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Literature Text
"I'm waiting."
The note was barely legible; the paper looked as is it had been crumpled up and then smoothed out several times. Those two words, written carefully on the index card, were obviously a source of great inner turmoil for the author.
The phone lay next to the note, as it asking him to end the waiting, to end the suspense, to end all this fighting and to just let be.
But he couldn't do that, not after what she had said. She had hurled those words like throwing knives at him, and she was an incredible shot: each had found its mark.
And as much as he loved her, he couldn't pretend it had never happened. He could not forget that she had lost faith and he could not forgive what she had said.
He reached for the pen, head and heart still warring within him, and shakily wrote "I'm sorry" beneath her words.
That was it. The game was over.
She had been sitting by the window for hours, reading the same paragraph in her book over and over, never fully absorbing what it said. Absentmindedly she turned the page and watched yet another couple exit the book store, giggly and in love.
She had debated leaving the note. What she had wanted to do was wait until he had come home and rush into his arms, begging his forgiveness. But she had known, before she had even reached for the pen, that she couldn't do that anymore. She was tired of feeling restrained and oppressed; like she didn't have a voice.
She wanted to be heard.
And so, she had made the tough choice. She made the strong choice. As had as it was, she had left the note. It was his turn to come crawling back.
But that was hours ago and panic was starting to set in. He hadn't called.
Slowly, as if her actions were weighted down by some invisible burden, she packed up her things and drove home.
Those moments, as she walked through the door and over to the note, were agonizing. Hope and doubt wrestled in her heart until she saw the two words penned beneath her own:
"I'm sorry".
She didn't have to look around to know that his things were gone. She didn't have to see his key on the table to know that this was real.
She slumped onto the couch after grabbing a bottle of wine.
So that was it. They were over.
The note was barely legible; the paper looked as is it had been crumpled up and then smoothed out several times. Those two words, written carefully on the index card, were obviously a source of great inner turmoil for the author.
The phone lay next to the note, as it asking him to end the waiting, to end the suspense, to end all this fighting and to just let be.
But he couldn't do that, not after what she had said. She had hurled those words like throwing knives at him, and she was an incredible shot: each had found its mark.
And as much as he loved her, he couldn't pretend it had never happened. He could not forget that she had lost faith and he could not forgive what she had said.
He reached for the pen, head and heart still warring within him, and shakily wrote "I'm sorry" beneath her words.
That was it. The game was over.
She had been sitting by the window for hours, reading the same paragraph in her book over and over, never fully absorbing what it said. Absentmindedly she turned the page and watched yet another couple exit the book store, giggly and in love.
She had debated leaving the note. What she had wanted to do was wait until he had come home and rush into his arms, begging his forgiveness. But she had known, before she had even reached for the pen, that she couldn't do that anymore. She was tired of feeling restrained and oppressed; like she didn't have a voice.
She wanted to be heard.
And so, she had made the tough choice. She made the strong choice. As had as it was, she had left the note. It was his turn to come crawling back.
But that was hours ago and panic was starting to set in. He hadn't called.
Slowly, as if her actions were weighted down by some invisible burden, she packed up her things and drove home.
Those moments, as she walked through the door and over to the note, were agonizing. Hope and doubt wrestled in her heart until she saw the two words penned beneath her own:
"I'm sorry".
She didn't have to look around to know that his things were gone. She didn't have to see his key on the table to know that this was real.
She slumped onto the couch after grabbing a bottle of wine.
So that was it. They were over.
Literature
Valka's Hiccup, part 1
Valka lie in her bed weak and tired. Her husband sat beside her rocking the newly filled cradle at the side of the bed.
She'd never claim to be much of a viking, parish the thought. There was too much to be held against her in that respect. Her hatred for the viking kill or be killed lifestyle, she couldn't handle any length of time on the open seas, her love of the flying pests that raided their home and stole the food they'd worked so hard for…
The fear that gripped her heart at the thought of the cradle under her beloved's fingertips.
She knew the rumors that spread around the village. She knew what the other women said about her,
Literature
Valka's Hiccup, part 2
The sixth time Valka cried.
She'd husband's arms wrapped around her as she cried into his unarmored chest waiting on news of the wee babe as the midwife checked the newborn's health, her sister-in-law (her much younger sister-in-law who already had three children of her own) dressed the child, and Gothi did whatever it was that Gothi does.
It was too early, far too early. Valka didn't know how early the babe had come but she knew it was too early. The midwife hadn't even begun to prepare her yet.
She'd heard the cries this time though, it was a good sign. Maybe… maybe…
Valka was too scared to hope.
Stoick rubbed circles into
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A short story I wrote about... Endings, I guess. I really like to write without using names in short story format, because you can just slip in and out of the story. When you don't have background on the characters, or names, or whatever, you are kind of forced to make that stuff up yourself. Or you could even fill the role with actual people. I don't know, I just like it. 
© 2013 - 2024 blusteryautumnbreeze
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Truly beautiful. You accomplished so much by not using names. You have amassed, not the feelings of the individual but captured a sense of human experience in this heartbreaking tale.