I am trying to sort through my mass folder of half started pieces of writing, so expect a lot of random stories and fragments in the future. This is something I started a long time ago; it was originally meant to be a lot longer but I lost my train of thought with it, personally I am quite happy with it not being carried on; I really can't think of a way I'd want it to go now. So I'll let it live as something short. Anyways, enjoy? Comment/crit if you wish, that would be nice <3 Spoiler Shades of Grey The sheets have turned cold since he left her, crumpled and unmade; she hasn’t made the bed since she found him gone. If she hugs the pillows she can still smell the scent of his aftershave, the citrusy scent of his hair gel. She walks on ballerina legs, shaped and perfect but too white from lack of sun. The warm arms that comforted her in nights past will hold her no more, and as she paces the floorboards her mind runs back through the last time she saw him. The last time she saw that charming smile, the last time she felt that soft kiss. It is all gone now. She stares out of the dusty window, raises pale fingers to trace a heart through the grime, frames with their initials; hers and his, before slashing through the shape with long fingernails. Jagged edges marking cracks in the heart, broken and slashed. Outside the world is grey, as grey as the ash that spills from the saucer on the bedside table and as grey as the mood that settled over her. Grey, grey, grey an endless monotone world where even the weak sunlight barely filters through the drizzle and the haze. The coffee has turned stale, evaporating into the musky air, leaving behind brown rings in the mugs as the liquid slowly decreases. She circles one mug with her fingers; he drank from this mug that night before he left, she can’t bring herself to wash away the traces he left behind. His lips had touched that, she wanted to keep that, even if it was that damn hideous mug she always tried to hide at the back of the cupboard. Ugly and decorated with smiling dwarves; a remnant of happier times when she had an obsession with Snow White. Now it would forever grace the table, along with the crumbs and dishes of a last snack before bed. Letters pile up by the front door, a paper mountain of unread bills and junk. Yellowing around the edges and smelling damp, she contemplates moving them, but she doesn’t want to; doesn’t want to touch anything in case she accidently disturbs and destroys some small thing he left behind. She watches dust motes float around from room to room, dancing along to music that only they can hear. For a while she dances too, caught up in the false pretence of life. She stumbles, nearly catches her balance, but nearly isn’t enough and she pirouettes in slow motion, crashing through the air. Arms flying as her legs give out, she catches the table as her fingers grasp the edges, desperate for balance. She falls, the table falls, the coffee mugs slip and fall, sliding along the surface to smash on the floor. She lies amongst the broken debris of ceramics, the spilled coffee and the settling dust. She sobs for hours unmoving before falling into uneasy sleep. She dreams of the day when the veiled shadows of death will return to take her too. The sheets have turned cold since he left her, as cold as her fozen world.
This actually feels quite like the beginning of something. Close to everything you post takes the form of a stylistic piece or thematic experiment rather than simple, or maybe not so simple, story telling. Your style is conducive that kind of short concentrated form. This piece, however, seems like it's actually leading into something rather than creating an opening, brief suspension in the middle and ending based on a driving sense of purpose and a central thought as opposed to a longer pieces tendency to focus itself on a plot and character set. As different as this ends up being structurally the style still has the same slightly distant observer feeling that I get. I guess the upshot of all that would be this: It's different in ways but the same in ways. Enjoyable to read but a bit of a mystery to properly define and place for me.
I thought it was beautifully written and would do well just left as it is. It feels like a snapshot of grief, a small insight into a desperate life, and I think I prefer it like that rather than an extended story. I really liked the bit with the dust motes; to get caught up as if they were dancing together almost sounded wonderful.
