Short Story

My thoughts aren’t always philosophically deep and dramatic as I have demonstrated lately. Sometimes I like to express myself through short stories. I have quite a few short stories and poems stored on my tablet and phone that I have never shared. Writing these stories give me a creative outlet for when I’m taking a break from drawing, and I haven’t shared them yet because I didn’t know where to put them. Facebook isn’t exactly the place to publish short stories. I figured my blog would be a great place to publish them. I won’t be releasing them often because I would like this blog to be centered more on my day to day thoughts rather than my creative writing.

This is a short story I wrote last summer when I moved into a new house. I was inspired by a crack that is in the wall above my door which I didn’t even notice until my sister pointed it out. Because of that miniscule crack in the wall, a tiny imperfection in a human’s work, I wrote this story about a man who has quite a few cracks in his life.

The man sleepily opens one eye. The ceiling above him contains the crack that was left there years ago. How many years, the man does not know, for he cannot remember the things that weren’t important to him. However, he does remember his wife reminding him to repair it year after year. After what seems like an hour, he is out of bed. His ankles barely bend and his knees quiver below him as he struggles to make his way across the creaking wooden floors, to the creaky wooden table in the next room. His muscles, skin, bones, and mind ache with age. However great the pain is, he ignores it because it came about slowly. It started in his late fifties and slowly grew throughout him, growing stronger as he got older. It was the thing that happened so suddenly that left a pain that he felt every day. He licked his parched, aged lips. He grasps the edge of the table as he sits. He finally breathes. The silence that erupts around the house is sliced every second with a ticking clock, that has told the wrong time for years, yet he has never been able to fix it. He stares at is as yet another piece of blue paint chips off of it and falls to the floor, which he winces at, expecting a loud crash that never comes. He previously habituated to this sound, but as his mind grew older his thoughts escaped him and left an empty space in his head that was unfortunately filled with the sound of the ticking clock. Sixteen years ago he stared at the clock in panic. He knew that the time was wrong, but sixty seconds was still a minute and sixty minutes were equivalent to three thousand six hundred seconds that were empty for the first time. Sixteen years later he still feels alone. More than just alone, the house was dark around him, despite the fact that it was almost noon. The house wasn’t active for over a decade. The walls use to glow when Ellie walked through them. Her light bounced off of everything from the toaster to the kitchen sink. He is left with only his remaining thoughts. One summer in the sixties, Rebecca asked him to play with her. She dressed in the prettiest of pink dresses, while he put on his old suit that he wore when he married Ellie. He picked Rebecca up and placed her on his shoulders, as they raced around the house on her fifth birthday. Later that night she fell asleep in that pretty pink dress and a single pink button fell off when she turned over. He kept it, to remember that day. He coughed, gasping for air as he was brought back to the present. Ellie always reminded him to “just breathe” when he had coughing fits. He would just roll his eyes in response. He would do anything for her to give him another snarky remark, but she had been gone for sixteen years, this day. He felt tears forming in his tear ducts, but when he rubbed them they were dry. His body was too old to create a single tear, but his body played tricks on him. His neck struggled to turn his head to look up at the clock. Several hours had passed and his mouth was still as dry as it was when he first awoke. He didn’t bother with a glass of water. Instead, he crawled back into bed, ready for this day to end. He was content. His hands reached into his shirt pocket, and he pulled out the pink button, the last thing he would see of his daughter. He set it onto the bedside table and laid his head down. Now he closes his eyes for the last time and hopes for one more dream of her before his long, dark sleep.

Word count: 846

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