i want to nor mean to post much schoolwork online. the only reason i would put it up here is if it had something to do with me actually writing instead of doing work. so this is a short story i threw together for english class. if you read it, comment on it. i need to know how good or bad this stuff is. its based on a short fairy tale and its only a page and a half long. just so you know...
Nasty light filtered through the crud smeared windows illuminating the larger dust particles meandering in three dimensions through the stagnant air in Mary Bivins’ father’s attic. Beetle shells and strings of dirt caked spider web littered the sill and stuck to the glass in quiet and reverent imitation of their recently departed father.The air, though stagnant from years of malnourishment from the world outside, seemed more of a living thing in itself.Warm and heavy it sat on cracked floorboards old but frozen in place through static eternities of disuse.
For two weeks it sat, the dust pristine and glowing brown sitting atop, around, and utterly permeating every relic in the room. Glowing in a manner that transcended its dirty roots because, given a bit of light, a casual soul passing through might say it resembled morning dew crowning blades of grass. Two weeks no different than the last ten or fifty or two hundred because no one cares to keep track of such things. The only difference was the slight lack of rustling that creeps up through those static floorboards; replaced by a silence more fitting for such a rustic environment.
And into such a glorious artifact steps Mary. Mrs. Mary Anne Bivins, who had shunned the house and all its contents since her father had passed two weeks earlier. There was no way to run from this, though, as all parents must die and their disowned possessions and earthly baggage must be taken care of by someone. She made it a point to think as little as possible about anything but figuring out a way to move her fathers belongings - this junk from the attic and out to… well she hadn’t decided where yet but somewhere. Because it had to be done.
Quiet places demand reverence. Mary found herself unable to utter a word upon crossing that threshold. Being alone, she had no reason to speak anyway, but to spite the situation and the attic herself she forced out a meek but resounding, “hi…”. The very sound of her own voice, though expected, shocked the poor woman and, though she wouldn’t admit it herself, scared her too. This is the kind of place souls live.
I hate this place. God, this would be so much easier if Mom were still here. I don’t want to be here. Everything is so dirty and warm. Feels like the air is breathing down my back. Ugh, the dust is so thick it glows in the light… like dew littered on morning grass. The stairs don’t even creak. My legs feel numb. I can’t even hear my own feet for the dirt muffling my steps. Kind of feels like I’m floating.
Mary, in a red dress, entering the attic, meanders across the room allowed to move only by small dusty areas of open floorboard segregated by a rusty bed frame and bags of old clothes never donated to charity. She feels dirty just being there, everything is so dank and brown and lacking of vivacity or life.
What am I going to do? There’s so much junk in here – ah – beds and mirrors, bags of clothes, boxes of old magazines. Jesus, this place is a damned mess. Briefcases… well that’s odd.
Woman notices stack of briefcases on an old coffee table but the top one is surprisingly not dusty. In fact, lacking of grit and grime whatsoever. This is noticeably strange since the attic itself is literally caked in the stuff and everything in sight seems to have formed a close attraction with it.
My God, it’s clean. It seems so out of place in here. What’s inside? Do I really have a right, though, to look at the stuff up here? I just came up here to clean it out. Dammit, he isn’t here. Thing’s not even locked…
Carefully Mary lifts the pristine old suitcase and turns a tight semi-circle on her heels to lift the plastic off an old floral printed ottoman and sits down. Wary of her newly painted fingernails, she slowly pops each flip-lock and lifts the top.
Oh… my God look at all this. It’s just a collection of crap. Must be Dad’s old things. But how did they get here? Patch from the war, picture of Mom… ah, that must have been taken in the forties. Candy wrapper? Bottle caps? What does he need with all this stuff? I don’t get it. Most of this is just trash. A leaf… wow – why did he keep all this? More pictures of Mom. Wait no, that’s not Mom. Who is she? Strange, this is all so strange. Why haven’t I ever seen this briefcase before? He never mentioned it to any of us. Never brought it down, hell, he hasn’t even come up here in God knows how long. Aw… what’s this?
Mary spies a small purple box in the corner of the briefcase. It appears to hold something important.
This is so cute, I wonder if this was for Mom’s engagement ring? Let’s see what’s in here. Shall I? Ah – come on. Here we go… Ow! Damned thing is stuck. One more time. Here, it’s… it’s empty. Huh. I got excited over nothing. What are all these pictures for? Stacks of them… Gasp! My God… oh! It’s me… He had a picture of me in here. But I never thought… I never thought he cared that much about me. He always paid Matthew more attention and John was the baby but me…. Just the middle child. I must be about seven – no eight – no this is my seventh birthday party. Ah – this is unreal. Why wouldn’t he show me this? And another… what – Oh!
At a loss for thought viewing this picture just as she was lost for speech arriving, Mary sits. For a short while time will cease in that dank enclosure and Mary will stay. After a time, regaining a certain amount of composure, she will dry her eyes and sit up straight. Slowly close the case, lock it both sides, and carefully place it back with the others. She will pad softly back towards the stairs, over rusted bed frames and around bags of old clothes never donated to charity, wherever there is a space of old hardwood. She will stop at the top step and wipe her eyes, take a sniff and a glance at that lovely molding room and descend. Not thinking of her father, not thinking of anything at all for fear that it would all become too difficult too fast she will open the door, rest her forehead on it for a second only, breathe out, and close it tight. Walk back downstairs with a hand on her mouth and one fingering a strange inversion in her pocket.
