shortstory

Alazia

The chatter echoed across the ballroom as people conversed over their drinks of choice, tunes from a
forgotten era of the early millennium overpoweringly being played through speakers too small for such a hall. Rounded tables loaded with glasses, flower arrangements and an extravagant center piece that housed those who decided to sit, drink and chat.

The dance floor crowded with women and a few selected men showing off moves that at one time was the pinnacle of dance but now is considered embarrassing by the younger generation. A dimly lit room full of energy, laughs dancing and smiles. A beautiful night for those who can appreciate the beauty of one’s company of others.

Standing at the bar counter, he sees himself in the mirror, taking his hand and wiping off the crumbs off his sportscoat and checking his blue jeans for any remanence of dinner. The bartender handed him his drinks and he begin walking into the ballroom with a whiskey & seven and a glass of wine in the other hand. He scans around the room, in search of her and as if time had frozen for a moment, he spots her from a distance and stares in awe before being interrupted by a soft-spoken voice.

“Do you think she knows he’s married?” She asked as she approaches him from behind sipping her glass of wine.
“I sure hope so” he chuckled as he watches her grip the man’s arm, laughing at his jokes from a
distance.
“Interested?” the woman asks while she continues to take small sips from her glass.
“I should be” he replied quickly as she continued to inquire. “jealous type?” “Ha, not at all” he replied, still watching her from a distance. “Then why can’t you turn and look at me?” the woman asked as she takes her final sip of white wine.
“Because, she’s absolutely beautiful.” He laughs to himself before turning towards the softspoken voice that has so many questions.

Putting on a fake smile and jokingly introducing himself “Hank, the master of answers, the husband of said beauty” he extended his hand awkwardly before remembering the drinks in his hand. She smiled cutely as she introduced herself “Alice, the queen of questions, wife of the man laughing” she smiled wittingly.
“Oh!” hank acknowledged with raised eyebrows and a scheming expression. “Well Alice, my lady” he extends his arm “shall we go and see what our better halves find so funny” he expressed in an exaggerated tone.
“Two seconds” she replied, pointing at her empty glass before quickly turning around and hurried out the door towards the bar. Hank standing there, arm awkwardly still hooked, holding two drinks and looking onto his wife in the distance, sharing laughter, an expression he had missed seeing in her for so long.

Alice scurried back towards hank with a fresh drink in her hand and chuckled at the sight of hank waiting for her. He looks back Alice and smiles in a goofy expression as she hooks her arm into his and they begin skipping humorously towards their partners.

As Hank and Alice approached their partners, Hank’s wife immediately let go of her friends arm and reaches towards hank “Hey baby! This is my co-worker; he helps me out a lot around the office!” She exclaimed excitingly. “Nice to meet you, Hank!” he reaches out his hand towards hank before continuing to say “I heard so much about you! All great things so don’t worry!” the man laughed to himself while hank handed his wife her glass of wine.
“Oh I am so, so flattered” Hank said jokingly as he extended his hand back towards the man.
“Your name? “Hank adds moments before their hands touch.
“Russell” he replied
“Oh yes! Russell!” Hank paused jokingly, raising his eyebrow humorously before sarcastically adding “I have never heard of you at all” Hank chuckled to himself while reassuring Russell that he was only kidding.
“I see you already met my wife” Russell pointing towards Alice.
“Alice, have you met Becca?” Russell asked before taking a sip of his beer.
“My pleasure Becca” Alice acknowledging Becca before asking “We couldn’t help but notice all the laughter from across the hall.”

Russell begins to tell the story, but all sounds fell silent as Hank looked at his wife, staring intently in awe at her co-worker, lingering on every word that he said, watching her in slow motion slapping his shoulder flirtishly while laughing, again, as if time stood still and pieces of his heart begin breaking off.

“Hank, what do you do for a living.” Hank snaps out of his hypnotic trance and sarcastically answers with great humor “I’m a servant of words, a story teller of such a profession as old as the bible, one would call me ..” Hank says in a lavishing tone and taking a swig of his drink before being interrupted by Becca
“A writer!, hanks a writer” taking back by her response, he tones down his theatrics, coughs and quietly replies “a writer”

Becca quickly shifts her body away from Hank and continues her conversation with Russell. Hank stood there, alienated and confused but stunned by her beauty. Reliving old thoughts of how he uses to
make her smile, make her laugh and remembering the feeling of her touch on his shoulder. Hank stood in
silence, living in the past until Alice stood in his view and inquired
“A writer, what have you written?” Hank taking a sip of his whiskey before humorously replying “words, mostly, sometimes I use numbers if the story really calls for it” he smiles as she rolled her eyes from his answer.

The two strike up a conversation about literature, art and dreams from a youthful time. Until Alice noticed that Hank couldn’t help but be distracted by Becca and she finally confronted him
“Hank” she said softly as she places one hand on his “It bothers you how happy he makes her doesn’t it?” Hank pauses for a moment before jokingly replying “Who? The old lady over in the corner? “Pointing to an elderly woman doing the twist by herself.

“Hank” she continues softly “You must have a real answer somewhere” she looks at him intently as she
continues to add “The work you shown me tonight, your words, are so hauntingly beautiful, romantic, aspiring even. Can’t you express that vocally?” Hank shifts his eyes from his third drink up towards Alice “I’m scared to” he said hesitantly. His eyes begin to tear up as he continued “What if, what if it’s too late, I made one too many jokes or one too many accusations” Hank takes a sip of his drink, predicting her answer.

She stared deeply in his eyes, feeling the pain that he expressed “It’s okay, its okay to be vulnerable, that’s who you are, a hopeless romantic” she smiled kindly still holding onto his hand. Alice had a mischievous look on her face before asking “What if..” She pauses before continuing, gliding her finger tips against her lips. “what if I be the bad guy here?”
confused, Hank asks her “What do you mean? you wanna rob a bank or something?” Alice grins as she adds “Want to know if she still cares about you?” she quickly glances at her husband and Becca still chatting, trying to gain their attention.

Hank raises his eyebrow as she leans in close only for hank to turn away before their lips touched. she gave out a quiet sigh and softly whispers in his ear “I was hoping you’d do that” she gives him a kiss on his cheek and softly adds “Be the hopeless romantic, not the comedian”

“What the fuck!“ Becca expressed furiously as she grabbed onto Alice arm and yanking her away from hank. “Alice! I know about the divorce but that gives you no right!” Becca snapped in pure anger. Alice calmingly responds “calm down Becca, it was the wine, not me” adding apologetically
“I seen you with my husband and I thought you two were the same” Alice shrugged while rolling her eyes. Becca quipped back. Becca gave a stern gaze, a swirling expression of anger and sadness as she announced that they were leaving. Becca grabs hanks hand and begins to storm out of the ballroom. Hank looks back at Alice, standing there next to her husband with his head hanging low and avoiding any eye contact. she smiles, bites her lower lip and gives him a wink as Hank whispers “Thank you”.


As Becca holds Hank’s hand, crossing the ballroom, an old familiar song plays in the background that makes him stop in his tracks. “Hank! We’re leaving, come on” Becca tugs on his hand but he pulls her in close onto the dance floor, wrapping his arm around the small of her back, taking his hand through her hair and leaning his forehead onto hers. He slowly waltzes around in circles, holding her close as she confusingly whispers, “What are you doing?” he softly hushed her question and holds her tightly for a few minutes before pulling away from her face, looking into her beautiful brown eyes, he whispers, “I love you,” and seals it with a kiss.
He takes her head and rest it on his shoulder as they dance in circles to the familiar tune of Charles Bradley. Her heart and his, beating in union and as if time had frozen once more that night, the moment was seized and the love rekindled.

The End
Lucas Durelle

Scroll, scroll some more.

As he sits at the kitchen table, in the darkness of the night, sipping a glass of bourbon while a cigarette burns slowly in the ashtray next to him. He scrolls through his phone, from one social app to another, following the girl that he not only loves but who also broke his heart.

sip after sip, his face illuminated by the the blue glow of his screen watching her smile dim as he scrolls through her older post of when she was his. The girl he helped through the darkness of life with late night chats, warm embrace and eager listening ears. The night that she caressed & cradled his chin in her hand as she crept closer to his face and the feeling of her lips, warm and eager that once rest softly on his was later replaced with the cold brim of ice and alcohol soaked in a distant painful memory.

He continues to scroll…

Image after image of their past, post after post of memories of times long ago but not forgotten. selfies taken together that told of a story of love and loss. The past versus the current. He scrolls, trying to find where it went wrong, where her smile began to fade and the glow became dark. A reel running out of film as he rewinds the VHS of their story searching deeper into the meaning of every post.

He scrolls….

With each photo and every video of them both, he takes a sip of his watered down drink with a slow drag of his burning cigarette. Scratching his head and rubbing his eyes, he grows tired into the midnight hours of the night. Finishing several drinks in the dimly lit room clouded by a haze of smoke that fills within the walls, he lit another cigarette. Letting out an exasperated sigh and taking his final sip, he scrolls and stops.

His eyes widen as he notices one thing in each photo. He began furiously scrolling through the post of them together, noticing the one thing more frequent than anything else. Every party selfie, every sunset photo, videos & post. Ashamed and embarrassed, he sat back in his chair and looks at his table in disbelief. He begins to cry and hung his head in regret.

The warmth of her lips, in which he longed for, the feeling of her, pressed against his as all time stands still and love is embraced…. was replaced by.

The cold brim of a glass, filled with ice and liquor.

A short Story By Lucas Durelle

Him: A short story By Lucas Durelle

The wind blows in the late autumn air as stoops are filled with decorations of pumpkins, scarecrows and
items of harvesting. As the scattered leaves sweep over the concrete of the ground by the shady oak trees
that are perfectly spaced-out on the busy street, a pathway guides along a wide variety of clothing shop,
grocery store, artisan crafts and one locally known coffee shop that had the best americano one’s tongue will ever taste.

As the door opens to the Coffee shop and the autumn foliage blows into the dimly lit store front, the sound of soft blues music is played over the aroma of fresh ground coffee beans. Dark stained chairs occupy the hardwood floor, the walls filled with coffee memorabilia and fine aged books that sat in mahogany bookcases. The coffee shop was vibrant but with hints of aged wood, the soft chatter of its patrons was all he could hear as he turned his coat up on his neck as he felt the cool breeze of the door being opened behind him.

He sat in front of a blank page, on a laptop that was older than he was and could barely load his writing
software. A steaming fresh americano sat to the right of him, waiting patiently to be devoured with enjoyment. His earphones plugged in, listening to a playlist that labelled “inspiration” he stared into the void that was an empty notepad, vibing to the soft swing of the guitar being played in his ears.
He looked around the coffee shop for inspiration, checking out couples talking, friends arguing and laughing and loners being lonesome. He made eye contact with a woman who sat in the corner, her eyes vibrant blue as she looks up over her coffee mug. He pauses, smiles and raises his eyebrows in curiosity, anticipating her response to the acknowledging eye contact, the moment felt like an eternity. She caught his glimpse, rolled her vibrant blue eyes in an exhausting expression and turned her body away from his. Smiling to himself, he shook his head in defeat and return to the empty white void of his screen that shined brighter than the sun in the month of march along the beaches of Costa Rica.

Flipping his phone over, he double touches the screen to check his notifications. Nothing new but one unopened message sent weeks prior. Twitching his mouth back and forth in contemplation, he unlocks his
phone and hovers his thumb over the unopened message. Placing his phone back down and taking one more glance around the crowded café, taking his cup in his hand, sipping slowly on that delicious americano. He watches a couple on the other side of the room, holding hands, smiling brightly and sharing in a laugh, the glitter in their eyes lit up the small space between them as they flirt back and forth. He watched, reminiscing on the love he once felt, the warmth that would blanket him from the cold of society, the soft touch of her fingertips dancing on the back of his hand when they once sat across from each other and the floating feeling of getting lost in her eyes as she stared back at him intently. His gaze was broken when a patron bumped into his shoulder, spilling his coffee onto his lap, looking down at the mess of his pants, he quickly looked back at the flirting couple only to discover they had left in that mere moment. Turning back to the void of his screen, he finishes what’s left of his coffee that didn’t spill onto his lap and places the cup back onto the table in front of him. Looking at his phone, he turns his gaze back to the screen of his laptop and feels defeated. He closes his computer, packs up his gear and walks away from the table.


On his way out the door, making his way through the crowd of people sipping their coffee, playing board
games and sharing life, he glances down and notices the wet stain on his pants from the spilled coffee, he
quickly exits the building, embarrassed.
Outside, standing on the busy corner of the coffee shop, the sunset starts to settle into the distance,
contemplating on where to go next. He chooses to go two blocks around the corner of the busy street to a well-known whiskey bar, a speak easy where creative people like himself like to gather. Entering the building, he approaches the bar and orders a double bourbon with a splash of cola on ice. Looking around for a corner to sit, he makes his way to an empty table that sits close to the furthest wall of the bar. Waiting for the ice to water down his drink, he dug out his laptop and opened it to the white void that follows him like a shadow in the midst of the day. Unsheathing his phone from his pocket he places it next to him and scans the room for inspiration. He watched as artists sketched, poets rhymed, and conversationalists talked about the potency of different whiskey brands and their makers. The sounds of modern folk music played softly in the air as words floated between the groups.

Finally taking a sip of his chilled bourbon and cola, a warm tingle ran down his spine, a sense of relief from the first sip of his drink, he turned towards his laptop, his drink placed next to him, he rest his arms on the edge of the table and danced the tips of his fingers along the keys of his laptop without firmly pressing, almost in a playful way, a mockery of how he typed previously. Taking the half-filled glass in his hand, he takes a couple more sips and glances over the brim. His eyes shift towards his phone, he takes his other hand and unlocks the screen, hovering his thumb over the unread message, taking his final gulp of his drink, he slowly lowers his thumb and opens the message and hesitantly reads in silence.

Hey,
This is never easy and to be truthful, I never thought it would be. The life we share, the life we were going to make was one pure and beautiful, the thought of you and I together would outshine all darkness that would ever try to cloud the love we share. The way your hands held mine, how your eyes stole my breath and the warmth of your heart was a fire that could not be contained…at least it use to be that way, I really thought our love could shine through the darkest days, but those days grew darker and the light in your eyes faded with every drink you would take until all glimmer of hope was gone, the love in your eyes drowned by a river of bourbon and you sank to the bottom and I reached! I reached so deep, but you would never grab my hand! Why didn’t you grab my hand? Was I not worth swimming for? You use to sing and laugh, smile and live but what disappointed me the most was that you stopped writing. What happened to my writer? Where is he? If you find him, let me know. Let me know if he finds his smile, if his eyes can light up a room and if he can write something so profound that it makes him cry.
I need you to find him.
Love,
Her.

Tears escaped his eyes as he read the message over and over, hearing her voice reading softly in his mind,
catching his breath and wiping the tears away on his sleeve. he glanced over at the whiskey glass, now empty shaking his head in disbelief as he pushes the glass away from him. He places his phone carefully next to his laptop and shifts his eyes over at the blank screen ahead of him. He gently placed his fingertips onto the keys and took a deep breath, he takes another glance at the message and as the memories flood his mind, his heart beats rapidly and the fire lights up in his eyes. Finally.


“Him”
A short story
Written By
Lucas Durelle

If you call, I will Answer

“I think I’m getting to the point where I can be myself again” he says to her as he looks up from the side of the bed, replaying the argument over and over in his head.

The pain, the sadness, the desperation of trying to rekindle a relationship that was once strong enough to withstand all storms.

His pleading voice falling on deaf ears as he watches her pack up her things and head for the door. Unable to move, frozen in fear, he lets out a single sentence before she walks out and says.

“If you call, I will Answer”

She paused in the doorway, leaning her head against the frame. she closes her eyes as memories of a life full of love washed over her eyes, like an old time movie reel, flashing over tears.

The moment last forever as he watches her.

The game of who loves more than who.

A romantic disaster.

in that moment, out of anger and fear he said under his breath ” you think, it’s only fair to do what best for you and you alone!

The flashback sizzles out and fades as she turns around with a furious look on her face, bags dropped by her feet as she storms back into the room.

The raised voice echoed throughout the apartment.

I’m warning you, don’t ever do, those crazy messed up things that you do, if you ever do, I promise you, ill be the first to crucify you, now its time to prove that you come back here to rebuild.

Rebuild? He asked with a relieving smile

Rebuild. She said confidently.

Rebuild, he said under his breath as he wiped the tears from his eyes.

Rebuild.

impromptu story while listening to “If you call, I will Answer” By Barenaked Ladies

Lucas Durelle

Shine A Light – A Short Story – Part 1

As he stood on the edge of the beach, watching the sunset as the cool, gentle breeze caressing his skin as the gentle ripples danced in the water. He reflected back onto his life as if he was watching old family movies on an aged VHS player.

He slowly inhales on a cigarette as he stares at the white filter, burning away slowly. Shaking his head as he drops it between his fingers, crushing and extinguishing the smoke with his sandals. He slowly sits down on the warm, coarse sand as he sinks his toes into the shifted earth. Staring at the sun as it lowers beyond the clouds, he cries knowing that there were only a handful amount of sunsets he is able to watch, he knows his time on earth is coming to an end, he knows he is dying.

Greg was like any other common man, short, stocky, fatish with a thinly combed mustache over his upper lip, bottle size glasses and a receding hairline. Married to a women who took him for granted and worked 9 to 5 for a company that didn’t appreciate his time and effort, in a little cubicle that was smaller than others around him. Working for a man who belittles his employees and makes obnoxious jokes. Everything was normal until earlier on that week when his doctor asked him to come and visit him.

“Thanks for coming in, I have the results back from your latest blood test” the doctor proclaimed in a monotone voice. Greg sat quietly and nervous, as he sat there patiently waiting for the results, nervously tapping his fingers on his lap.

“I’m sorry sir, but you have inoperable cancer” the doctor went into details but nothing was heard by Greg, as if time itself stood still, Greg sat there in silence. A blank stare fell on his face as he reflected on the news he had just heard. His wife began sobbing uncontrollably as Greg quickly shifted his gaze onto her. He quickly remembered that over the course of 6 months ago, he found her in the arms of another man and quickly remembered her excuse of how she didn’t remember how it happened. Staring at her as her mascara runs, she grabs his hand and the reflection of her wedding band glared in his eyes as he sat there in silence, still reflecting on the news.

“Greg?, Greg!” she said sternly as Greg slowly comes back to reality and looks at his Doctor and says “I have to go!” Greg rushes out of the office, down the corridor and out to the parking lot and made his way to his car. He sat in the warm, sun-soaked car as he fumbles with the AC. “Piece of shit!” He exclaims as he pounds his fist on the dashboard and lays his head on the steering wheel. He stares at his feet, noticing one of his shoe laces had snapped off and broke.

His wife quickly enters the vehicle and consoles him with open arms and hugs, he doesn’t feel anything. He shifts his eyes towards her and broodingly shakes his head as he puts the car into drive and heads his way back home in silence.

As he sits down in his favorite chair, kicks his feet up, his wife walks into the room. “Do you have anything you want to talk about?” she questions Greg. “No” he simply said as he turns his gaze onto the television. Flabbergasted, his wife stood there in a puzzled state with her hands on her hips. She stood in silence and stared at him in disbelief. “I need to get out, I need some fresh air” she proclaimed as Greg sat there in silence, ignoring her. “Do you need anything?” She asked once more. “No!” he said once again in a dismissive tone. Shaking her head, she grabs the keys and storms out the door. Greg sits there in silence, staring at the TV and reflects on the day.

As hours passed by and the night moon rises, Greg sat there flicking back and forth between channels until he heard the sound of sweetness come across the TV screen. The sound of a booming piano accompanied with slow swinging violas and echoing harps. He listened and watch the orchestra play beautifully as if the players knew of his pain and sorrow. He cried as he stared off at the moon light, burying his head in his hands as he sobs harder and harder, barely able to catch his breath, he falls from his chair and lies on the ground, sobbing uncontrollably to the sweet sound of slow classical music.

When the thunderous boom of the drums kicked into a swifter and uplifting pace, he slowly raised his head from his hands and looked up to the sky through his narrow window. On his hands and knees, he begged for mercy, crying out to god that he wants to live, that he wants to grow old, he begged and begged but god did not listen, no one did and it wasn’t until the lull, silent part of the song that he began to realize, that nothing can save him, that he is hopeless. The sound of booming drums picked up louder and louder through the TV. He became angry and angrier to the point of blinding rage when he finally let out a scream, proclaiming “Fine!! I don’t need your help! who the fuck have you ever helped anyways?” he roared throughout the house, cursing the sun and the moon, cursing god, cursing the world.

He picks himself up from the ground, wipes off his knees and put his hands in a fist and stared at the blank wall in front of him. He draws back his arm and releases and swings at the wall in a fit of rage, smashing through the wallpaper and thin drywall. He pulls his hand out and swung for a second time, making a second hole in the wall. As he begins to release a fury of angered punches against the crumbling wall, his hands become swollen and bloodied. He screams in pain “Ah!!” as he quickly turns around grabbing the lamp from the table and throwing it down the hallway.

He makes his way to the kitchen and opens the cabinet door, grabbing the plates and dishes and throwing them against the wall. Plate after plate, glass after glass until the floor was covered in a layer of nothing but ceramic and shattered glass.

Kicking the debris with his foot, he over hears the couple next door yelling at each other, looking out the window, he witnesses his neighbor violently striking the wife and watches as she falls to the ground.

As he quickly made his way through the rubble and down the hallway, he flung open the front door, he ran across the yard and through the thicket of the bush. He emerged in front of the angered husband and distraught wife. “Greg, get out of here!” she pleaded to him with tear-soaked eyes that were wrapped in bruises. The husband rushed over to Greg and stared him in the eyes “The women said leave bud!” as the neighbor shoves Greg across the yard.

Greg smiles as he looks down at his chest where he was pushed, locks eyes with the neighbor and as if time stood still, Greg released a crushing right hook against the temple of his attacker. Greg began swinging left, right than left then right then left and left again and followed by an uppercut and in a ball of rage Greg unleashed the final blow knocking the neighbor onto the grass. Staring at his hands in disbelief, he looks at the man lying on the ground in the cold, damp grass, motionless. Greg looks at the women and said in a cool manner “Check to see if he’s breathing, if he is, don’t ever let him do that to you again, if he’s not”, Greg pauses then states “than you’re welcome” Greg walked away, went into his house with his chest puffed out, walked up to his bedroom, took two shots of whiskey than went to bed.

It wasn’t long until he heard a shrieking scream come from the kitchen, Greg sat up in horror and made his way downstairs to find his wife, once again sobbing as she looked at the rubble around her. “What happened Greg!” she screamed across the room, panicked and waving her arms. Greg looks up at her and said with a smile “I hated those dishes” as he turns away, she screams at him one more time until he quickly turned around and snapped back “I’m going to bed!, I had a rough day, goodnight!” leaving her in a sudden shock of disbelief. She gasps as she stares at the floor covered in ceramic rubble and shattered glass. Greg walks up the narrowing stairs, lays his head down on his pillow and chuckled to himself until he fell asleep.

By Lucas Durelle

 

 

 

The Writer – Part 3

As he sat there in shame, pondering his next move, he looked over at his work bench, untidy and messy and covered in tools. He notices a yellow handle poking through the debris. Puzzled, he slowly lifts himself from his blood-soaked chair and hopped his way to his work table. Clearing the debris and unveiling his next plan of attack against the hard, sturdy oak door. A yellow handle maul ax. Quickly grabbing the handle, he slowly made his way through the dark, damp basement and approached the staircase where he once fell earlier that day.

Looking at the ground below the stair case, shards of broken glass and blood filled the floor as a gut-wrenching feeling passed through his body as he relieved the horror of today events.

Slowly making his way up the staircase, step by step, he reaches the top and steadies his footing and with his ax in hand, he took one mighty swing at the door. Boom! echoed through the short of the hall when he was greeted with excruciating pain shooting through his body as the impact of the ax sending a crippling shock to his leg wound from trying to steady himself on the staircase, He dropped to one knees and began breathing heavy.

He stood up and tried again. Boom! he fell to his knee and hanged his head. Gritting his teeth, He stood up and swung the ax for a third time. Boom! He screamed as the pain rushes through his body, but he did not fall. Turning his body once again, steadying his footing, lifting the axe from his side, he swung for a fourth time at the hardwood door. Boom! In an anger rage, he exhausted the rest of his energy, swinging faster and faster, boom, boom–boom–boom, boom, screaming in hatred, swearing with each swing, you, boom mother boom, fucker! Boom!!

He fell to his knees, sweat falling from his brow, blood dripping from his wound, feeling defeated. Pressing his hand against his wound, he glares at the blood dripping from his hand glistening in the sunlight. Surprised, he looks up and sees the sun creeping through the hole in the doorway.

Placing the ax against the wall, he slipped his hand through the make-shift hole and reached for the door knob on the other side. Noticing the door knob turning but not opening, he reaches a little higher and finds the knob of the deadbolt was fully engaged. He turned the knob right and watched as the splintered, beaten up door slowly open and felt the warmth of sunlight shining on his face.

Relieved, he crawled his way through the door, laying on the hardwood floor in the kitchen, bathing in the sunlight. Hope was restored as he pauses for a moment in the contrast of the dark basement in comparison of the sunlit room.

Staring at the ceiling with his hands on his chest, he knew he was not done yet and lifted himself onto the kitchen counter and reached for his phone.

Quickly opening the contact list and finding his wife, he never hit that green button so hard and quickly before this moment. He waited. Ring. Ring. The phone rang several times before an automated greeting came up, he left her a message explaining the day’s events and ending the story with a simple “I love you”

As he laid on the floor, the sun became brighter, almost a blinding white light as images of his life fluttered past his eyes. His first steps, the loving look on his mother’s face, the echoing voice of his father’s words, his first day at school, the loving smile of his wife. Becoming distracted, he quickly tries to focus his eyes on the dimmed screen of his phone, he slowly dials 9,1,1. as he slowly slips unconscious to the sound of an unknown woman, he’s only able to say one word.

“Help.”

As he passes in and out of consciousness and if time itself has stood still, only briefly seeing the flickering of overhead lights as he is being pushed through a narrowing corridor. He feels the crashing of being pushed through two heavy doors into a dimly lit room. The room is filled with chatter as he can hear the mumbles of people talking to each other, racing around him. with what strength he has left, he cries “where am I? but that cry fell on silent ears as he is not able to speak, the people do not know he is awake.

Terrified, he tries to struggle but is unable to move, being able to feel everything that is happening to him, tears fall from his closed eyes as he feels every poke, prod and stitch until he inevitably passes out from the pain and settles into the darkness of sleep.

“Quite the day you have had son” a familiar voice echoes across the room.
“who’s there?” he said in a puzzled tone, “I can’t move, help me!” he pleaded to the voice.
“Get up son” as he felt a reaching touch, grab his hand and help him sit up from his bed.

When the familiar face of his mother emerged from the blinding light, with soft pale blue eyes and faded white hair, she stared at her son with a gentle smile as he quickly embraced her and felt something he hasn’t felt in several months since her passing

“Mom, this can’t be real”  he said in a whimper
“No son, it isn’t” she said kindly as she places an open hands over the right side of his cheek, she smiles and says “This is the moment where you either come with me and rest forever or you be the man I thought you would be and go back, write your book, live an honest life and love those who love you, quit the drinking son, it’s not what I raised you to be”
“but mom, I’ve missed you so much, I can’t bare it” he pleaded.
” Son, that’s life, people die, I lived a good life and you need to as well” she said kindly
“I don’t want to leave you again” He pleaded once more
“that’s your choice son, but just know, you will be leaving those that love you, just like I had to leave you, the only difference was, it was my time to go. It’s not yours”

Hugging his mother one last time as tears stream from his face, he holds her tightly and gives his love. “Now blink son, it’s time to wake up” she says as she slowly disappears into the light.

Almost as if traveling through worlds in a blink of an eye, he awakes in a hospital room, on a bed that is too stiff, surrounded by lights that are too bright and the feeling of a warm hand touching his. He slowly fixes his gaze upon his beautiful wife. She sat there, and she was as perfect as he remembers her early on today. He takes a moment and watches her sleep upright in the chair. Her auburn hair shining in the moonlight, her hand gripping his, he gives her a gentle tug of his hand to wake her. As she wakes, her emerald-green eyes lock onto his as a relieving smile slips passed her lips as a tear gently falls from her eye while she exhales a relieving gasp at the sight of her husband smiling back at her.

She quickly leaps from her chair and into his arms and once again, time stood still as he felt the warmness of her body against his, as they sat there in silence, as they sat there in peace.

After a 3 day stay at the hospital, they finally made it back to their home and settled in. As he walks into the kitchen and sees the broken remains of the basement door, he feels a sense of panic rush over him until he is quickly calmed by the touch of his wife’s hand
“you go and rest, I got this” she said reassuring,
“No, there’s something I have to do” he states as he kisses her softly.

He stood at the top of the basement stairs, looking at the mess of the previous day, he takes one step down the narrowing staircase, then another and with each passing step, he relived the harrowing moment that not only changed him but changed the course of his life.

As he made his way to his office, He finds himself standing in front of the liquor cabinet, his wife watches behind the door with a concerned look covering her face. He reaches for his signature Rye and Whiskey. He walks over to the sink in his office, opens the cap and pours it down the drain. His wife smiles as she turns away and walks back up the stairs. He slowly walks over to his office desk, opens a word document, takes a seat, lights a cigarette and begins writing.

“As he sat in his Burgundy cloth high back chair, sipping on lukewarm coffee, taking small drags off his cigarette, he stares at the flickering white screen in front of him, wordless. He wipes his brow and takes another puff. The sound of smooth jazz playing on the radio behind him adds to the tension as he struggles to begin his sentence.”

The End.

The Writer –  A Short Story By Lucas Durelle

Part one can be found Here
Part two can be found Here

The Writer – Part 2

As the pain shot through his body and adrenaline coursed through his veins, inch by inch he slowly attempts to pull out the shard of glass protruding out of his leg. As the sweat drips from his brow and his hands shake, he began feeling nauseous as he immediately let go of the jagged shard to calm his nerves.

“Come on, you can do this” he says to himself, as he takes quick, shallow breaths. Gripping the shard once more as the familiar feeling of pain covers his body, “ugh, ahh” his screams are deafening, his spine is tingling, teeth chattering. He firmly grips the piece of glass and with a hesitant tug, he pulls the shard out in one swift pull.

Dropping the glass next to his leg, he lets out a cry of relief, and quickly tightens the ripped-up cloth around the wound. Feeling woozy, light-headed and faint, his vision begins to tunnel as he falls from his chair and lands on the cold, grey concrete floor, slowly passing out from the pain.

 “Drunk, again are you?” He hears a disapproving, familiar voice off in the distance. He tries to adjust his eyes to the blinding light. “What?” he asked, confused and afraid. “Seriously, we are going to be late and your drunk and passed out! wake up!” The voice said in an angered shrill.

Attempting to adjust his eyes to the blinding light, the familiar voice got louder and deeper in an almost demonic sense, that echoed throughout the room, when suddenly the white light vanished, and blackness was all that he could see.  A sudden feeling of wetness covered his body and a strong aroma of alcohol filled his nose. Choking, he gasps for air as the liquid rises higher and higher.

Barely able to hold his head above the acidic, brown liquid, he attempts to scream for help, but his voice is not there. His heart races as he tries to comprehend what is going on before he falls into an endless abyss, drowning in the liquid.

Quickly shooting up and gasping for air, he awakes, confused as he surveys his surroundings and pats his body all over. He turns over onto his back and rest his head on the concrete floor, rubbing his eyes “A dream, what the fuck?” He mutters to himself in panic and relief. Still feeling cold and wet as he looks down at his leg.

The rag stained in red and a small puddle of blood laid beneath him, he turns over onto his side and places his hands on the table and slowly pulls himself up onto his burgundy red chair. He sits heavily as his heads sways back and forth, feeling weak and tired, his gaze fixated on a bottle of whiskey sitting on his shelf. Slowly reaching for the half-filled bottle, he grabs it and cracks open the cover and presses the bottle against his dry, cracked lips and takes a swig. “ah!” He whispered as he looks at the bottle, shaking his head in disapproval. He whispers to the bottle ” this is your fault” as he pours a little whiskey on his wound.

Placing the cover back on the bottle, he takes a moment to reflect back on his morning, from his first cup of coffee to his 4th drink of whiskey. He sat in reflection, his gaze still fixated on the brown bottle with black lettering and a white label. Remembering the fight, he had this morning with his wife. The hateful things he said, the tears that filled her eyes, and the loss of love leaving her heart. He knew he had lost who he was, and when he became this inebriated monster, he not only lost himself, but he lost her.

Tears filled his eyes as he silently weeps to himself, knowing if he doesn’t escape his office in the dark, gloomy basement, he would die leaving her with only the most recent memory of what he had become, not who he once was.

In a sudden rage, he quickly grabbed the bottle and threw it against the wall. The glass exploded, spraying whiskey all over the concrete floor, and as if a 1000 lbs.monster just fell from his back, he felt relieved, and looked back at his computer screen, opened his word document and began writing a letter to his wife.

“To my dearest love”

“As I sit here in pain, frightened that I will not make it out of this alive, I felt the need to leave this letter behind in-case my hopes of escape fail. And although I am terrified of death, I am more terrified of not seeing you again. I am terrified that you will only remember the recent version of myself, the drunk mess that blamed his problems onto you when the only problems I had been caused by me. I am sorry.  All I ever wanted to be was a writer in this life, but it wasn’t until these recent hours that the only thing I should have been is a better husband to you. And while i may not escape this nightmare, I will leave this world with pleasant memories of you and I hope you remember the person you fell in love with, not the monster that I have become. I am Sorry, I love you.”
Love, Your husband.

As a tear falls from his eyes and splashes against the keyboard, he hangs his head in shame and cries. Wishes he was a better husband, a better man. Trying to find the strength to escape, trying to find the energy to stand, trying not to die and for the first time in a long time, he was trying to live as the man he once was.

He Tried.

By Lucas Durelle
Modern-Typewriter

 

The Writer – Part 1 – A Short Story By Lucas Durelle

As he sat in his Burgundy cloth high back chair, sipping on lukewarm coffee, taking small drags off his cigarette, he stares at the flickering white screen in front of him, wordless. He wipes his brow and takes another puff. The sound of smooth jazz playing on the radio behind him adds to the tension as he struggles to begin his sentence.

Extinguishing his cigarette in the over flowed ashtray, he stood up and stretched and heads upstairs to re-warm his coffee. As he began climbing the staircase, the sound of soft creeks echo under his foot. Reaching for the door knob, the door is stuck. Puzzled, he tried again with a little added force but was unable to even wedge the door open.

“This is ridiculous” He muttered to himself as he placed the coffee down on the step next to him. Gripping the old, rusty doorknob, he pressed his shoulder into the door and slammed his body against the door. Thwack! the booming sound echoed throughout the cold basement. He quickly shifted his body towards the right to catch himself from falling off the narrow staircase, causing his coffee cup to tumble and shatter at the platform below.

Looking down at the coffee spilled mess and shards of ceramic glass laying everywhere, he placed his finger tips on his temples and began gently messaging his head. “OK, this is foolish now”  turning around and walking back down the staircase and carefully stepping over the shards of glass, making sure his barefoot was not damaged, he made his way into his office on the other side of the dark, damp basement and found a bottle of WD-40. Smiling to himself, he grabbed the bottle and made his way back up the staircase, once again carefully stepping over the glass to prevent injury.

As he made his way up the staircase, shaking the can of WD-40 in his hand, he approached the door once more and carefully sprayed the chemical around the rusty door hinges and door knob. Placing the can down next to him, he quickly grabbed the door knob and gave a shove into the door but his hand slipped on the greasy doorknob, causing him to lose his footing and come crashing down the staircase, hitting his head against the staircase and landing on the ceramic shards of broken glass that laid on the floor.

As he attempted to regain his vision, he propped himself against the wall and waited to realign himself. Looking at his hands, covered in blood, he felt a sharp, rushing pain shooting up his leg. Looking down, he notices a piece of shattered glass sticking 3 inches out of his leg, and feeling almost faint, he attempted to inspect the wounded area. He noticed he was slowly loosing blood.  Afraid, he attempted to pull at the shard, when he was over-come by an intense buzzing, tingling and excruciating pain covering his entire body, as if he was shocked by a high-powered taser. He screamed and began breathing heavier.

Panicking, he began screaming for help in the old broken down 2 story house with nobody in it. His screams fell on deaf ears as he stuttered to himself “this is bad!”

Knowing that if he doesn’t act quick, he would be in serious trouble, he made his way back to his office, crawling on his hands and knees on the cold, dirty, grey concrete floor while dragging his injured leg behind him. He slowly made his way back to his office leaving a trail of blood smeared on the concrete floor.

While laying on the ground, he searched for his cellphone… that was laying on his office desk. Feeling a sense of panic, as his hands searched in place of his eyes, he realized that he had left his cellphone upstairs, as it was a distraction previously to him while he was writing. His life line was behind a door that could not be opened. His eyes widened in fear as he stared at his wound. Quickly pulling himself up on his burgundy cloth chair, he attempted to open his Internet browser and contact someone who could help.

As the page loaded, he was greeted by a dinosaur standing next to a cactus stating “Unable to connect to the internet” Frustrated he screamed “Fuck!” burying his face in his hands and began crying, pleading to god for help but god did not come, nobody did.

Sitting in the chair, feeling faint, he stared at the shard of ceramic glass sticking out of his leg. With the gentle touch of a single finger, he touched the tip of the shard and felt an immediate buzz run through his body, pain like he had never felt before, knowing the only way to survive this was to remove the shard and apply pressure on the wound.

Staring at the serrated obstacle in his leg, he took off his button shirt and ripped a piece of cloth from the shirt and carefully tied the bandage around his wound, as he staggered from the immense pain he felt while to trying to slow the blood.

He let out a simple sigh and reached for his cigarettes. As he placed the white filter tip against his quivering lips, he sunk back into his chair while his eyes fixated on this piece of glass. Grabbing his lighter, he lit his cigarette, inhaled than exhaled very calmly as he knew what he had to do. Staring in pure agony and overcome by fear, the writer knew he had to take that shard out, no matter the pain.

He took another puff from his cigarette as his free hand wrapped his fingers around the shard. Immediate buzzing and excruciating pain rushed through his body with every slight wiggle and tug on the shard. His body  began trembling and the pain could be felt in the root of his teeth. He had to push through. But could he?

To Be Continued….

Part two can be found Here