A Short Story - The Poem, Be careful of the Box Options

[Charon]

“I’m not sure if I can do this John,” said the young woman as she opened the closet door.  “I feel that at any moment he will walk through that door, and in that booming voice demand to know what am I doing in here.”

“Ah sis, you know he wouldn’t have ever done anything,” the young man replied.

“I know, I know.  I miss him so terribly.  And now I am going to destroy the life that was.”

“We are not destroying, we are remembering.  Someone has to do this, why not us, those that loved him most.”

“But this was his and mom’s room, we shouldn’t be in here.  I feel as if I am trespassing on hallowed ground,” she replied.  “What have we here?” As she lifted a small wooden box from the back of the closet.  “Must be where he hid those cigars he used to smoke.”

“Yeah, remember how mom would scold him and make him go outside on the porch.  He would act hurt, like she was picking on him.  You know, I think he used to light up inside just so he would get her attention.”

“I know what you mean, he was always teasing mom.”  The young woman turns the latch and lifts the box lid carefully.  The hinges produce a small squeak as the lid is lifted.

“Sounds like it hasn’t been open for a while?”  Quizzed the young man.

“John, look it is full of all kinds of stuff.  Here is a pin from when he ran for alderman.  Remember?”

“Oh yeah, I remember the big party he had when he didn’t win.  You would have thought that was the way he wanted it.  Everybody was here, even Thomas Ward, the guy who beat him.  If I remember correctly that was when the car got that dent in the fender.  You know when the two of them got so drunk and they were pitching horseshoes and dad threw one into the side of the car.”

“I don’t remember that.  I always wondered how that dent got there.  Here is an envelope and a couple of old news clippings.  One of him and mom dancing, look how formal they were.”  She handed the papers to her brother, who gently opened them and gazed at the pictures, tears forming in the corner of his eyes.

“I always thought he hated to dance.  I never knew.”

“What’s in the envelope, a love letter to mom?”

“The thing is sealed shut, should I open it?”  He asked.

“Go ahead, but be careful.”

The young man turns the envelope over, and notices the writing on the outside for the first time.  “It says Daisy, on the outside.  Do you know who that is?”

“I’ve heard that name before, but where, it seemed like it was a long time ago.”

“Daisy, daisy, on a bicycle built for two.”

“That’s not how the song goes, you silly,” said the young woman.  “Give it to me and I’ll open it.”

“Are you sure?  It could be a secret love letter to an old flame, you know,” teased the young man.

“Dad?  Yeah right, he was about as romantic as those stupid socks you are wearing.”

The young man gently taps the envelope on the foot of the bed where they are sitting.  Holding it up to the light, he sees that he can successfully tear the envelope without destroying the contents, and does so.  Carefully he blows in the open end, which causes the envelope to billow displaying a single sheet of paper neatly folded inside.  “Say this has been in here quite a while, look how flat the creases are.”

“What is it a letter.”  She looks at his face as he opens the paper and starts to read.

“Oh-oh.”

“Oh-oh, what?”

“I think this should be destroyed,” he quips as he starts to refold the paper back into the position it had been in for so many years.  “You don’t want to know what it says.”

“Give it to me, you big dunder head.”  She reaches over and grabs the paper.

“Don’t sis, I mean it.  You don’t want to read that thing,” In raised voice as his hands make a futile attempt to get the paper back.

Laughing, the young woman stands next to the window in order to get more light.  She unfolds the letter and starts to read.

The silence is deafening as a sob slowly racks her body.   Carefully she sits down on the bed, beside her brother.  “I told you not to read it,” he says as he puts his arm around her shoulders.

The young woman turns her head into his shoulder and sobs quietly for a few moments.  “How could he?” She whispers, as the letter slips from her fingers and floats to the floor.

“I don’t know sis, I don’t know.”

There lying on the floor is the open letter, a hand written note can be seen in the center of the page.  Eight lines carefully scripted on a page as delicate as ancient Egyptian papyrus.  Relaxing his arm for just a moment, with care the young man bends down and picks up the page, straightens and reads out loud as if to an audience:

I ponder your being, from the moment we met
Your eyes cast a spark; a fire they did set
When you are near a blaze soars with heat
In agony I await until again we dare meet

Your gentle caress sears my very soul
Barely a touch brings flame to hearts coal
Why is it a sin to ache for your breath
A love so alive and yet closer to death

From somewhere in the distance a clock begins a loathsome toll adding to the gloom that has permeated the small bedroom.  The two young adults still remain clinched in each other’s arms as they ponder the words written by their father so long ago.  The letter, no longer held, lays cast on the floor beside the wooden box that cradled the envelope in its confines for so many years.  

The young woman sighs, loosens her grip as her brother releases her.  Reluctantly he picks up the box, noticing a weathered old picture lying in the bottom trapped by one corner.  He tears the corner of the picture as he pulls it out, and looks at the young girl standing in the photo.  “Look sis, a picture of mom when she was a young teen,” he says as he hands the picture to her and turns his attention to the torn corner still in the box.

The young woman looks at the picture, which could have been her at another time and place.  Turning it over, she notices several words are written on the back, part of which is missing due to the torn corner.  “Look John, mom wrote on the back of this.  It says - To my love, I await your return, be careful, I love you forever.  The rest is only partial marks as the rest is torn off.”

“It’s probably on the back of this piece if I can just pry it loose,” he grunts as he continues to worry the piece of torn paper.  “Just a second and I’ll have it.”

“She must have given this to him before he left for the service.”

“Yeah, probably.”  Glancing over towards the picture, “You look just like her kiddo.”

“I know.”

“She was beautiful, and so are you.”  With that the wedge of paper comes loose in his hands, “Here you go.”

The young woman places the torn piece in place with the rest of the photograph. “I am going to have this framed and placed on my piano at home,” she says softly.  “I still don’t understand why.”

“We probably never will.  I wish we had never opened the letter.  Let me see the back of the photo where she wrote.”

Turning the photo over, the young woman places the torn piece gently next to the area where it was torn loose.  “John, look,” as she points.  

There in the same faint scroll are the words – Your Daisy.

[Guest_Cailean_*]

First thing, minor nits. Strictly for preference, I'd go with "uh-oh" and "dunderhead" just because it seems better to me, but that's not exactly wrong. With the dialogue, sometimes I lost track who was saying what; but sometimes it's hard to give identifiers in a dialogue heavy piece without it looking forced and tacky. I got bogged down in this myself writing a piece, a sequel to Fox & Hounds, and it just simply was too difficult to write for me. I don't say this of your work here, but I think with a few changes in the delivery, you won't have that problem with who's on first, as it were.

Some great word and phrase use here - on the actual text and flow, top notch. Definitely think this one's a keeper, evocative and warm and romantic indeed. Without crossing the line into Mills & Boon, heh :)

Good stuff, Butch!

May your life get a little better every day. Blessed be.

Cailean.

[Guest_Tao_*]

Hi Charon,

We haven’t met, but I’ve seen your postings here and there. I left you a response in your Mist and Fog thread a while ago. Have you seen it?

First, a couple of minor things, should there be question marks in these lines?

“I’ve heard that name before, but where, it seemed like it was a long time ago.”
“What is it a letter.” She looks at his face as he opens the paper and starts to read.

Now on to the story, a most sentimental piece, I have to admit I was a little confused at the beginning. I wasn’t sure if it’s their father or someone else’s room they were in, but eventually figured it out. I also wondered where was their mother, but you didn’t need her in this story. Great opening - put me in the closet right away - and closing!

This piece is very visual, the story centering on a faded photo and a cigar box. I could see the closet door, the bed and a sun lit window. More importantly, I empathized with the children’s state of mind and felt warm and fuzzy toward the parents. How little children know of their parents’ youth?

The children, however, appeared a little old fashion to me, worrying about their parents’ fidelity after at least one of their deaths, but that’s because of my background. My parents were divorced and even when they were together, it wasn’t the most ideal of marriages. As a grown child, I came to learn of their past “acquaintances” and it certainly wouldn’t matter that much to me anymore if they had already passed on. I understood my parents to be “human,” but had I come from a more sheltered environment, perhaps I would empathize more.

I find dialogue very difficult to write. It’s one thing to speak naturally, a whole other matter when writing it down. One way to do it is to go all out and mind as well make it a “script” – lay out the dialog behind the characters’ names. I’m tempted to do it myself. Short of that, I try to use more broken English and fragmented speech in dialog to help it flow. I would think real life speak seldom adheres to proper grammar. That would be my one suggestion, please take or toss.

A wholesome, romantic piece indeed, thanks for sharing. :pharoah2

David

[Charon]

Cailean,

Sorry I didn't get back sooner.  As always I appreciate your learned advice and will act accordingly so.  Everyonce in a while I find myself in one of these romantic moods, but then I try to put a twist on things, leave the reader guessing or a twist of the plot.

Thanks again, I'll get back to hacking a bit on the piece.

Charon

[Charon]

Tao,

Thanks for stopping and making a lengthy comment.  It is deeply appreciated.  You know I never really thought about the diagloue and using broken English, etc.  As a writer I fall in that trap that everything has to be perfect, and yet when I go back and look at the books of my favorite writers, they aren't perfect - spelling errors, grammar, poor usage of words, etc.  

You are right on the dialogue, I will have to revisit.

You picked up on the tale, I wanted confusion at the begining.  I wanted the reader to wonder what the hey is going on.  Then slowly let them drift across the bedroom as the children make their discovery.  

I too come from divorced parents, and was divorced myself.  However, I listen to my children - now all adults - and they still think of me and my wife (of 22 years) as being married forever and completely dedicated to each other.  Which we are.  They, all of the children (we have some from previous marriages) would be completely and utterly destroyed if they discovered one of us were to have had a secret affair.  It is beyond their comprehension.  Which to me is wonderful, naive, yet wonderful - especially in this day and age.

Thanks again for commenting, I am pleased you enjoyed.

Charon