breathtest
07-27-2009, 08:25 AM
This is only a section of a short story i am currently still working on. I am hoping to send it to a magazine (just a little known one) to get it published and i am hoping that you guys will comment on whether you like it and give me some constructive criticism.
When Tom stepped through the front of his two bedroom bungalow he noticed an envelope lying face down on the mat. He shut the door and, picking up the envelope, made his way into the kitchen. He threw his keys onto the table and placed the letter next to them.
Half-filling himself a glass of water at the sink, he looked out the window. The sky was a mix of colours that faded into one another while the sun set behind the trees and houses. Orange faded into red faded into purple faded into blue. Then the blue started to get lighter the further away it was from the sunset. It was a mesmerising array of colours but the darkness was encroaching, and the colours were becoming dull even as Tom stood and watched them.
He focused his gaze onto his sullen reflection in the window. Nothing made Tom feel worse than seeing his reflection; his dark, brooding eyes, every crease, depression and shadow. Everything seemed magnified. Everything seemed worse than the last time he had looked. He avoided checking himself in the mirror as much as he could, but he couldn’t help accidentally catching the odd reflection in the bathroom mirror or shop window.
He shook his head slowly, grimaced, and downed the water, leaving the glass on the draining board.
Loosening his black tie, he turned towards the table and picked up the envelope. His name was written on the front in a very strange, dark red: Tom. With a furrowed brow, Tom opened the envelope, which was very light. He tore a hole in the corner and then, pushing his finger inside, ripped the top open with a smooth but aggressive slicing motion. He was very curious as to what was inside. He felt that he recognised the handwriting on the front, but he wasn’t sure as to whom it belonged. The colour of the lettering, as well, was unnerving, although he did not know why.
He took out of the envelope the one tiny slip that was nestled inside. His heart jolted, skipped, and then raced for a few moments upon reading the five words that were placed in the centre of the slip. Now he knew who the handwriting belonged to. His wife. Who had died about six months previously in a car accident. I am waiting for you, read the note in that mysterious dark red.
Tom’s mind kept flashing back to when he was sitting by her hospital bed after her Volkswagen was hit by a tractor. He saw her, so pale, in so much pain, and he remembered what she had said to him in her final moments of living. Gasping for breath when each breath brought more pain to her shattered ribs and pierced lung, she had said I will wait for you.
But this letter, it could not be from her. Then who? Was it some kind of threat? A practical joke, made by some twisted, inconsiderate fool? It didn’t seem likely, he was sure the handwriting was hers. And even if it wasn’t, he knew this had a connection with his wife’s death, and nobody else had been in the room when she had uttered those desperately loving words. Nobody could have known except Tom himself.
He felt light headed and very sick.
Realising it had gotten much darker, he got up, leaving the letter on the table, and switched on the light. The long bulb overhead flickered frantically and then stayed on. He went to the sink again and splashed cold water onto his face, and then went back to the note. This time he sat down in one of the wooden chairs tucked into the table, dragging it heavily across the porcelain so that it let out a groan.
He was trying to make some sense of this whole situation when he saw the words on the page starting to brighten, becoming more of a vermilion colour. And they were shining in the harsh light; no, they were glistening. They looked as if they were wet.
Tom was horrified when the words turned to liquid and ran down the paper. He knew it was blood. He wasn’t surprised at that; there had been something strange about the ink that was used here. But he was surprised to watch it liquidate, droop and then run down the page right in front of him. He could not take his eyes off it. How was this even happening?
Some droplets of blood reached the bottom of the slip first and hung there, suspended for a moment, before dripping on the table. Tom sprang up. The chair he was sitting on flew backwards, shrieking against the tiles, and toppled over with a terrible crack. He lunged towards the little bin in the corner, pressed the lever down with his foot so the lid sprung open, and tossed the note inside. He ran back to the table, snatched up the envelope with Tom written on it and put that in the bin too.
In the immediate silence afterwards, Tom surveyed the table. It was clean. There was no blood staining the surface. He turned his gaze on the floor where he had also seen some drops landing as he had moved towards the bin. Nothing. Not a single stain. He knew there should be.
The confusion building, he tentatively opened the bin lid with his foot on the lever, keeping a cautious distance while craning his neck to see inside. All he could see was an empty tin of beans, a couple of empty cans of coke, and a banana skin. Nothing else. He knelt down and rummaged to make sure. There was definitely nothing else in there. No envelope. No note. No blood.
It is far removed from the poetry i usually write but i just had an idea and had to write it down. Thank you for reading it...
When Tom stepped through the front of his two bedroom bungalow he noticed an envelope lying face down on the mat. He shut the door and, picking up the envelope, made his way into the kitchen. He threw his keys onto the table and placed the letter next to them.
Half-filling himself a glass of water at the sink, he looked out the window. The sky was a mix of colours that faded into one another while the sun set behind the trees and houses. Orange faded into red faded into purple faded into blue. Then the blue started to get lighter the further away it was from the sunset. It was a mesmerising array of colours but the darkness was encroaching, and the colours were becoming dull even as Tom stood and watched them.
He focused his gaze onto his sullen reflection in the window. Nothing made Tom feel worse than seeing his reflection; his dark, brooding eyes, every crease, depression and shadow. Everything seemed magnified. Everything seemed worse than the last time he had looked. He avoided checking himself in the mirror as much as he could, but he couldn’t help accidentally catching the odd reflection in the bathroom mirror or shop window.
He shook his head slowly, grimaced, and downed the water, leaving the glass on the draining board.
Loosening his black tie, he turned towards the table and picked up the envelope. His name was written on the front in a very strange, dark red: Tom. With a furrowed brow, Tom opened the envelope, which was very light. He tore a hole in the corner and then, pushing his finger inside, ripped the top open with a smooth but aggressive slicing motion. He was very curious as to what was inside. He felt that he recognised the handwriting on the front, but he wasn’t sure as to whom it belonged. The colour of the lettering, as well, was unnerving, although he did not know why.
He took out of the envelope the one tiny slip that was nestled inside. His heart jolted, skipped, and then raced for a few moments upon reading the five words that were placed in the centre of the slip. Now he knew who the handwriting belonged to. His wife. Who had died about six months previously in a car accident. I am waiting for you, read the note in that mysterious dark red.
Tom’s mind kept flashing back to when he was sitting by her hospital bed after her Volkswagen was hit by a tractor. He saw her, so pale, in so much pain, and he remembered what she had said to him in her final moments of living. Gasping for breath when each breath brought more pain to her shattered ribs and pierced lung, she had said I will wait for you.
But this letter, it could not be from her. Then who? Was it some kind of threat? A practical joke, made by some twisted, inconsiderate fool? It didn’t seem likely, he was sure the handwriting was hers. And even if it wasn’t, he knew this had a connection with his wife’s death, and nobody else had been in the room when she had uttered those desperately loving words. Nobody could have known except Tom himself.
He felt light headed and very sick.
Realising it had gotten much darker, he got up, leaving the letter on the table, and switched on the light. The long bulb overhead flickered frantically and then stayed on. He went to the sink again and splashed cold water onto his face, and then went back to the note. This time he sat down in one of the wooden chairs tucked into the table, dragging it heavily across the porcelain so that it let out a groan.
He was trying to make some sense of this whole situation when he saw the words on the page starting to brighten, becoming more of a vermilion colour. And they were shining in the harsh light; no, they were glistening. They looked as if they were wet.
Tom was horrified when the words turned to liquid and ran down the paper. He knew it was blood. He wasn’t surprised at that; there had been something strange about the ink that was used here. But he was surprised to watch it liquidate, droop and then run down the page right in front of him. He could not take his eyes off it. How was this even happening?
Some droplets of blood reached the bottom of the slip first and hung there, suspended for a moment, before dripping on the table. Tom sprang up. The chair he was sitting on flew backwards, shrieking against the tiles, and toppled over with a terrible crack. He lunged towards the little bin in the corner, pressed the lever down with his foot so the lid sprung open, and tossed the note inside. He ran back to the table, snatched up the envelope with Tom written on it and put that in the bin too.
In the immediate silence afterwards, Tom surveyed the table. It was clean. There was no blood staining the surface. He turned his gaze on the floor where he had also seen some drops landing as he had moved towards the bin. Nothing. Not a single stain. He knew there should be.
The confusion building, he tentatively opened the bin lid with his foot on the lever, keeping a cautious distance while craning his neck to see inside. All he could see was an empty tin of beans, a couple of empty cans of coke, and a banana skin. Nothing else. He knelt down and rummaged to make sure. There was definitely nothing else in there. No envelope. No note. No blood.
It is far removed from the poetry i usually write but i just had an idea and had to write it down. Thank you for reading it...