Sunday, March 20, 2011

da story: part two

I saw a friend Saturday and she told me that she was being held in too much suspense and that I needed to post the second half of my story.  The first half is here, and honestly, you don't want to read the second half without reading the first.  Even though I kinda [but only kinda] like the second part better, the first sets it up . . . and . . . yeah.  Just, go read it first if you haven't, k?

Random note: I was never sure how I wanted this second half to go; I only knew where I wanted to end up, but the road there was still a mystery to me.  So I just started writing, seeing if I would get there eventually, planning on taking the most direct route.  Oh no, "she" said, stamping her foot with something between a frown and a grin.  Right now I am having a flash-back, and you will tell everyone about it.  So what was I to do?  Sure, I wasn't planning on taking a detour, but in the end, I do believe "she" was right and I'm glad she spoke up to tell me about herself.  Thus, I wrote in what I was told, and a flash-back was born.


It was early morning when it happened.  She had been in a hurry—even in his absence life kept her busy.  And in a way, that was good, because it helped her to forget.  Not to forget him, for those words “remember me” would forever haunt her soul—but forget to think.  To wonder, to doubt, to worry, to cry, to ache.  She had gone away early, barely paying mind to that beautiful tick, tick, tick that surrounded and created her sole existence.  There were things to accomplish, as there always were.  There were things that took her mind off her sadness so that she didn’t have to carry it with her always.
The post office was nearly deserted when she went in to pick up her mail.  She was handed just one piece of paper.  One telegram.  One piece of slightly yellowed paper, but to her, it could have weighed as much as a train.  She clamped her fingers around it—her icy fingers that this one piece of paper now scorched.  She clutched it, turned slowly—mechanically—and walked out.
She stumbled home without once looking at the telegram.  She had seen the stamp on the outside; that was enough.  She was blind to the world around her.  Her jaw was set in agitated emotion and her eyes burned with tears that would not come.  She would not accept this.  She refused.  Her mind wandered; even she knew not where.  And still she staggered on, toward the house, her room, his desk, and that little device that alone could bring her comfort.

The summer before he left had been a happy one.  They had been together, after all.  They had celebrated life in their own quiet but nonetheless rejoicing way.  They had worked and they had loved.
Dusk fell upon the world like a dark velvet sheet.  She slipped through the screen door, barefoot, and sat next to him on the swing.  Her tea steamed in magical swirls around her face and he put his arm around her shoulder.  She watched him as he stared out into the growing twilight.  She knew that he was dreaming, planning, scheming.  That he was thinking about their future—together.
He turned suddenly and smiled at her, winking in that way that only he could.  She laid her head on his shoulder and they both watched the world fall asleep.  It was enough to be silent, as long as they were silent together.
That was the last truly happy time she could remember.  The next morning came that dreaded piece of paper that called him away, that tore him from her side.  A piece of paper changed their lives.

And so it was again.  A single sheet of paper gripped her once secure little world and shook it to pieces.  Yes, yes.  She remembered those days, the times she had laughed and been light and free.  Why was that so vague now?  She trembled and shook her head.  She refused to let this be.  She refused to let this thought prevail.
She faltered as she walked up the stairs to her room to find that little machine that gave her a lasting memory of him.  She pushed open the door; it squeaked on its hinges as it gave way.  Sitting slowly on the bed, she groped on the desk for the watch, gripping it as tightly with her fingers as with her heartstrings.  Hesitant, she held it up to her ear.
She knew it then.
There was no noise.  There was no familiar tick, tick, tick.  There was no sound to fill up the emptiness of the room.  The emptiness of her soul.  There was nothing but silence.  Everlasting, permanent silence.  The watch had died.
She took it from her ear and gazed blankly from the watch to the telegram.  That evil messenger with its tidy stamp and seal.  The tears began to flow, but they were stifled with pain.  Nothing was tidy about this.  Everything was a terrible mistake, a bad dream, a horrendous mess.  That watch had been the only thing to console her.  Now it was gone.
And so was he.


And there you have it, my friends.  Feedback [sweet, constructive feedback] is encouraged . . . in fact, I'd rather love it.  Gahh, why is my story so depressing?  It makes even me sad.  ;P

::the inspiration::

P.S. -- the post about seeing Les Mis [!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!] will be coming soon, never fear.


  1. Erm, I didn't actually read you story since i don't have the time right now.

    Buuuut, I realllllly like that picture! :)
    It made me chuckle, thinking of all the watch references you made when we were shopping. ;P

  2. Beautiful!!! I love the style! It's kind of a prose like style. No character names, lots of description! The words flow together and I like the tragic aspect of the whole thing! Your really good with words!



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