Thank you. This story seemed magical in the making and was a departure from my usual style of writing, a new voice. Glad you enjoyed it.
Short Story / surrender
She came at night, when the air was still, and the only sounds were the rustle of small creatures and the mournful hooting of a solitary owl. Victor didn’t know why she picked him, why she seemed to have set up a nocturnal vigil around him. She would float up against his window, tapping on the glass and asking for admittance.
Sometimes she seemed an orphaned child, a waif with hollow, pain-filled eyes, skin blue with cold, her clothes in tatters; and she wrung his heart with pity. Sometimes she came imperious and queenly, her auburn hair charged with electric currents, floating eerily, her eyes incandescent blue, smoldering, sparking with pride and fury as she demanded entrance. Then he shrunk back into the corners of his room, mesmerized and frightened, aghast at her presence. Sometimes she’d come as what he liked to imagine was her true self. Her hair hung in loose waves over her shoulders, merging with the gown which clung to her body, a scarf’s ends moving slightly in the wind. She’d smile, sadly, as if she knew he’d never let her in, and as if she knew why. She smiled with the hint of promise and love implicit in her smile. These were the times it was hardest to resist her. He’d gnash his teeth, dig fingernails into the palms of his hands until crescent wounds began to bleed. He’d mutter to himself, ‘It’s a trap, she’s a fantasy or worse, I must not give in,’ and then he’d curse aloud at her, ordering her to leave. Her eyes would widen at the crimson trails that marked his trembling hands, and gaze sorrowfully back at him, and leave. Sometimes she’d seem to turn into mist, first becoming blurred at the edges, then increasingly indistinct till there was nothing, not a hint of scent or wisp of vapor to show she had been there. Other times she’d slowly turn, head bowed in resignation or held rigidly high in defiance and drift into the stand of aspen that surrounded his cabin.
It was winter in Colorado, he had been snowed in for a week, something he had become accustomed to over the years, when she first appeared. He had ample provisions in his cabin: tins of beef, sacks of flour, grain and sugar. The shed was filled with split wood and kindling, and even during the coldest nights, the cabin was cheerful and warm, the hearth ablaze with aromatic wood. The potbellied stove in the far corner burned coal and served for heating water for tea and coffee.
His old dog Blaze would sleep in front of the fireplace, rhythmic snoring assuring Victor that Blaze’s comatose state was just that, not the dreaded end that comes to all old dogs and men. Blaze was his only companion now. He had never been one for making or keeping friends and his last love had seemed to tire of Victor’s reclusive ways, to want more than the cabin in the woods and their quiet evenings by the fire. Victor guessed he couldn’t blame her but somehow he felt responsible for her departure and wondered what he could’ve done to keep her happy enough to stay. Now it was only Blaze who curled up against his side at night, who would groan with contentment when he covered her with his blanket, and then resume her nearly constant slumber.
He had woken up reaching for his lost love, having dreamt of her, and forgetting for a moment that she was gone. He sat up in bed and froze wih astonishment at the sight of the woman outside his window. ‘Let me in’, she whispered in a voice that tinkled like glass chimes in a gentle wind, ‘oh, please, let me in’. He scooted up against the headboard, scrabbling at the bedside table for a flashlight. He jumped up and put on a robe, and looking back, she was gone. He shook his head in disbelief, had he imagined her? Was he still asleep? He lit a lantern which stood on the bedside table and settled back down in bed to read and try to forget what had happened. It was just too strange for him to cope with right now.
And so, throughout the winter and into the following spring, she’d come to him, in her varying guises, and he’d shout at her, or plead, or rush out of the bedroom, shaking with fear and anger and maybe even desire. One very stormy night, she cried and pleaded with him, her tears mingling with the harsh winter’s rain, her hair matted down in clumps, clothes sodden and streaming with rain. He felt himself to be a brute, a thing, not to let her in, but then he’d tighten his resolve. He would not give in. Other nights, staring out at an inky-blue-black blanket of stars, he’d stand by the window and wait for her, wondering what would happen if he let her in and how he’d feel if she never did come back.
Years passed. He grew old and grey, though his labours in woods and field kept him feeling young and fit. She still came; the waif and queen had never aged but the one he had grown to love had aged along with him. Her hair, once brilliant auburn was softened now with silver threads and shadings, eyes still luminous blue shone from a face that had seen many smiles. She’d shake her head at him as if to say, ‘why won’t you give in, we’ve been old friends now for so very long’. He’d sigh and turn away.
One day, Blaze failed to wake up from her dreaming and he found himself alone in the cabin. It was spring and he went out to the yard and found the spot where Blaze would lie in the deep green shade of a huge old tree. He dug her grave there, blindly, as the tears would not stop, his face turning muddy with his attempts to brush the moisture out of his eyes. He had not cried for many, many years. He pressed his face against her fur and said his goodbye before he laid her down and covered her for the last time. She was gone and he was alone.
That night, after hours of gazing into the fire, and realizing that there was no more reason for him to continue, he decided to give in to her. She came that night as he knew she would, as the one he had come to know, with a new light of hope in her eyes. As he met her gaze, he nodded and walked to the window, opening the casement. She reached out her hand and he took it. Her touch was cool and her fingers were strong. He reached out, and put his arm around her waist, lifted her up, and he let her in.
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godmanix reviewed Version 1 -
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This 81 word review has not been unlocked.
prometheousunbound reviewed Version 1 -
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Your powers of description are remarkable.
Take, for instance, the phrase “until crescent wounds began to bleed.” That is poetry.
Despite the fact that ‘She’ is the main focus of the piece, I would develop ‘him’ a little more, simply so we the readers have something to latch onto there, some perspective to come at, mixed with our own. I believe that that is how writing works.
All in all, I love it.
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The_Omnicron reviewed Version 1 -
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I like the way this story flows. How it just lapses of time, but nothing is left out. I love the mystery of it, not really knowing who these characters are. It is a glipse of who they are and it works wonderfully. I love the description of the cabin how it is always “cheerful and warm, the hearth ablaze…” I like how you never know if the girl is real or just a figment of imagination, and you never learn the truth. Great imagery and good use of imagination.
grey reviewed Version 1 -
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a strong piece with excellent imagery. the only thing i would suggest is that, in a couple of place, repeated words ‘smile’ and ‘rain’ in the same sentence take away some of the strength of the piece. such a small detail, really. overall the piece is very well done. thanks for sharing it!
myintrepidsoul reviewed Version 1 -
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I dont understand the impetus behind this story. Ann Rice comes to mind, but is it an allegory? I found myself wanting the story to be over as none of my questions were answered as I read onward – why was the man in this cabin, why had so many years transpired and yet he remained with only a dog as a companion. I feel like I found a few pages to a book, and maybe that is the author’s intention? I liked the story and found myself wanting more at the end – the end represented the good part to me and now I am just left with my overactive imagination. That part was disappointing.
ROTTWALL reviewed Version 1 -
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I like your story. Very descriptive. One can make their own opinions on what happens next, but I think I know already.
good story!!!
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