Good evening! So, twenty days of Nanowrimo have passed (if you're unfamiliar with that, it's an event where writers all over the world write 50.000 words for their novel in one month), and I'm stuck somewhere in the 8000. This is partly because I started a new project (more about that in a minute), because I've been a little busy but mostly because I'm lazy. Guess that book is not going to be published any time soon; but on the bright side, I'm so much more happy with how this rewrite is turning out that it's okay. It's going to take a lot more time than anticipated but hopefully it will be worth it when I one day hold my own book in my hands. I'm also posting a short story here, but it's got somewhat of a background. The story I posted previously inspired me to write something that resembles James Joyce's The Dubliners, I suppose; because I'm trying to write a series of short stories that are all connected, one way or another. I'm still toying with this idea and as long as I haven't figured it out exactly, I'll just keep posting them as short stories. But if you feel like you've come across something before; you probably have. With that said, here is the story that followed the previous one, simply named 'Sharon'. Sharon “Sharon, are you coming down for diner?” she called, for the second time. Her wife was in the office upstairs, working. On the one hand, she knew she should leave Sharon alone, as she hated being disturbed, but there was also a part of her that figured that if Sharon didn’t want to be disturbed, maybe she should start working at the same hour as Janet herself, rather than staying in bed until 10. Besides, nobody liked to heat up grilled chicken and fried potatoes. Eventually, she had been forced to take the chicken out of the oven; better to eat it cooled down than dry. She walked around the living room impatiently, cleaning up a bit when she finally heard footsteps coming down. “Smells lovely, I hope it tastes just as good. Let’s sit down, shall we?” Janet knew how to hide her annoyance and sat down at the table, wearing a smile as she carved the chicken. She gave Sharon the biggest piece, and gladly set her fork in her own. “It’s not really hot anymore, Janet. You should know now to keep it in the oven a bit longer.” Janet didn’t mention that it would have gone dry if it had been in the oven any longer. “So how was work today darling?” “Oh, it was alright, I guess. Dave was being am intolerant jerk, but there’s nothing new there, right? Oh, John came back to work today. I’m a bit worried about him though. He doesn’t look like he’s dealing with it so well. There are these bags under his eyes, you know?” Janet knew better than to ask Sharon about her work, and kept rambling about her own day instead. They’d been living together for three years now, and she still didn’t really know what Sharon did for a living. “Do remind me, what’s going on with John?” “Oh, his wife left him a few weeks ago. She never was right for him, I guess. So stuck up on the perfect image, while John is generally a very laid-back guy.” “A little too laid-back then, I guess.” “Perhaps. Anyway, his wife left him for another guy, leaving for the city two days before their wedding anniversary. He showed me a picture of her new lover that she sent him. Her new lover looks an awful lot like John. So distasteful.” “I bet he cheated on her too.” “No, you don’t know John like I do. He’s just the sweetest, always working extra hours because his wife dreamed of a bigger house.” “You should work some extra hours, Janet. Lord knows your sweet wife would love a bigger house. This office is just so small, I can hardly get anything done.” I’m sure that’s the only reason why your income keeps decreasing every month, rather than you not getting out of bed. “You know I try, Sharon. Stop pestering me about it.” “I’m just saying! Instead of coming home so early that the chicken is cold by the time I’m actually done with work, you could work a bit later too.” “I work six days a week Sharon, ten hours a day. Is that not enough for you?” “Apparently not, since I’m still busy by the time you let the chicken get cold.” “Perhaps that’s because I actually get up at a reasonable hour, whereas you only roll out of bed at ten, and start making waffles.” “Are you saying I’m not working hard enough, Janet?” “Yes, perhaps that is exactly what I’m saying. You never let me see anything you do, you won’t mention names, you’re always vague, and I’m not sure if you noticed, but your paycheck has been steadily decreasing for months. I know that I don’t have the highest pay check, but at least it’s paying the bills. I can’t even get the groceries with yours.” “You’re just mad because you have to get up early every morning. You and I both know that the work I do is much harder than yours.” “No, I don’t know that, Sharon. Because you never actually told me what you do for a living. Although you really can’t call it a living, I guess.” “What I do, Janet, is creative work. It is not a simple office job like you do. It’s very tiring and I have to be inspired in order to create something. We’ve been over this. You can’t keep pretending like you can compare your job to mine.” “Well, at least mine is paying the bills.”
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Hello there! It's been a while, but today I'm celebrating the start of Nanowrimo with a new short story. I'm mostly going to work on my novel during Nanowrimo, the one that is my only story in Dutch, and that I'm saving to send to a publisher. I've pitched the story before at a great Dutch publisher, and they were interested, so I'm hoping to rewrite/continue the entire thing this month, so that I can finally send it to them. But I'll also be doing short stories along the way, and perhaps something different entirely, as I always like doing too many things at once. If you're participating in Nanowrimo too, be sure to find me on the website: @RecklessKells. Let me know what you're working on!
Now, without further ado, my story Maybe... Prompt: The song December (Again) by Neck Deep featuring Mark Hoppus The fireplace reminded him of how she’d always put her sweater on top of it before putting it on, and how he would tell her to put it somewhere else before it would catch fire. The coffee machine reminded him on how on Mondays, she’d wake him up with freshly brewed coffee. He actively avoided their book shelves, knowing that the books there only annoyed him. He was not the type for the classics that sat on the shelf, feeling that the idea of buying books for social status was pure ridicule. He’d been sleeping on the couch, throwing the huge amount of little pillows on the bed, effectively hiding the blue bedsheets under a mountain of fluffiness. He used the microwave more than ever and put the pans, that he was supposed to ‘wash by hand', in the dishwasher. Defying her when she’s not even here. Even though he took away all photographs in their flowery frames, there’s no escaping the memories. How could there be, after all these years. Working late hours because she mentioned enjoying a bigger house. Maybe even one with enough room for her to practice her dances. Buying a fancy polo shirt rather than a new part for his car because her colleagues were coming over for dinner. He remembered how she had scolded him. That’s what you’re wearing tomorrow?! You do realise my co-workers are coming over, or did you forget again? If you asked him, there was nothing wrong with his Star wars shirt. But he knew he had to say that he’d forgotten about it. The next evening, he heard been complain to afore mentioned co-workers how she always had to be the one to remember everything. He’d always put up with it, accepted their differences in a way she never would, not minding at all because this was what love was. Right? He remembered their first holiday together as he stared at the wall where the photos had been. He didn’t need the photo to remember the moment. They had been for out for dinner and took the long way back to the hotel, walking over the beach to admire the sunset. She had needed a picture of the two of them, to send to their friends home. She’d initially wanted to use his phone because the quality would be better, but he’d left it in the hotel. He had expected to shake her head at him, because that was what she’d usually do. But instead, she had just pulled out hers, taking a happy picture. He looked at her, as the camera snapped; he hadn’t seen her smile so big since their wedding. On impulse, he kissed her, without realizing that she took another one. And then another one, both smiling happily in the camera, children playing in the sand in the background, the photo covered in the soft glow that comes with sunsets. The first one she’d taken was his favourite. She looked so happy, and he looked content, happy with the life he was living. She looked happier than ever, and he looked like he felt every day. Content. Because he loved her, more than anything, and happily made these little sacrifices for her. That was why he spent his money on books he’d never read, on movies they detested but knew their friends liked, why he was always looking at new houses that they might be able to afford. That was why he didn’t go out with to the café across the street anymore, and why he had given up gambling entirely. He wanted to make her happy, give her the life she had dreamed of as a small child, be the husband she had imagined as she was a teenage girl. He was looking out the window, looking at the cars passing by. Would he ever get out of this town? He could move back, buy a house not far from his folks, maybe even visit his brother outside of the obligated visits on birthdays. This had never been his town anyways; but she was born here and didn’t want to leave her family and lifelong friends behind. So, instead, he did. Now it felt like he was stuck here. He remembered reading one of the classics from their shelves once, figuring that since he spent money on those stacks of paper, he might as well try them. He had started with Dubliners, a collection of short stories. Figured it would be an easy way to start. It wasn’t, not really. The more he thought about the stories, the more he figured out, but he didn’t like to think in the evenings. He just wanted to be enjoyed, and he never finished the last story in the book. But he did remember this feeling that all the people in the book had. That they wanted to get out of Dublin, but they never did. He vividly remembers the story of the girl who had wanted to leave her terrible family and Dublin behind, but when a gentleman gave her the opportunity, she remained, watching the ship with all her dreams sail away. That was him. He knew that the moment he read the story, and it was even more true now. There was nothing that was keeping him here. He knew he’d find another job easily enough; he had skills. But it had been months since she left, December had arrived, and he was still here. Even she had left this town; she’d moved to the city, with the guy that was apparently much more responsible and fun then he ever was. Like those two ever went together. He wasn’t really angry. He couldn’t be. He knew that if he’d given alcohol up along with his gambling, that she would have stayed longer. But he also knew that he was never perfect for her. She wanted to live in a castle, with a ball room for her to dance in. He’d tried to fulfil her wishes; given her the master bedroom she wanted, changed their white doors to the rose-red ones that she loved. Maybe if he’d written songs for her, she might have still been there. Maybe if he didn’t spend his Friday evenings locked in the garage, playing with his guitar. Maybe if he had worked harder. Maybe if he’d gone to the clothing stores she wanted him to go to. Maybe if he’d chased after her instead of writing this song. He had tried, alright. He had called her thousands of times, but the picture she sent him back was enough. A selfie, her smile bigger than her smile on the beach on their first holiday together. And the guy. He didn’t even want to punch him for stealing her away, because he was everything he would never be. His hair was the right shade, his mouth had the right shape, he wore the right clothing, he wore the right watch on the right arm, he held her the right way, his body had the right shape. Her new lover was everything he was, but slightly better. He knew that the pain wouldn’t be permanent. He told himself that the moment he came home from work and all her stuff was gone. She was gone, leaving a hole in his life. And a hole in the wall, that had previously been covered by one of her mother’s paintings. Although he didn’t really miss those paintings. He never cared for them; they were way too abstract for his liking. Maybe if he’d liked abstract art, she’d still be here. |
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February 2017
About meWelcome to my blog! This is where I post my stories, occasionally accompanied by personal thoughts. I always post short stories, as I keep the longer ones for myself. My stories are often based on songs. I listen to music a lot (mostly pop punk / punk rock), and often get inspired by melodies, lyrics, or music videos. |