Forgotten
I just got the idea for this story on driving home today. I whipped it up in under an hour, so let me know what you think. I know it's kind of depressing, but all of my stories are. For some reason, I can't write comedy from scratch unless its dark comedy. Feel free to bash this as needed. Without further ado, this is Forgotten by John von Gunten.
“No one really dies until they’re forgotten,” the old man mumbled to himself as he closed a dusty book resting on his lap. He got out of his chair painfully and continued to talk to himself as he walked, hunched over, to a massive wall of books. He walked along a shelf of books that had gone untouched for centuries and pictures that his eyes could no longer make out. He found the spot he was looking for and slid the book between two others on a low shelf. He continued to walk along the books, remembering as he did the people in them and the people that wrote them.
“Old soldiers never die, they just fade away,” he continued as he shuffled along the endless rows of books and pictures covered in dust. He wiped an arthritic finger over the spine of a book so he could once again see the title. “Seven League Boots, by Richard Halliburton,” he said louder, to no one listening, “the last copy out there.” As he said the words his mind went back to days long ago, when he was much younger.
His father had handed him the book, old then and even older now, telling him that he ought to read it. He continued, like a movie, to jump through time when he had encountered the book. Richard Halliburton had touched countless lives in the late twenties and early thirties with his adventure novels, something sorely absent in those days long ago. But after he simply stopped writing, people stopped remembering. His life’s work gone as sensationalized versions of him did more heroic things in more impossible places with no mention of the man who helped create them on screens larger than life itself. Those that remembered him and the world that he created soon replaced those memories of more real people and places, people that they could touch, and places that they could see with their eyes.
The old man shook his head now, deeply saddened by his burden; the last man to remember so much about so many.
Elsewhere a man lies on his deathbed, family members surrounding him, looking and waiting for the end. His sunken eyes were closed now, but he mumbled to himself quietly in his last fitful sleep.
“He’s been like this for the past month,” a young woman whispered to a reverend that had just arrived, wearing his collar and clutching his book. “The doctor says he doesn’t have much longer, and it would mean a lot if,” she broke off, holding back tears. The reverend put a reassuring hand on her shoulder and shook his head so that she didn’t have to say the last painful words.
The reverend made his way to the bed and looked down on the sad remains of a man in his last throes. As he flipped through his book, looking for the right page, the man suddenly opened his eyes and said with a striking clarity, “I remember him! I remember the boy that passed me in his car everyday at the bus stop. For the longest time it was just a car to me, the driver a total mystery, but I saw him! One day, going to the store, I saw him get in his car, the same car, I saw his face. He was just a boy, but where is he now? Where is he?”
The oldest of the women, the most composed out of the sobbing group, laid a hand on his shoulder and shushed him, “It’ll be okay uncle, just rest,” and the man seemed happy with this answer and closed his eyes again, continuing to move his lips silently as he told himself an unknown story.
“It’s the Alzheimer’s,” whispered a few from the group to the more distraught, “he’s confused and remembers so little. He’s asked us about people long since dead for over a year now. It’s so hard to watch.”
The reverend found his spot in the book and began to read just louder than a whisper, as the composure of the group fell apart.
The old man dropped his pen and sat back from his writing. The only light in the room was an ancient table lamp. He was satisfied with himself, after all these years, he was finally done. He had written all about his life, who he was and what he had done. He had left explicit instructions for when they found them what to do with the knowledge on the paper, and the wisdom in the books. He had put his brain onto paper, which was no small feat, but he had dedicated these last years to doing just that. His family was gone now, his children long-since dead. This was his last hope, and he knew it. Now he couldn’t be forgotten after he was gone, and would live forever. He smiled to himself as he closed his eyes and collapsed on the table.
“It’s over, he’s dead,” said a small doctor, as he ushered the people from the room. “I’m sure it meant a lot to him to have his family around him,” he continued as he walked out the door of the small bedroom while the women were still crying.
The table lamp threw a spark as the bulb went out. The spark landed on a stack of papers with impossibly small writing on them. They slowly burned, growing until they filled the room. From outside the old farmhouse, the flames were beautiful, had anyone been there to see them. From the smoke you could cities that had died before pictures could capture them, places that had never been, and the hopes of so many gone in a fantastic plume of blue smoke. The next day the firemen would say it was electrical problems and that a transient must have been living in the house and managed to get the lights back on. No one had lived there for ages, the paper would say in small column next to an obituary for a man that had passed, his family surrounding him on his deathbed, as he succumbed to old age. But not to worry, the young writer would go on to say, the land had been bought by a department store so it was not a complete loss.
“No one really dies until they’re forgotten,” the old man mumbled to himself as he closed a dusty book resting on his lap. He got out of his chair painfully and continued to talk to himself as he walked, hunched over, to a massive wall of books. He walked along a shelf of books that had gone untouched for centuries and pictures that his eyes could no longer make out. He found the spot he was looking for and slid the book between two others on a low shelf. He continued to walk along the books, remembering as he did the people in them and the people that wrote them.
“Old soldiers never die, they just fade away,” he continued as he shuffled along the endless rows of books and pictures covered in dust. He wiped an arthritic finger over the spine of a book so he could once again see the title. “Seven League Boots, by Richard Halliburton,” he said louder, to no one listening, “the last copy out there.” As he said the words his mind went back to days long ago, when he was much younger.
His father had handed him the book, old then and even older now, telling him that he ought to read it. He continued, like a movie, to jump through time when he had encountered the book. Richard Halliburton had touched countless lives in the late twenties and early thirties with his adventure novels, something sorely absent in those days long ago. But after he simply stopped writing, people stopped remembering. His life’s work gone as sensationalized versions of him did more heroic things in more impossible places with no mention of the man who helped create them on screens larger than life itself. Those that remembered him and the world that he created soon replaced those memories of more real people and places, people that they could touch, and places that they could see with their eyes.
The old man shook his head now, deeply saddened by his burden; the last man to remember so much about so many.
Elsewhere a man lies on his deathbed, family members surrounding him, looking and waiting for the end. His sunken eyes were closed now, but he mumbled to himself quietly in his last fitful sleep.
“He’s been like this for the past month,” a young woman whispered to a reverend that had just arrived, wearing his collar and clutching his book. “The doctor says he doesn’t have much longer, and it would mean a lot if,” she broke off, holding back tears. The reverend put a reassuring hand on her shoulder and shook his head so that she didn’t have to say the last painful words.
The reverend made his way to the bed and looked down on the sad remains of a man in his last throes. As he flipped through his book, looking for the right page, the man suddenly opened his eyes and said with a striking clarity, “I remember him! I remember the boy that passed me in his car everyday at the bus stop. For the longest time it was just a car to me, the driver a total mystery, but I saw him! One day, going to the store, I saw him get in his car, the same car, I saw his face. He was just a boy, but where is he now? Where is he?”
The oldest of the women, the most composed out of the sobbing group, laid a hand on his shoulder and shushed him, “It’ll be okay uncle, just rest,” and the man seemed happy with this answer and closed his eyes again, continuing to move his lips silently as he told himself an unknown story.
“It’s the Alzheimer’s,” whispered a few from the group to the more distraught, “he’s confused and remembers so little. He’s asked us about people long since dead for over a year now. It’s so hard to watch.”
The reverend found his spot in the book and began to read just louder than a whisper, as the composure of the group fell apart.
The old man dropped his pen and sat back from his writing. The only light in the room was an ancient table lamp. He was satisfied with himself, after all these years, he was finally done. He had written all about his life, who he was and what he had done. He had left explicit instructions for when they found them what to do with the knowledge on the paper, and the wisdom in the books. He had put his brain onto paper, which was no small feat, but he had dedicated these last years to doing just that. His family was gone now, his children long-since dead. This was his last hope, and he knew it. Now he couldn’t be forgotten after he was gone, and would live forever. He smiled to himself as he closed his eyes and collapsed on the table.
“It’s over, he’s dead,” said a small doctor, as he ushered the people from the room. “I’m sure it meant a lot to him to have his family around him,” he continued as he walked out the door of the small bedroom while the women were still crying.
The table lamp threw a spark as the bulb went out. The spark landed on a stack of papers with impossibly small writing on them. They slowly burned, growing until they filled the room. From outside the old farmhouse, the flames were beautiful, had anyone been there to see them. From the smoke you could cities that had died before pictures could capture them, places that had never been, and the hopes of so many gone in a fantastic plume of blue smoke. The next day the firemen would say it was electrical problems and that a transient must have been living in the house and managed to get the lights back on. No one had lived there for ages, the paper would say in small column next to an obituary for a man that had passed, his family surrounding him on his deathbed, as he succumbed to old age. But not to worry, the young writer would go on to say, the land had been bought by a department store so it was not a complete loss.