Rachel13
Registered User
- Joined
- Dec 12, 2008
- Messages
- 11
This is a short story I wrote a few weeks ago. Compliments from my family is very different then what everyone else thinks. Tell me if you think it anything special and if i should turn into any kind of story, or if i should write anymore simlar short stories as well. Thanks.
Forgotten Sickness
I stepped carefully off the front porch. My hands were like ice as they were every time I went out into the bitter cold January. Perhaps it was the poor circulation my mother claimed I inherited from my grandfather.
The car was even worse than the out doors. My teeth chattered as I started the engine, cranking the heat immediately. The one hour car ride was pleasant, even after the first million times. I made the trek every other day, keeping up with my relationship with my father.
Today was different though. Traffic was unusually slow and I found my hereditary temper increase as I pulled into a mile long line to the highway.
I waited momentarily, my mind wandered more than usual. I closed my eyes as I waited in the unmoving line. I thought of something I hadn’t in a very long while. It was a day in my past, a day in my teenage hood. It wasn’t strange, just another night.
I was only fourteen at the time, I recalled, writing on the computer as my mother dozed off on the couch upstairs. I loved writing, and dreamed of becoming a novelist in the future, being successful. My father burst through the door. I remembered glancing at the computer clock: 10:34.
This of course was not a Friday night, or an eventful day of partying, or anything special. In fact it was the earliest day he had returned the entire week.
I knew he would be very drunk and argumentative, but I continued writing as I found myself at the climax of my story. He came downstairs, mumbling to himself as usual. Plopping down, he opened his dinner: a box of crackers.
“You know I haven’t read anymore of your story,” he said suddenly after a long silence. I halted my finger movements.
“Oh. Well, were you planning to?” I asked slowly. I didn’t turn to him then, reading over a sentence in my head. He sighed. I rolled my eyes. I prepared for his excuse about how he had no time, or he was busy, or some other bull he tried to make us, and himself, believe.
“Uh…no, I’m not going to.” I turned my head to the left slightly, his silhouette in my periphery vision.
“Why not?” Again, he sighed and wasted time as usual.
“It’s because…because…the way you write… (Sigh)…I just don’t write that way…” I waited for the rest of his excuse, my teeth clenched.
“I just can’t edit something….I mean you used…in just your first sentence, I, my, and me…it’s just not well written.”
“Well you could at least read the story, for the story, and not worry about the mechanics.”
“No, I just can’t read something like that.” My anger was covered by the pit of emotional depression that hit me then. I continued writing as our conversation vanished.
An obnoxious honking made me jump as I sped ahead in the line. It stopped only shortly after. I sighed. This was going to be awhile.
My writing career didn’t take off then, not till many years later when I published that story. I published the exact story my father refused to help me with. I performed all the necessary problems and editing on my own. The book sold a million copies and New York Time said it was “one of the most odd and mystifying books” he ever read. I enjoyed that comment much.
But I wrote many other stories, a book of short stories even. Apparently my father’s help didn’t matter as I come to realize. Perhaps if he helped me, my story would have sold one less copy, making me the author who sold 999,999 copies. What a title that would be.
The traffic moved quicker and I pulled off onto the exit and sped up, enjoying the speed. Another brief but vibrant memory struck me as the song “Godzilla” came on the radio. I tilted my head toward the noise of it, remembering.
The sight of a four year old dancing and attempted to air guitar must have been grand for my mother, who recorded the entire scene. My father jammed and danced along with me. I copied him as I jumped and laughed and played, enjoying that day much more than I ever had in my entire life. The scene was so clear, I almost found myself drifting further into its daze as the car swerved.
Catching myself, I reeled back to reality. I made a mental note to look for that ancient video cassette, praying that it would still work in our aged player.
The building came up fast as I nearly missed the entrance. Pulling into a close space, I huddled into my coat as I charged for the building. Al, “the wrinkled smile” I called him, sat behind the desk as always. I stepped up and smiled brightly, my cheeks feeling stiff from the cold.
“Good morning, Al,” I said brightly as he looked up from his book. “What are we reading today?” I asked signing my name of the list. He smiled from behind his over-size glasses.
“Oh, it’s a classic. I haven’t read this book since I was a young one. It’s The Secret Garden.” I smiled as I finished writing the room number: 332. “Have you ever read it?” He placed the room key next to my hand as I wrote.
“Yes, actually I did read that a long time ago as well, I was a teen perhaps. It was a wonderful story, you should see the movie,” I replied. He fingered his thin grey hair before answering.
“Oh no, you know me, I’m more of a book worm.”
“I know, I’ll see you in a bit.” I grinned once last time before taking off.
“Tell your father I said hello!” he called as I pressed the button for the elevator, opening instantly.
“I will!” I called back. I never much enjoyed the feeling of elevators; somehow they always made me dizzy when I reached the floor. The doors opened and I walked out into the pale blue theme of the third floor.
I stalked my way down the hall, key in hand. The familiar room numbers passed in a blur as I reached my father’s.
Knocking, I said his name into the door crack, though I knew no one would answer. I unlocked the door and stepped inside.
My father was never a decorator, and his apartment was pre-placed when he moved in, which he hadn’t changed anything but what food is put in the fridge.
“Dad?” I asked again as I rounded the corner to find him sitting in his rocking chair, staring at the scenery of the woods from his window. His hair had remained rather dark considering he was three years older than Al. Though he was supposed to wear glasses all the time, they remained in his pocket almost all the time.
“Dad?” I asked as I pulled another chair in front of him. He turned his head, his wrinkles adjusting as he half smiled. I grinned as well.
“Hi, Dad how you doing today?” I asked quietly. He still smiled as he spoke.
“Oh well I’m doing rather well today,” he said very slowly. The noted the heater was much too close to the fabric of his drapes. I stood.
“Father, you know you shouldn’t have this thing so close. It’s flammable.” I moved it back to a safe distance. He had returned his stare out the window.
“I never much cared for winter very much.”
“I haven’t either, too cold.” He nodded lightly.
“Yes, I am always cold,” he said extremely slowly. I watched his hazel eyes stare blankly outside. “How is Mom?” he asked.
“She’s doing well; she’s watching the kids now.”
“Why doesn’t she come to see me anymore?” he asked. I shrugged slightly to myself.
“I’m not sure. I think she’s just busy. Plus, she enjoys spending time with the kids, you know Mom always a push over.” I giggled lightly and his smile widened.
“Why doesn’t she bring the kids…here with her?” His voice was soft as he spoke with pace.
“Well, you know Emily is just a baby, she shouldn’t leave the comfort of home too much.” I glanced at his collections of army figurines in the glass case behind him.
“Oh, those are new aren’t they?” I asked.
“What is new?”
“Your figurines, behind you. I didn’t see them last time I was here.” He turned his head toward me a bit more, shifting his sunken eyes.
“When…were you here last?” he asked earnestly.
“Just two days ago.” He nodded again and looked back out at the window.
“You know…I’ve always liked…looking at the woods. They are always so still……” he drifted as I started again.
“So how’s Michael doing these days? I don’t hear you talk about him much anymore.”
“Who?”
“Michael Hamlin, from down the hall.” He gave me this puzzled look. My father had never been good with names his whole life and old age wasn’t helpful either.
“Never mind…how about this place? You like it any better than the old building?” I asked.
“This one is larger…I suppose.” I smiled slightly as I looked at the side table next to him. A large white book rested on the edge.
“I never much liked the winter…” he mumbled as I read the titled.
“What book is that?” I asked. He lifted his head carefully shifting his eyes over it, reading it himself.
“Oh, it’s The Shining…by Stephan King,” he answered softly. I tilted my head.
“I didn’t know you read Stephan King?” I asked, somewhat stated. He nodded lightly again, a glaze of a stare filling his face.
“Yes, Michael Hamlin gave it to me…I don’t think…you know him.” I smiled, swallowing as he stared very blankly. Then he turned his head and looked at me for a long while intently. Silence followed shortly after.
“Who are you?” he asked. I swallowed my tears as he continued to stare.
“I know you from somewhere……are you my…my new nurse?” My eyes grew glassy.
“Yes, I’m your nurse. I’m new here.” His lips curled very slightly.
“Oh, well I’m glad you’re here…I have been awfully lonely.”
“Why are you lonely?”
“Well…my daughter hasn’t visited me in a long time…she didn’t get to see…my figurines yet, did she?”
“No, I don’t believe so. They are very…nice by the way.” I felt a lump forming in my throat. He turned his head again. He closed his eyes slowly and grew still. Soon his light and wheezy breathing started. My breathing grew uneasy as I stood. I kissed his forehead.
“See you on Sunday, Dad.” I shut off the heater and walked slowly to the door, closing quietly. The elevator ride was silent as I said my goodbyes to Al.
In the car, I drove slowly out of the parking lot. I took another look at the building, identifying my father’s room. A single tear rolled down my icy cheek.
Forgotten Sickness
I stepped carefully off the front porch. My hands were like ice as they were every time I went out into the bitter cold January. Perhaps it was the poor circulation my mother claimed I inherited from my grandfather.
The car was even worse than the out doors. My teeth chattered as I started the engine, cranking the heat immediately. The one hour car ride was pleasant, even after the first million times. I made the trek every other day, keeping up with my relationship with my father.
Today was different though. Traffic was unusually slow and I found my hereditary temper increase as I pulled into a mile long line to the highway.
I waited momentarily, my mind wandered more than usual. I closed my eyes as I waited in the unmoving line. I thought of something I hadn’t in a very long while. It was a day in my past, a day in my teenage hood. It wasn’t strange, just another night.
I was only fourteen at the time, I recalled, writing on the computer as my mother dozed off on the couch upstairs. I loved writing, and dreamed of becoming a novelist in the future, being successful. My father burst through the door. I remembered glancing at the computer clock: 10:34.
This of course was not a Friday night, or an eventful day of partying, or anything special. In fact it was the earliest day he had returned the entire week.
I knew he would be very drunk and argumentative, but I continued writing as I found myself at the climax of my story. He came downstairs, mumbling to himself as usual. Plopping down, he opened his dinner: a box of crackers.
“You know I haven’t read anymore of your story,” he said suddenly after a long silence. I halted my finger movements.
“Oh. Well, were you planning to?” I asked slowly. I didn’t turn to him then, reading over a sentence in my head. He sighed. I rolled my eyes. I prepared for his excuse about how he had no time, or he was busy, or some other bull he tried to make us, and himself, believe.
“Uh…no, I’m not going to.” I turned my head to the left slightly, his silhouette in my periphery vision.
“Why not?” Again, he sighed and wasted time as usual.
“It’s because…because…the way you write… (Sigh)…I just don’t write that way…” I waited for the rest of his excuse, my teeth clenched.
“I just can’t edit something….I mean you used…in just your first sentence, I, my, and me…it’s just not well written.”
“Well you could at least read the story, for the story, and not worry about the mechanics.”
“No, I just can’t read something like that.” My anger was covered by the pit of emotional depression that hit me then. I continued writing as our conversation vanished.
An obnoxious honking made me jump as I sped ahead in the line. It stopped only shortly after. I sighed. This was going to be awhile.
My writing career didn’t take off then, not till many years later when I published that story. I published the exact story my father refused to help me with. I performed all the necessary problems and editing on my own. The book sold a million copies and New York Time said it was “one of the most odd and mystifying books” he ever read. I enjoyed that comment much.
But I wrote many other stories, a book of short stories even. Apparently my father’s help didn’t matter as I come to realize. Perhaps if he helped me, my story would have sold one less copy, making me the author who sold 999,999 copies. What a title that would be.
The traffic moved quicker and I pulled off onto the exit and sped up, enjoying the speed. Another brief but vibrant memory struck me as the song “Godzilla” came on the radio. I tilted my head toward the noise of it, remembering.
The sight of a four year old dancing and attempted to air guitar must have been grand for my mother, who recorded the entire scene. My father jammed and danced along with me. I copied him as I jumped and laughed and played, enjoying that day much more than I ever had in my entire life. The scene was so clear, I almost found myself drifting further into its daze as the car swerved.
Catching myself, I reeled back to reality. I made a mental note to look for that ancient video cassette, praying that it would still work in our aged player.
The building came up fast as I nearly missed the entrance. Pulling into a close space, I huddled into my coat as I charged for the building. Al, “the wrinkled smile” I called him, sat behind the desk as always. I stepped up and smiled brightly, my cheeks feeling stiff from the cold.
“Good morning, Al,” I said brightly as he looked up from his book. “What are we reading today?” I asked signing my name of the list. He smiled from behind his over-size glasses.
“Oh, it’s a classic. I haven’t read this book since I was a young one. It’s The Secret Garden.” I smiled as I finished writing the room number: 332. “Have you ever read it?” He placed the room key next to my hand as I wrote.
“Yes, actually I did read that a long time ago as well, I was a teen perhaps. It was a wonderful story, you should see the movie,” I replied. He fingered his thin grey hair before answering.
“Oh no, you know me, I’m more of a book worm.”
“I know, I’ll see you in a bit.” I grinned once last time before taking off.
“Tell your father I said hello!” he called as I pressed the button for the elevator, opening instantly.
“I will!” I called back. I never much enjoyed the feeling of elevators; somehow they always made me dizzy when I reached the floor. The doors opened and I walked out into the pale blue theme of the third floor.
I stalked my way down the hall, key in hand. The familiar room numbers passed in a blur as I reached my father’s.
Knocking, I said his name into the door crack, though I knew no one would answer. I unlocked the door and stepped inside.
My father was never a decorator, and his apartment was pre-placed when he moved in, which he hadn’t changed anything but what food is put in the fridge.
“Dad?” I asked again as I rounded the corner to find him sitting in his rocking chair, staring at the scenery of the woods from his window. His hair had remained rather dark considering he was three years older than Al. Though he was supposed to wear glasses all the time, they remained in his pocket almost all the time.
“Dad?” I asked as I pulled another chair in front of him. He turned his head, his wrinkles adjusting as he half smiled. I grinned as well.
“Hi, Dad how you doing today?” I asked quietly. He still smiled as he spoke.
“Oh well I’m doing rather well today,” he said very slowly. The noted the heater was much too close to the fabric of his drapes. I stood.
“Father, you know you shouldn’t have this thing so close. It’s flammable.” I moved it back to a safe distance. He had returned his stare out the window.
“I never much cared for winter very much.”
“I haven’t either, too cold.” He nodded lightly.
“Yes, I am always cold,” he said extremely slowly. I watched his hazel eyes stare blankly outside. “How is Mom?” he asked.
“She’s doing well; she’s watching the kids now.”
“Why doesn’t she come to see me anymore?” he asked. I shrugged slightly to myself.
“I’m not sure. I think she’s just busy. Plus, she enjoys spending time with the kids, you know Mom always a push over.” I giggled lightly and his smile widened.
“Why doesn’t she bring the kids…here with her?” His voice was soft as he spoke with pace.
“Well, you know Emily is just a baby, she shouldn’t leave the comfort of home too much.” I glanced at his collections of army figurines in the glass case behind him.
“Oh, those are new aren’t they?” I asked.
“What is new?”
“Your figurines, behind you. I didn’t see them last time I was here.” He turned his head toward me a bit more, shifting his sunken eyes.
“When…were you here last?” he asked earnestly.
“Just two days ago.” He nodded again and looked back out at the window.
“You know…I’ve always liked…looking at the woods. They are always so still……” he drifted as I started again.
“So how’s Michael doing these days? I don’t hear you talk about him much anymore.”
“Who?”
“Michael Hamlin, from down the hall.” He gave me this puzzled look. My father had never been good with names his whole life and old age wasn’t helpful either.
“Never mind…how about this place? You like it any better than the old building?” I asked.
“This one is larger…I suppose.” I smiled slightly as I looked at the side table next to him. A large white book rested on the edge.
“I never much liked the winter…” he mumbled as I read the titled.
“What book is that?” I asked. He lifted his head carefully shifting his eyes over it, reading it himself.
“Oh, it’s The Shining…by Stephan King,” he answered softly. I tilted my head.
“I didn’t know you read Stephan King?” I asked, somewhat stated. He nodded lightly again, a glaze of a stare filling his face.
“Yes, Michael Hamlin gave it to me…I don’t think…you know him.” I smiled, swallowing as he stared very blankly. Then he turned his head and looked at me for a long while intently. Silence followed shortly after.
“Who are you?” he asked. I swallowed my tears as he continued to stare.
“I know you from somewhere……are you my…my new nurse?” My eyes grew glassy.
“Yes, I’m your nurse. I’m new here.” His lips curled very slightly.
“Oh, well I’m glad you’re here…I have been awfully lonely.”
“Why are you lonely?”
“Well…my daughter hasn’t visited me in a long time…she didn’t get to see…my figurines yet, did she?”
“No, I don’t believe so. They are very…nice by the way.” I felt a lump forming in my throat. He turned his head again. He closed his eyes slowly and grew still. Soon his light and wheezy breathing started. My breathing grew uneasy as I stood. I kissed his forehead.
“See you on Sunday, Dad.” I shut off the heater and walked slowly to the door, closing quietly. The elevator ride was silent as I said my goodbyes to Al.
In the car, I drove slowly out of the parking lot. I took another look at the building, identifying my father’s room. A single tear rolled down my icy cheek.
