National Short Story Day

Today is the shortest day of the year, it is also National Short Story Day. To celebrate this I am sharing with you my short story, twilight. Like many of my stories, twilight appears wrapped in sadness, but there is an under current of love; the love of a broken heart that corrodes all other love. There is also strength and a glimmer of hope; we never truly give up. It feels rather apt it is set in the Arctic twilight as today is the winter solstice; the darkness will recede in time and the light will grow.

twilight

This is years of neglect. This is years of decay. Writing faster, this place is sad. He re-reads the words, allowing each to resonate inside.
‘Escape is no answer,’ he mutters, throwing his pad on the fire.
The paper is greedily consumed and the burst of heat subsides. He stares out across the Arctic twilight; the blue infused light is at its peak. The mountains tower like etchings belonging to legends of old.
The red roses fell like scattered goodbyes. He gripped tightly to his. He refused to say goodbye. His daughter gripped his leg tightly; he felt her tears seep through his trousers.
‘A coward. I was a coward. I am a coward,’ he curses.
‘This place is sad,’ he repeats.
He scratches at his beard, his sole accomplishment and that’s just neglect. She’ll be eight now. She was going to be here eighteen months ago.
The exhaust fumes hung in the air, waiting. He pictured the gases filling her lungs, poisoning her. He thought, she needs somewhere pure. He ran first. Sold up. Her Grandparents were keen to look after her, wanting a connection, needing a replacement.
He pins her drawings up. She sends one every week. He doesn’t look at them. Always her, Mummy and him, Daddy.

‘This place is sad,’ he repeats quietly to the blue light.
He remembers their chatter, their laughter, their coughs, the rustling of wrappers, of papers. He remembers their different voices, hearing their conversations. Sat on the edge, he would turn up his mp3 blocking out their joy.
He stretches out his hand. He wants to connect. To feel another’s touch. What did I expect? Her memories to avoid the cold of the ice? The cold of my heart?
The fire is dying. He walks inside, tripping against a crate of empty bottles. He reaches for the fridge door, a beer, an automatic reaction. A fine tuned technique for forgetting. He flicks the cap off, it clatters to the floor. He takes a sip, the taste, acidic. A surge hits him, he begins to cry and drops the bottle. He walks out. He picks up a stick and places it in the fire, it flickers alight, he tips it up, the flame grows. He walks back in and holds it close. Her thick yellow crayon. That same blond hair. He walks out again. He walks. His feet crunch the fresh snow.

To read more short stories visit National Short Story Day.