Here is my entry. Ended up taking longer, being longer and not making as much sense as I had intend but oh well...
A figure sits in an old, battered armchair. The room is lit only by the full moon high in the night sky, beams of silvery light shining through the gap in the curtains. There is just enough of this light to see that the figure is holding an old scrap book filled with newspaper cuttings, photos and memories. The only sound is the sound of the wind howling plaintively down the chimney where the ashes of a fire long since dead lie. A close observer, peering through the gap in the curtains, could perhaps tell that the figure is female but there is no such observer. There hasn't been for many years now, and perhaps that is why there is such an air of sadness in the room. The sadness seems to have suffused the whole room - years of misery, regret and sorrow have left their almost visible mark on the figure's surroundings.
Imagine you stand beside her now, in the shadows behind her armchair. Imagine you can see the book she is gazing at. Imagine you can see the past - her past - that is contained within its pages. Imagine you can see the photos, not as the hoary snapshots of a lost era they are now but as freeze frames of the times they depict.
An sudden breeze causes the pages of the book to turn fast, frantically, as if this chance to be seen by an outside is all to evanescent. Allow yourself to lean forward, to examine the pages closer. Allow yourself to forget the external elements of the room, fall into the past, fall into her past. Forget now, see only then.
Imagine...
Snapshot: A young girl sits in front of a grand fireplace, playing with a much loved rag doll and gazing up with youthful admiration at the man sitting on the chair beside her.
In the middle of a busy street, surrounded by people rushing hither and thither, stand a young woman and an older man. They are facing each other, entirely occupied by their own world, ignorant completely to the bustle around them. The vociferous town around them seems to be separated from them, as if they stand in an art gallery and all this life is merely kitschy paintings upon the wall. Both are dressed in fine clothing, more appropriate for an opera house or some other grand setting, and both seem slightly different, slightly more alive, than those around them.
After a while, he leans towards her and touches her gently on the shoulder. A tear glistens on her cheek, and his eyes are damp.
"An auspicious day for new beginnings," he murmurs to her, "a fine time to start anew."
"I do not wish to start anew," she retorts.
"It is not your choice. These events that take me away are bigger than I control. I have to leave. It is not my desire to go, but I am compelled by those I cannot refuse."
His admonition has little effect on her, and only her upbringing prevents her from glowering at him. She is only young, not quite an adult. He has been her guardian from the past few years, has raised her, dressed her, educated her and now it appears he, too, will leave her.
"My dear... you are young and the city is big. You will find happiness there."
"But I am, I was, happy here. Here... with you."
"I know and, believe me, I regret that this day has come. I too was happy here... but happiness is fleeting. You know that better than most."
She stands in silence, gazing into the distance. His eyes roam over her delicate features, and he feels the familiar sense of sorrow at the turbulence of her young life.
"The carriage will be here soon. Your bags are ready?"
She merely nods in response, refusing to give him the eye contact he desires.
"My dear..." he reaches out for her again, trying one last time to reassure her. His efforts prove to be in vain, his normal panache no help and as the carriage pulls up, she enters without a backwards glance. Nodding to the driver he lifts her bags and lays them beside her feet. He delays the moment of departure, taking his time to close the door, hoping she would capitulate and wish him farewell. But no such capitulation is forthcoming and the carriage pulls away, the horses' manes undulating as the wheels pick up motion and the tintinnabulation of the bells on their harnesses providing a jolly contrast to his disconcerted state of mind. He wipes the dampness from his eyes, and she is gone.
Snapshot: Dresses of every colour swirl across the ballroom. Musicians regale the bevy of cosmopolites with a laudable selection of music from every era and nation imaginable. All those present look happy, filled with joy and the sound of laughter seems to come out from the image.
A carriage rattles along the narrow country road. Inside sits a figure of an aged woman, aged prematurely by the events of her life. By her feet lie again the same bags that accompanied her on her last long journey. The driver of the carriage, wrapped in a heavy overcoat, sings to himself as the horses stain up a hill. It disconcerted him briefly, this journey. He could not imagine why a woman of her breeding would wish to move to a small, unknown hamlet, but it was not his place to question the melee that brought her here. All he knew is that she had moved at the top of London society, had graced all the top social events and had lived a life filled with privilege and luxury.
"Nearly there, ma'am," he called back into the carriage.
She leant forward and gazed out of the window across the countryside. This journey was so different from the last one she took, the one that lead her away from the only man that had ever cared for her and into a city that had seemed to alien. She had found contentment of a sort there, had lived a life that many envied... but somehow it had never been enough, so she decided to move back to this place where it all began. She turns over in her hands the only photograph of that man she had ever had. A photograph that had been taken in the middle of a tumultuous childhood, a photograph that showed one of the rare moments of true happiness she had ever found. All the parties she had thrown in London could not replace the deep sense of sorrow within her heart, all the beneficence she had been such a proponent of had not fulfilled her, all the children she had sought to edify did not make up for the lack of any scions. She had left London in a turmoil, her thoughts becoming torrid, mourning a life not really lived.
"Ma'am... we're here," the driver called. She hadn't noticed the cessation of movement, but now she realised that they had drawn up in front of the small cottage she had arranged to rent. She took his hand as he helped her out of the carriage and walked up to the front door.
"Thank you," she murmured as he placed the bags in the hall for her, "thank you."
He nodded awkwardly and pointed to the comestible items that the landlord have left her.
"They'll do you alright for a few days. Then there's a shop down in the village, perhaps not up to the city's standards, but adequate... I'll drop by in a week or so to check you're settling in alright, perhaps my wife will too. Would you like that? I don't know if this is up to your standards... I could send some of the village men by to do it up a bit, make it more suitable..." his voice faded into silence, embarrassed by his uncustomary verbiage. She merely smiled and said that it would suit her needs fine.
"Of course, ma'am... I'll be going then if you're fine?"
"I'm fine," she reassured him and accompanied him back to the carriage. "You're a kind man to care so much."
"Just doing my job," he blustered, but she would not hear his excuses and pressed a small gift into his hand as she wished him a safe journey back. Later he would look at it and marvel that she had somehow known his keen interest in numismatics.
She waved him off, musing at the difference between his departure and hers so long ago. Ah, but what was done was done and what point the continuous musings? She entered the house and prepared herself for the next few days.
Snapshot: A woman stands in front of a new building, its design and appearance suggesting it is perhaps some form of hospital. She stands with a small group of people, preparing to open the thing they have all worked hard to achieve. A ribbon hangs in front of the door and she holds the scissors to cut it.
That was how she came to be here... or at least that is a beginning and part of the end. As she sits in her old chair in the near dark she adds one final photograph to the book before closing it with a sigh. Perhaps she was not in such fine fettle as she once was, but she could see the past clear enough. Maybe she had misprized the city, maybe she hadn't fully understood the nature of the abandonment all those years ago... but it was too late for such thoughts now. She removed a pair of glasses and placed them on top of the book, leaving both on the floor in front of her. Sighing, she leant back and closed her eyes.
What does this life mean? Her life? This story? I don't know... do you? We were offered only the slightest glimpse of her life, perhaps the rest is for us to imagine. It is over now... or at least I believe it is. I shall leave you to make of it what you will. Stay a while behind her chair and imagine what she has seen, done, been. The mystery of life is what keeps us going. Reflect on that for a while. What will you see? What will you do? Perhaps the ending is happy, perhaps not. Perhaps the beginning is sad, perhaps not. Maybe one day your life too will become a mystery to the onlooker.
Imagine it did not matter. Imagine you were back in your life. Forget the mysteries. Mysteries can be immolated, but life will remain, the present will remain. Focus on now. This is but a small amount of your life gone, wasted? Who knows? Maybe one day an onlooker will be able to tell, but for now you alone can judge. Good luck.
[Edit: Realised I didn't use all the words.]
Post edited at 11:19 am on Jan. 1, 2009 by Arguia
-------
We beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
373 users online 
223137 members 
You have 1 new message.
Patron
that word list is too long for a short story 
