Poetic Estate

Every now and then, I write random stories based on the results of a random word generator. This is a product of that exercise. I have no idea what happens next. If you do, let me know.

Sam was finally turning 5 doing the job he had always wanted — if by ‘always’ we mean since all other options got cut off. Having graduated from one of the finest Fine Arts University in town, his dream was to be a writer. Life decided to step in and course correct, so instead, he became an estate agent. In theory, a typical case of “you can be whatever you want as long as it matches what the market needs”. In practice, Sam made it work.

His killer move, first decided some 4 years, 11 months, 28 days, 4 hours, 27 minutes, 2 seconds (3, 4, 5…), was to steal a page from the Silicon Valley startup book and make up some intersection in which he could operate. And more important, write semi-daily Instagram editorial content about. Sam, in his eyes (if not anyone else’s), was an artist. And his market was at the intersection of post-modern poetry and real estate. He often called himself an expert in the po-attics of the mind, a grim example of how indeed you could be anything you wanted. Even if you weren’t very good at it.

Mere days from turning 5 as a professional in the Poetic Estate business, Sam reflected on his achievements up until that point. He remembered how, before, while looking for a house himself, he’d often stumble upon bland descriptions to accompany even blander photography taken from one of the earlier Blackberry models. This was his ‘what if’ moment, the point at which his sensitivity for words met his urge to just get a job doing whatever because rent doesn’t pay itself. It wasn’t Poetic Justice — that was the specialty of his cousin Josh, who had gotten famous for rapping his way through a legal procedure (and winning!) — , but it was damn close enough.