(On with the post...)
So I believe one of my most exciting classes this semester is Intro to Fiction Writing (ENGL 130). For those who even have a slightest interest/joy in writing, take this class. It'll make you a better writer, and how many times do you get to write fiction for a class? (Plus, there's no midterm or final exam.) Anyway, I thought I would use the blog to share some of the works in progress I have for class (short stories and assignments, etc.) This post is the first of these sorts.
Some Background Info: The assignment for class was to write one scene, just one. So I wrote a scene for a possible short story called "Requiem" that I may use later on in class. I've set up the story to take place from multiple points of view, so this scene is just one point of view.
P.S. The feelings expressed by the character are not actually felt by me, no worries. Just me being "creative".
Hope you all enjoy, and any feedback is welcome.
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Light filters in through the stained glass, the blues and reds clashing with the black dresses and coats we’re all wearing. Dust spins and falls on everyone and everything. It’s quiet except for the occasional foot shuffle or cough. The light winds under and around the seats, fighting its way through the crowds of legs, feet, and purses. I’m up front. Mom’s to my left, with Mama to her left. Dad’s in front of me. Lying in his casket. Mom and Mama pull out handkerchiefs, dabbing their eyes and wiping away their tears. My eyes stay down, too afraid to show their clearness. I look at the wood floors, studying the grain, wondering what kind and how old it is. Maybe mahogany. Or oak. I follow the grain up to where Dad is at. He looks calm, cool, relaxed. He’s wearing one of his favorite suits, this navy number with subtle gray pinstripes that he picked up on a business trip to
He was only in his mid 50s when it happened. I got a phone call from Mom late one night, telling me that Dad had had a heart attack after dinner and that I needed to get home as quick as possible. She was crying pretty hard. Hate to say it, but we all knew it was coming. None of us said it out loud, but we all knew. Grandpa died of one; his Dad died of one. So we all knew it was coming. I’ll probably die of one too. Just “following in the footsteps”.
The organ begins to play “The Wind Beneath My Wings” as we slowly move towards the casket. Mama and Mom are in front of me, paying their last respects. They both take their time, whispering their last goodbyes and their last “I love you”s. I unpin the rose from the lapel that all the pall-bearers had to wear. I twirl it between my fingers, feeling the cool stiffness of the plastic stem. I run my finger over the petals, the plastic making them too rigid to separate. I lift up the rose to my nose; there’s no scent.
Now it’s just me and Dad. I look down at his face, his salt-and-pepper hair and moustache neatly trimmed like always. He looks at peace, he looks happy. I search to say something to him, but nothing comes to mind. I stand there, rolling the rose in my hand as we both stare lifelessly back at one another. Finally, I drop the rose onto the casket and lean down to where only me and him could hear:
“Dad, I never loved you.”
Currently Reading- To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee
Currently Listening To:
Song- "O, For a Thousand Tongues Can Sing"
Artist- David Crowder Band
Album- "Remedy"
