Story: Embers of a Dying Heart
Last night, I spoke to my mum on the phone. I've been making some decisions recently about how I spend my time, my priorities and my options. I've chosen to give up something that I'm doing, so that I can spend more time reading and writing. I haven't written anything creative in a long time, and I miss that. She told me that earlier that day she'd made a similar decision to start writing poems again, something she hasn't done for about a decade.
This morning, I woke up with a mini story in my head. As I learned a little later, she also woke up with a poem in hers.
Embers of a Dying Heart
In a hostel in a run-down part of town, a broken man sat on the edge of a bed. Alone in the dirty room, tears fell onto his hands, onto the floor. His hands held the fragments of a carriage clock, remnants of a former life.
Her storm had broken many things that day, but that was one that had hurt the most. No more time, she had said. His time? Her time? He didn’t even know. He was confused. She said he had stolen her years. It didn’t make sense. The clock had been a wedding present, and he had felt his heart breaking as it had smashed on the floor. When the storm was over, he had gathered the pieces of the clock and left.
She had said she wanted to play again. He didn’t understand what she meant. She had been more carefree when they had met, but as the years had passed he felt she had grown more mature, more dignified. He thought they were growing old together. But when he said this, her face had grown bitter. She spat the word ‘mature’ back at him with venom, along with a precious porcelain figurine. He ducked, and the figurine smashed on the wall behind him, but the word still hung in the air.
He was good at fixing things, always had been, but now he didn’t even know what to fix. He felt lost and alone, his vision of the future was gone. His hands had put the carriage clock back together by now. Most of it was gone, the outer casing smashed, but the mechanism and part of the face was still working.
A broken man lay down on the bed in the run-down hostel. Alone now, he would be comforted by no-one. His grief was unseen. Eventually he closed his eyes and he found some peace in sleep.
Silently, the clock ticked on.
This morning, I woke up with a mini story in my head. As I learned a little later, she also woke up with a poem in hers.
Embers of a Dying Heart
In a hostel in a run-down part of town, a broken man sat on the edge of a bed. Alone in the dirty room, tears fell onto his hands, onto the floor. His hands held the fragments of a carriage clock, remnants of a former life.
Her storm had broken many things that day, but that was one that had hurt the most. No more time, she had said. His time? Her time? He didn’t even know. He was confused. She said he had stolen her years. It didn’t make sense. The clock had been a wedding present, and he had felt his heart breaking as it had smashed on the floor. When the storm was over, he had gathered the pieces of the clock and left.
She had said she wanted to play again. He didn’t understand what she meant. She had been more carefree when they had met, but as the years had passed he felt she had grown more mature, more dignified. He thought they were growing old together. But when he said this, her face had grown bitter. She spat the word ‘mature’ back at him with venom, along with a precious porcelain figurine. He ducked, and the figurine smashed on the wall behind him, but the word still hung in the air.
He was good at fixing things, always had been, but now he didn’t even know what to fix. He felt lost and alone, his vision of the future was gone. His hands had put the carriage clock back together by now. Most of it was gone, the outer casing smashed, but the mechanism and part of the face was still working.
A broken man lay down on the bed in the run-down hostel. Alone now, he would be comforted by no-one. His grief was unseen. Eventually he closed his eyes and he found some peace in sleep.
Silently, the clock ticked on.