carries, held up in a bubble, before his absolution. Later though, the party remains, in litter and glitter, spread about on the balcony, and everywhere he’d like to step foot and mystery.
It’s just as well, because he feels no need to claim space, in his outer or inner layer. He only knows the emptiness and stillness he’s hauled with him across his starless journey. And yet, a clock ticks, swirling in his mind the need for action; any action that lingers in the field, up for grabs, will do.
With all the fuss, of moving and celebrating, the young boy has forgotten to tackle his homeschooling lessons; for two weeks already!
He sits down at one of the desks, the closest to the window and balcony, placed in a sort of short open corridor, linking all parts of the room together. He feels better there, between the giant balustrade bed, and the opening onto the world, much better than on the other desk. One of his lesson covers animals, namely seals and penguins, but he has to put that excitement aside too.
You see, Jestin is scheduled to act in a big play at the French theatre in a few days, on the 8th of December, and he must prepare, for he is the lead actor. On a white sheet of paper, he writes, actively, coordinates, timings, and all he might need for his performance, with astounding accuracy and diligence. The boy has the making of a great, if only the world wouldn’t interrupt.
One by one, they all come to his room, the best room. The sister only wants to check in on what he is doing, because she is a little bored, a little askew. With the mimicry that can be found in observation, she may find the entanglement she is looking for, to save herself from the face value of her existence. The brother is a little trickier, seeking confrontation and camaraderie in his alter ego. Then, there is the mother, tidying and cleaning a small part with each intervention, as if meddling was bound for production. The father is irritated. Perhaps, he too, could have wanted the best room.
The main desk is swallowed by the shadows of its entrance position, its backside to the door, cornered into obedience by its quick availability, and the proximity of a half-moon table, decided a long-time ago to be the apéritif preparation area. There is no end to the imagination, attribution, identification and dead-set decisions of humans… or so it seems. For Jestin, to work there would have been defiance, misstep and collusion, all at once.
The dad claims the space, for another party is soon to be planned.
“Can you go work on the balcony?”, they chime.
Jestin doesn’t falter. This behaviour hasn’t been imprinted in him.
From his desk, while he perfects the conditions for his soon-to-be limelight, his attention is caught by the alcove, right to the left of the wall he faces, piles of books and shows of posters ignored, opening onto a red and purple ottoman lounge, upon which thrones his grandpa. He wears a moustache, the looks of a sultan and a French peasant, smoking a pipe to fill the atmosphere with self-consciousness. He has a friend too, smaller, smoker too.
Jestin coughs to lighten up the mood, to signify his discombobulation, for energy moves through him in smoke and fire. To no avail.
A cloud of the field performance passed lingers, to shine a new light onto Jestin’s life. He walks out onto the balcony where they all willed him, and breathes some fresh air. The abundance of wild plants in an ordinary setting mirrors his simulation. Time has long passed and gone, for Jestin is oblivious. A clock draws in the stars, the reality of his situation. His 8th of December performance wasn’t to be missed, but so his soul did. For now time pushes far afar into Christmas, and he hasn’t been present in this body for two weeks, perhaps even longer.
Jestin stares at his hand, saddled onto the baluster, uh, no apologies, onto the railing, and knows at once the illusion. For he hasn’t just moved in with a new family, but into a new body, with no lingering memories of who he was, but the perceptions, projections and expectations of the world around him.
He looks out to the wind, and sees it stare back blankly at him.
For why would he had given up so much soul for a spark at occupying humanity, and yes perhaps the best room in the house too?
Report from Jupiter,
somewhere between the 8th of December and 8th of January of that year,
“Occupy mission 505”
By Lucie Aidart, February 2026