Life is too short for boring stories

Prudently, almost lovingly Alexander grabbed his figurines and placed them on the box, which he had specially designed to present them in the pedestrian zone. Each piece is unique. There were sad and funny, serious and dreamy faces. Alexander showed himself as a master in expressing human emotions alive and deceptively genuine in the faces and gestures of his characters. Even those who had nothing else to do with art, were touched by them. He was accustomed to having to take care of his figurines, to protect them, for he had four smaller brothers.

Sometimes he wondered how his mother managed to match five guys with all their needs and desires, aspirations, and demands, but she mastered it magnificently, even though she was responsible for the rascals alone. “Can be divorced, and with five children,” people immediately whispered when they learned that Alexander’s mother was a lone parent, and she was tired of saying that she was not divorced but widowed. Why were people always so easy to judge?

It was Saturday night and many people on the road. That promised good sales. In addition, Alexander had now acquired something like regular customers, people who appreciated his work and always came back to see what he had new. With the money he earned on such evenings, he supported his mother. If he had been asked if he thought they were poor, his answer would be clear. Sure, they could not afford what other families would take for themselves, like two holidays a year and the like, but they had enough to eat, a roof over their head, and they did not have to freeze, and above all they had each other. This was something you could not buy.

Alexander had just finished building his figures as a figure stood before it. It was Philip, the new one from his class, surrounded by a pack of subordinates. Philip bought them all, and they did whatever he wanted. Philip was in a bad mood. Yes, he got everything he wanted, had everything he needed, and much more, except for the house staff, nobody was home. How long had he not seen his parents? One week, two? He felt left alone, abandoned. When he was home, it was cold, and he was standing in front of Alexander and his figures, and felt that Alexander had something he longed for, and would never get. Common time, common memories, common life. He felt that he, the rich man, had something to do with this poor man in the ridiculously worn-out clothes, something he wanted to have, but he had no way to take it away from him. He felt that he was fainting and helpless, and that made him angry, so angry.

A controlled kick and Alexander’s sales boom fell into his individual parts, gypsy figurines splintered on the ground. Contentedly, Philip saw the chaos he had made, reached into his pocket, and took out a few notes, which he threw at Alexander. Then he turned and left the site of desolation, followed by his friends. Alexander grabbed the pieces together. Sadly and confused, he went home. He just could not understand what made Philip so angry. Should he not be really happy, rich, popular, and spoiled?


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