Air18
03-22-2009, 10:56 PM
I'm 17, and this is the first real short story I've attempted to write. I wrote it for a class I'm taking and I wanted to know what people thought of it. I've been told it's a very tricky story to get, but that's what I was going for. I tried to use the same style as Hemingway in his story Hills Like White Elephants
Please be honest with your comments/critiques. I want to hear anything you have to say. Enjoy (I hope :)).
Two Roses
He sat across from him on his black leather armchair. Sliding dark brown glasses over his wrinkled nose, he scanned the boy lying infront of him on the charcoal sofa. The boy grimly peered around the room, surveying the grey painted walls, the dark maple office table and the black ashtray placed neatly on its top right corner. A light blue pot beside the ashtray jumped out at him.
It contained two roses.
'Your flowers have wilted.'
The man let out a shallow grunt and nodded.
'I forgot to water them.'
'You didn't give them enough sun.'
The boy grimaced and glanced at a clock to his right and then at a certificate mounted on the wall next to the door.
'Can you describe the world using just one word? I can. It's cold. The world is cold.'
Focussing his eyes on the boy, the man cocked his head and stroked his chin.
'I would say it's lonely. The world is lonely.'
The man extracted a brown pipe from the inside of his suit pocket and lit it. With every puff, the tobacco filled the air with noxious fumes of bitterness. It reminded the boy of winter, when the old smokers used to huddle in little circles outside of his lonely home. He and the other lonely children used to peer at them through the stained glass window of their overcrowded room, before the head volunteer scolded them and forced them into their bunks.
'You're right; the world is lonely. I am lonely.' The boy's eyes were drawn to the pot. 'I have no one to give me water. My roots are dry.'
The boy noticed a mournful picture frame propped up on the table in front of him. It contained a virbrant image of the man and a child. Behind them, fallen discoloured leaves danced in the breeze, and the setting sun was just visible above the horizon. The man was smiling; They both were - the man and the child, arm in arm, exuding comfort and warmth with their beaming grins. The boy stared at the picture with longing. The man caught the boy's eyes and took a pull from his pipe.
'You're right; the world is cold. I am cold.' The man glanced at the picture for a second before turning away with a pale frown. 'I have no one to give me sun.'
The man looked at the clock, sniffed and cleared his throat; the boy pushed the picture frame over, wiped his nose and rubbed his eyes.
'It's unfair that the roses have wilted.'
Please be honest with your comments/critiques. I want to hear anything you have to say. Enjoy (I hope :)).
Two Roses
He sat across from him on his black leather armchair. Sliding dark brown glasses over his wrinkled nose, he scanned the boy lying infront of him on the charcoal sofa. The boy grimly peered around the room, surveying the grey painted walls, the dark maple office table and the black ashtray placed neatly on its top right corner. A light blue pot beside the ashtray jumped out at him.
It contained two roses.
'Your flowers have wilted.'
The man let out a shallow grunt and nodded.
'I forgot to water them.'
'You didn't give them enough sun.'
The boy grimaced and glanced at a clock to his right and then at a certificate mounted on the wall next to the door.
'Can you describe the world using just one word? I can. It's cold. The world is cold.'
Focussing his eyes on the boy, the man cocked his head and stroked his chin.
'I would say it's lonely. The world is lonely.'
The man extracted a brown pipe from the inside of his suit pocket and lit it. With every puff, the tobacco filled the air with noxious fumes of bitterness. It reminded the boy of winter, when the old smokers used to huddle in little circles outside of his lonely home. He and the other lonely children used to peer at them through the stained glass window of their overcrowded room, before the head volunteer scolded them and forced them into their bunks.
'You're right; the world is lonely. I am lonely.' The boy's eyes were drawn to the pot. 'I have no one to give me water. My roots are dry.'
The boy noticed a mournful picture frame propped up on the table in front of him. It contained a virbrant image of the man and a child. Behind them, fallen discoloured leaves danced in the breeze, and the setting sun was just visible above the horizon. The man was smiling; They both were - the man and the child, arm in arm, exuding comfort and warmth with their beaming grins. The boy stared at the picture with longing. The man caught the boy's eyes and took a pull from his pipe.
'You're right; the world is cold. I am cold.' The man glanced at the picture for a second before turning away with a pale frown. 'I have no one to give me sun.'
The man looked at the clock, sniffed and cleared his throat; the boy pushed the picture frame over, wiped his nose and rubbed his eyes.
'It's unfair that the roses have wilted.'