Short Story - 5 minutes

~Rebel~

Hey folks, this is just a short story i got the notion of this evening so wrote up while it was in my head. Let me know what you think Little over a thousand words so shouldn't take too long to read. Thanks for your critisism's and advice in advance :pac:

5 minutes -Paul Horan

George Corvelle sighed, folded his paper neatly along its much defined ridge, roused himself out of his chair and strode over towards the front door. He took a brief look behind him at the small homely sitting room he had just left. Old red upholstered chairs with gold painted wooden trim, nicked and scratched by time, took up two walls at 90 degrees. Three chairs in total, one with space for two, or maybe three at a stretch if called for, for visitors took up one wall. The other was the resting place of two single person chairs which sat throne-like for he and his wife. A little wooden table nestled between them. It was narrow, but long, following, and almost matching, the length of the chairs arms. The opposite corner to the seating area held a small television that looked left behind by technology’s steady relentless pace. But it did the job, as did everything else in the room. It was functional, and added a somewhat cosy charm. Facing the ‘thrones’, a large black ornately carved fireplace dominated the wall. An autumn scene sat above it, reds and oranges in different shades giving a sense of warmth and comfort. George had always liked that painting. Though not as much as the lustrous rug which sat in the middle of the room. A deep, rich crimson with gold lines and spirals flowing through it. It held vast sentimental value to George and his wife, a gift left by a dear friend who had passed away years before.

‘Must speak with Mary about getting the sitting room painted’ thought George as he turned back towards the door. In the back of his mind however, he quickly had an instinctive feeling of protection for that room, an inherent wish to keep it exactly as it was. He shook his head at this silly feeling and opened the front door. A cold chill swept in over his exposed face and hands which caused him to release a slight gasp. As much as he refused to admit it, he was more affected by the cold these days. He stepped out onto the pavement and felt several large drops of stored rain fall from the gutter above. He looked up at the grey sky, full of menacingly dark clouds. Mary really should have been home by now, he was sure of it. He tried to think where it was she had gone exactly in search of her messages, but couldn’t quite recall and, mildly frustrated, dismissed the thought. She’d be back soon anyway.

He looked left and right again, just in case, and then turned back into the house and closed the door. He looked down at his watch and discovered it was long since gone time for his evening snack. Mary was always insisting he eat on time to keep his strength up. He’d always had a habit of forgetting to eat. Dear Mary, what would he ever do without her? He shuffled into the kitchen, only to see the makings of a sandwich left on the countertop, amidst a pile of crumbs, which was incredibly odd as he was sure he hadn’t eaten any such thing yet today. As odd as it was, he still set about using this strange turn of events to his advantage and made up a sizeable sandwich for himself, despite not feeling very hungry. Mary always insisted he made plenty – better too much then too little she’d say. He left the ingredients on the counter – he’d clear them away after eating, and before Mary got home. Mary was always proud of their kitchen. Kept immaculately clean with a half wall separating the cooking area from the dining area. She loved the layout as it allowed her to hold conversation with guests as she prepared the food, yet still maintain the element of surprise, walking around the corner with her bounty. George smiled at the memories of a hundred such meals as he emulated her usual entrance of backing around the corner and swivelling to reveal the evening’s delights to those on show.

His smile quickly faded as he saw the kitchen table. Recognition hit him like a blow to his head and his knees shook, suddenly weakened. He sat in front at the dining table and placed his sandwich down, next to an existing, identical one and simply stared ahead. A wreath of very fresh looking flowers inhabited the centre of the table, accompanied by a variety of candles, but these didn’t garner any of George’s attention. His gaze was firmly held by the picture amidst the decoration. A silver frame with a beautifully inscribed RIP across the top held a picture of his wife Mary. His dear, sweet, beautiful Mary. He knew the picture instantly; it had been taken while they were on holiday. She looked radiant and gloriously happy in the sunshine, a panorama of sandy beach behind her stretching off into the distance. Tears rolled down George’s cheeks. Flashes entered his head, almost painfully. A crash. A car crash. Near their home. They had been out to dinner. His wife drove, as usual, so he could have his few drinks – a treat allowed once weekly by the doctors. Confusion filled his head…when had this happened...why couldn’t he remember what followed it...why had he not been aware of this...

He held his head as tears rolled down his cheeks. His blissful ignorance of just moments before was completely shattered. As he wiped his cheeks, he spotted a laminated sheet left next to the picture. He slid it towards himself and began to read.

“George, this is yourself. I’m so sorry you had to find out about Mary like this, but it was better then the alternative – not mourning her loss. I was recommended to save us the pain of revisiting this trauma, but I just couldn’t do that. It wouldn’t have been fair to Mary, and it wouldn’t have been fair to us. She deserved to be remembered and mourned and I felt it would be wrong for me to take that away from her. So instead, we must relive the pain of losing her. The doctors told me we have Post Traumatic Amnesia, which means we can remember everything up until the accident, but since then we can only remember what happened within the last few minutes and have trouble creating new memories. People will be around to check up on us, but we were deemed to be in a fit condition to still live at home. We have Mary to thank for that, drilling those eating times into us. Be strong. We have to keep going, for her.

-George Corvelle”

George slid the page back to where it had been and stood, with tears still flooding down his face. He hobbled back into the sitting room and sat in his chair. He gazed back around the room, his mind a flood of memories of his life together with his wife. The scenes from the pictures adorning the mantelpiece. The times they had spent here with their friends. Everything came down hard upon his shoulders and he wept awhile. After a few minutes he wiped his face and remembered his own words. Be Strong. Keep Going. He sat up and stared out the window for a time.

George Corvelle sat, staring out the window at the grey day beyond. He glanced to his side and spied his newspaper. Odd, it seemed particularly worn for a paper he’d not read yet. Must get Mary to have a word with that damned paperboy. No matter, he sat back and began reading contently. Mary must be back soon.

rockbeer

Really like this idea, almost saw what was coming but not quite... Very poignant and sad, and really captures a mood. I liked the way you dropped in little clues to build suspense despite there only being a thousand words. I especially liked the part where he makes the sandwich - then doesn't get around to eating it. That's too sad for words.

A couple of minor criticisms: for me, the description of the living room in the first para was a little too long, I wanted the story to get moving quicker.
There's something a little clumsy about this sentence:
"Three chairs in total, one with space for two, or maybe three at a stretch if called for, for visitors took up one wall."
I think if it were mine I'd try and write the ending in such a way that the last sentence was a repeat of the very first, to emphasize more fully that sense of his life going round in endlessly repeating circles.

Top effort.

~Rebel~

Thanks very much for the feedback, was very helpful

I know what you mean about that sentence alright, it felt clumsy while i was writing it, but i just ploughed on. I like writing on the fly in one sitting as much as possible. I think from an editing point of view i will be taking out that sentence alright though as it doesn't really serve a purpose and causes the eye to stumble through it. I know what you mean as well about the introductory description of the living room, but at the same time, i was trying to get across who this couple are; elderly, close, cosy, warm, without actually having to say it. Its hard to see how it comes across from fresh eyes though, as i was more writing from an image i had in my head of the scene.

thanks very much again for the help!

D-FENS

It's written quite well, and is a good little story, but is very similar to the idea of the movie Memento.

~Rebel~

D-FENS wrote:

It's written quite well, and is a good little story, but is very similar to the idea of the movie Memento.

Thanks Not seen Momento yet im afraid, been meaning to for a long time!

Got the story idea from Richard Hammonds book about his jet-car crash and recovery. His wife wrote the segments that he can't remember, she said she could give him a paper and he'd happily read it over and over again, always thinking it to be the first time, same with meals, he'd happily order the same thing every day thinking it was his favourite and he hadn't had it in ages. Just sparked the idea of the story so i jotted it down.

skateing dragon

I hope you don't take offense to this but I have this thing were I read the first paragraph of a story and if it does not capture my complete and utter devoted attention I stop. Although the first paragraph was filled with great description and written well, it just did not appeal to me. So I just thought I would give some feedback on it. It's written well and is probably a great story but just not my kind of story. Sorry.

dublinario

I tend to agree with Skating Dragon. I think it's overall very impressive Rebel, but the only reason I persevered through the first paragraph was because I had more time to kill than I'd normally enjoy when popping into this site. Usually I'd have bailed out within paragraph one.

From my research on slush-piles and competition entries, the first sentence (let alone the first paragraph) is regarded as critically important. Your first paragraph being all scenic description, I think establishes a jaded beginning which could turn readers off before they get to the good stuff, of which there's plenty. Just my humble opinion though, others may see it differently. Beyond that criticism, I really enjoyed the piece.