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  • Writer's picturejodi

Short Fiction - Part One

I wrote a fictional short story a few years ago,

in a creative writing course.

The assignment had certain guidelines

which I won't bore you with,

but in the end

this is what I came up with.

I hadn't looked at it in quite some time.

Reading it back,

I think I must've been filling my days reading romance novels

as it's not my typical or at least my current style of writing.

I'm going to share it here

over the next few days.


I am not sure as to how long I dozed off, for when I awake nothing has changed. The room remains softly lit from the glow of the monitor, the building enveloped in darkness, no stars in the sky to wish upon. We are alone, him and I, I cannot remember the last time that we were. The rhythmic beeping of his heart fills the room like a song. I cannot remember the last time we danced, other than in the ring. I think he always walks away just as bruised as I do. His wedding band gleams from the glow of the monitor light, but its shine is only a facade. Does he even know that truth? I reach out to touch it, slowly turning it on his finger. The lump that catches in my throat reminds me of his commitment and that he has never removed it, not even metaphorically. This reminds me of all the times that I have. He has never strayed, always a constant just floating along seeming oblivious to our broken bond. This has often annoyed me but in this moment, I realize that perhaps this is part of his strength. His ability to hold in all the damage in silence, securing our home, fear that speaking the words of truth will make it all crumble beneath us. His hands are dry, calloused, signs of a hard-working man or at least that is what my mother would say. The awareness of his rough skin beneath mine makes me brutally aware of all the things that I have taken for granted. It reminds me of all the reasons I fell in the love with him in the first place. Also reminds me of all the reasons I slipped away. I glance down at my own hands, so tiny on his, pale and warm in comparison to the blue tinged coolness of his own. My finger is bare where a ring should be, guilt rocks the core of my soul. I reach into my purse, eagerly feel for the piece of soft, worn, robin egg blue velvet. I’m suddenly filled with the memory of the warmth of the moment he proposed at sunrise on the beach. I smile in remembrance of him, groggy and tired but aiming for romance by proposing at dawn. He claimed it was the most peaceful time of day and our marriage would mirror that peace. The stone of the ring still glimmers, despite the sparkle that we have lost, and I slowly slide it back on to my finger. The memory of our vows echo through my mind; ‘to honor and cherish, till death do us part’. Who am I? What have I become?


To be continued...

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