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Week 140 (October 4--October 11). Stories. Topic: What's in the cupboard
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I'm doing a research paper this week and next week is my Engish final, so I probably won't be active until that's over.
Here’s mine for the week 1336 words. THE SUMMER GARDEN.
Alexei wakes to the sound of guns, the explosions reverberating around his head, his eardrums assaulted with the noise of continual thunder. In the gloom he can make out the frail shape of his mother; a dark indistinct form that stirs amongst the breaking shadows of the coming dawn.
Alexei doesn't notice the cold at first; as always he first thoughts are of hunger and the excreting pain that his body endures through lack of substance. Rising to a sitting position he coughs, the freezing breath causing spasms of pain to rack through his emancipated frame. Looking up he can see ice crystals forming complex patterns across the frozen window panes, and through this the slender glow of daylight breaking free from the shackles of the night.
His feeble voice calls out to his mother. Are you alright?
At first she doesn't move or stir, but even in the poor light Alexei knew she'd been crying.
I'm hungry, he says to break the sound of her wiping her running nose on her sleeve.
I know darling, mummy will get you something soon, she promises. Then she breaks down in sobs of tears as she says, Your little sister has gone.
Gone? He asks, like she'd gone out for a walk in the snow.
She's gone to play with the angels my love, she says in between sobs.
Then he notices the small pathetic bundle of rags that lies a few feet away. A bundle of rags that he used to play hide and seek with before the war. That bundle had a name and a life that was forever entwined with his. He tries to cry but the tears won't flow, the rags don't seem real. They are like a little doll that his sister would play with.
Alexei rose with effort, his creaking bones crying with pain as he slams a hand against the flimsy frame of the wall in frustration.
He was supposed to be a man now that his father was on the front line fighting the advancing wave of German might. Instead, here he was moaning about an empty cupboard and fearing the oncoming bitter winter; a winter that would leave him unable to have the strength or energy to pick up a shovel and give his little sister the dignity of a proper burial like the rest of his lost family.
I have to go to find food my little darling, says his mother as she grabs a heavy coat to protect herself from the sub-zero temperature outside.
But it's still early.
The queues will be already beginning to form. If I leave it to late we're miss out on today's ration, she explains to her little boy, kissing him on his freezing head. Wiping away the congealing flakes of ice from his eyes she whisperers, It be alright, the war will be soon over, and summer will come again.
Outside they could heard the shouts and screams of the nearby fighting but inside all was quiet apart from the rasping breath of the little boy.
Tell me the story about the park in the summer mum.
Pulling him close, they're freezing bodies touching and gathering the little bit of warmth they could muster she tells him, You got be strong my little one, we're going to get through this.
But the story helps me; it makes me strong for the future. We're going to walk together, you, me and pa hand in hand in the golden light of the summer's rays, he says, squeezing her hand for reassurance.
Wiping away the tears from her eyes she gave the faintest of smiles.
Just this once, she promises.
His crystal blue eyes are focused and rapt with attention as she begins to tell their dream in a voice as sweet as honey.
We're cross the first engineer bridge, the river Fontanka sparkling in the summer sun. We're dance and sing as we make our way past the majestic summer palace.
The summer palace was built for Peter the Great wasn't it? he asks.
Yes, my little one, you mustn't forgot your history, be proud of this great city. Now where was I? she says pretending.
The summer palace, you, me and pa dancing as we hold hands, he says.
Ah yes, the summer palace. Then we would walk through the summer garden, and you would dance and weave around the marble statues that litter the park.
Agitated with excitement he cries out, We're have a picnic, fresh bread with butter and jam. Fruit, bananas, delicious apples, oranges, the juice running out through our fingers. He was jumping up now, And cake, we have to have freshly made cake.
Yes my little one we would have a picnic, with you playing on the grass while we lean back on the iron railings, you father reading the paper, me squatting the insects from my bronzed face.
For a moment her eyes shut to the squall conditions around her, imagining the golden park in all its splendour and transporting the pair of them away from the atrocities of the war.
Then getting up she tells him, I've got to go now, I won't be long and when I'll return we're eat and then you can play with the Belov children downstairs. Kissing him on his head she leaves the tiny room and doesn't look back for fear that she won't have the strength to venture into the streets outside.
Outside she nearly slips on the frozen ice, her ragged shoes just gaining purchase. Her mouth gives out short bursts of freezing vapour as she tastes the early morning air. Even this early the temperature is struggling to rise above minus degrees. Clutching her ration card in bony cold hands she skids and slips as fast as her legs will safely allow. She has to hurry, she has to get to work in the next few hours. Her job at the factory is more crucial than ever. There was only food now for the army and people that were working to keeping the city going.
The German blockage at lake Ledoga was squeezing the very life out of the city. But in her heart of hearts Nadezhda knew the city would survive, that the Russian people wouldn't be beaten. It was all that they had left to fight and hope for.
As she walks she tries not to catch the eye of a elderly man in a doorway, his rotten teeth trying to tear what appears to be a frozen mouse apart. She has heard all kind of stories during this desperate siege; stories of cannibalism, of how hoards of starving people pry on the weak to stay alive. She is not surprised, the merger ration now of 125grams of bread - which is sixty percent sawdust has driven the city to extremes. With a sorrowful heart she remembers her parents; frail, cold but determined to enjoy soup boiled from their old leather boots.
She almost cries out in despair when she arrives for her daily ration. Although the sun has barely risen the queue seems longer than ever, hundreds of poor souls shuffle in the snow for a chance to stay alive for a few more hours. Yet despite her aching legs, her toes throbbing from frostbite she is resolute in her desire to feed her son.
Arriving back at the flat she is breathless from the walk. Alexia tiny frame is stretched out on the threadbare sofa, covered by a couple of blankets.
I've got our rations my little one, she tells her son, reaching down to stroke his blue face. That was when she knew.
Screaming she grabs the boy, his head lolling lifelessly, a smile frozen on his face as he sleeps an eternal dream of happiness in the summer garden.
Cradling the little bundle to her bosom she rocks gently, listening to the guns roaring in the distance and tries to remember that her name means hope.
@Claire I hadn't really thought much about it. Since the entire story takes place in the kitchen, I'm going to say that the dog ran through the kitchen, crashed into her knees, and she struck her head on the corner of the cupboard as she fell. Thanks for taking the time to read it :)
@Paul-I love you rich descriptions. It's a lovely read.
Thanks Jessica for your comment. Didn't know how to end it through, was the ending to sad?
Yes, but I've never considered a bad thing. Sad endings tend to stick with readers longer than funny or hopeful ones, at least that's what I think.
The polls for the Week 140 Short Story Contest are up. Vote, ye pirates!http://www.goodreads.com/poll/show/73...
This morning’s class on dead reckoning has been cancelled so that the teacher can recover from yesterday evening’s Advanced Boarding and Looting seminar.
Poll results!In the Week 140 short story contest, Paul’s “The Summer Garden” came in first place, and Jessica’s “Chugging Along” came in second.
Thank you for participating!
Hilary’s eyes skimmed the kitchen. Yesterday, they sat at the scarred kitchen table, sipping coffee while discussing the logistics of the harvest. At the time, she’d thought the temperamental combine was her biggest problem. Funny how fast perspectives change.
Sock clad feet thumb against the stairs, slower, heavier than most mornings. She turned, her breath catching, hope unfurling in her chest like a fledgling corn sprout bursting from the tilled soil as he stops in front of her. His bloodshot gaze seemed to find hers, almost focusing. Before their eyes locked and held, the energy drained from him, and her heart stumbled.
After a moment, he squared his shoulders.
Nausea slammed into her as he stepped through her, shattering her physical presence. The world shimmered and whirled. By the time her molecules reattached, he’d donned his battered cowboy hat, the brim hiding his sad eyes as he tugged on his work boots.
He looked in her direction, causing her to bite her lip. He sensed her presence, he had to. She nearly jumped as he turned towards her, startled by the sensation of her heart slamming into her ribs. She hadn’t realized it continued to beat. He stopped standing so close she smelled his mint toothpaste. His arm reached up. Her lips curled into a smile. How many times had he done this, trapping her in the kitchen and stealing a kiss? She relied on those unexpected moments of frivolity and romance to get her through the rough periods.
Her eyes closed. Her lips parted.
The sound of glass bumping, sliding, across something caused her eyes to pop open. She twisted her head, awkwardly watching his hands tremble as he filled his travel mug with the hot coffee, the same coffee she’d set up yesterday before … before the accident changed everything.
He secured the lid on the mug, and looked around the kitchen one last time, before stepping outside. Hilary stood where she was, watching through the window as he hoisted himself into the combine. A moment later the engine roared to life, and the combine chugged out of sight.
Hilary turned to the man standing across the kitchen, leaning against her large cupboard. She reluctantly met his curious gaze.
“Okay.” Pushing the word past the lump in her throat was difficult, but she managed. She decided to try saying something even harder. “I’m ready to go.” The words tumbled together in one rushed statement.
The man arched a carefully groomed eyebrow. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”
Hilary felt like she was bound in shackles of weariness. “What else is there?”
The man shrugged, the movement causing light to sparkle on the curved blade he balanced over his shoulder. “I’m just surprised. Most wives, all of the wives I’ve met, would be furious. They would want their husbands to weep, to scream, to get angry. They never watch their husband’s go to work. You should want him to be doing something to honor you, not going out to,” he shot a scornful look out the window, and his face twisted into a sneer, “cut corn.”
Anger bubbled up in Hilary’s chest, pushing aside the grief, dismay, and sadness that had been her constant companions since the accident. She marched to the cupboard, yanking it open, forcing the thin man to jump out of the way to prevent the door from smashing his face. “I’m not like most wives.” She snarled as she stared into the large cupboard. Instead of the canned preserves and Halloween candy she usually saw when she opened up the door, she stared at a gravel footpath. She hoped that the trees lining the road and weeping brightly colored leaves meant the lane led somewhere good, somewhere hopeful.
She crawled onto the countertop, and stepped into the cupboard, the space magically expanding to accommodate her tall frame. She never thought her journey from the mortal world and into the afterlife would begin in a cupboard.
The reaper, her final travel companion stepped in beside her. She turned to look back into her kitchen. She heard the combine chugging in the field, could smell the crisp fall air, and saw her border collie playing in the yard. She thought about how hard she and her husband had worked to make this place work, and the justification for the long, back breaking hours, and the sacrifices they’d made.
“He has to feed the world” she whispered, forcing the reaper to lean close in order so he could hear. “How can I possibly think I’m more important than that?” She blew a kiss towards the open window, hoping that he would somehow feel it, and turned. It was time to go.
The reaper shook his head as he followed her. “Farmers,” he muttered under his breath, “they’re not like anyone else.”