A new short story.
I have a new short story, and I would very much appreciate some constructive critisism on it.
spin me 'round again
and rub my eyes
this can't be happening
when busy streets a mess with people
would stop to hold their heads heavy
ransom notes keep falling out your mouth
mid-sweet talk newspaper word cut outs
speak no feeling, no, I don't believe you
you don't care a bit. you don't care a bit.
"hide and seek" -- imogen heap
-
-
"Why are you doing this?"
Why was she doing this? She was desperate and she was restless and most of all she was angry with herself. She picked at a hangnail and felt the blood boil beneath her skin. "I don't know."
"People don't do things like this without a reason." It was one of the things she hated about him. He was never angry. He always spoke in that same calm, rational voice, all smooth and caring and gentle and so soothing. She had always loved to fall asleep to the sound of his voice.
"You know my reason."
For the first time, he seemed hurt. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Not her."
"Yes, her." She was suddenly angry at him and she knew it wasn't right, but how could he talk about her that way? How could he refer to a woman who'd been hopelessly in love with him for five years, a woman who was the perfect picture of a beautiful suburban wife, that way? "I know you're not happy, but...dammit, Thomas..." She was crying. Oh, god, she was crying. She wiped fiercely at her face, blinking away the stinging drops of salt water from her eyelashes.
He moved toward her. He wasn't upset anymore, just worried. But worried for who? She opened her eyes and let him pull her into his arms; she searched his face and swam through his eyes and didn't find an answer anywhere.
He brushed the wave of hair from her eyes. Her natural brown had grown back in, but the hints of pink and other foreign colors were still laced within it. It hadn't been that long ago, had it? When she was young.
"I do love you, you know."
The breath hitched in her throat. "Don't say that."
"You can't make me lie to you." His voice was still so calm, smooth, like none of this was happening. Like he was saying different words, telling her different things. Normal, rational, everyday things.
"You don't have to lie," she whispered. "Just don't say anything."
For once, he listened. He stepped away instead, and went into the kitchen, where he had emptied his pockets onto the table. She could hear the harsh, tinny blare of trumpets from his cellphone. One of those generic rings nobody ever used anymore. He didn't answer it, but she still knew what it meant.
"She'll be home in half an hour," he said quietly. He stepped toward her again, but she turned away. She stared instead at the wall, full of pictures. Of a little boy on his first bike, of a beautiful red-haired woman in a wedding dress, of a happy little couple and their darling baby boy.
"Anna..." he trailed off.
She didn't know what to say to him. Was there anything left to say? She just kissed him again, with the finality and the sadness of a last goodbye. His lips tasted like peppermint and it stung her, even if it was nothing different.
Anna went to the door and pulled it open. No sense in waiting around. She meant to be brave, to slam the door so hard behind her that the windows shattered, to never ever look back- but who was she kidding?
She never been so independent. Why else would she be here?
"You're not coming back, are you?" He sounded stunned, as if the thought were finally settling through the layers of rationality and calm.
Anna looked up at him for a moment. He looked as beautiful as always. The light shining in was dulled by a cloudy afternoon sky, casting a faint glow on one side of his face, throwing harsh shadows on the other.
"No," she said finally. She closed the door and despite her promises, she did look back, just once. He was still there, one hand pressed loosely to the windowpane. He watched her walking down the street, farther and farther away, until her silhouette slipped beneath the horizon.
spin me 'round again
and rub my eyes
this can't be happening
when busy streets a mess with people
would stop to hold their heads heavy
ransom notes keep falling out your mouth
mid-sweet talk newspaper word cut outs
speak no feeling, no, I don't believe you
you don't care a bit. you don't care a bit.
"hide and seek" -- imogen heap
-
-
"Why are you doing this?"
Why was she doing this? She was desperate and she was restless and most of all she was angry with herself. She picked at a hangnail and felt the blood boil beneath her skin. "I don't know."
"People don't do things like this without a reason." It was one of the things she hated about him. He was never angry. He always spoke in that same calm, rational voice, all smooth and caring and gentle and so soothing. She had always loved to fall asleep to the sound of his voice.
"You know my reason."
For the first time, he seemed hurt. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Not her."
"Yes, her." She was suddenly angry at him and she knew it wasn't right, but how could he talk about her that way? How could he refer to a woman who'd been hopelessly in love with him for five years, a woman who was the perfect picture of a beautiful suburban wife, that way? "I know you're not happy, but...dammit, Thomas..." She was crying. Oh, god, she was crying. She wiped fiercely at her face, blinking away the stinging drops of salt water from her eyelashes.
He moved toward her. He wasn't upset anymore, just worried. But worried for who? She opened her eyes and let him pull her into his arms; she searched his face and swam through his eyes and didn't find an answer anywhere.
He brushed the wave of hair from her eyes. Her natural brown had grown back in, but the hints of pink and other foreign colors were still laced within it. It hadn't been that long ago, had it? When she was young.
"I do love you, you know."
The breath hitched in her throat. "Don't say that."
"You can't make me lie to you." His voice was still so calm, smooth, like none of this was happening. Like he was saying different words, telling her different things. Normal, rational, everyday things.
"You don't have to lie," she whispered. "Just don't say anything."
For once, he listened. He stepped away instead, and went into the kitchen, where he had emptied his pockets onto the table. She could hear the harsh, tinny blare of trumpets from his cellphone. One of those generic rings nobody ever used anymore. He didn't answer it, but she still knew what it meant.
"She'll be home in half an hour," he said quietly. He stepped toward her again, but she turned away. She stared instead at the wall, full of pictures. Of a little boy on his first bike, of a beautiful red-haired woman in a wedding dress, of a happy little couple and their darling baby boy.
"Anna..." he trailed off.
She didn't know what to say to him. Was there anything left to say? She just kissed him again, with the finality and the sadness of a last goodbye. His lips tasted like peppermint and it stung her, even if it was nothing different.
Anna went to the door and pulled it open. No sense in waiting around. She meant to be brave, to slam the door so hard behind her that the windows shattered, to never ever look back- but who was she kidding?
She never been so independent. Why else would she be here?
"You're not coming back, are you?" He sounded stunned, as if the thought were finally settling through the layers of rationality and calm.
Anna looked up at him for a moment. He looked as beautiful as always. The light shining in was dulled by a cloudy afternoon sky, casting a faint glow on one side of his face, throwing harsh shadows on the other.
"No," she said finally. She closed the door and despite her promises, she did look back, just once. He was still there, one hand pressed loosely to the windowpane. He watched her walking down the street, farther and farther away, until her silhouette slipped beneath the horizon.