Window Blind

Writer's club is back with a vengeance, minus 2 key players, but with 2 new additions.  

I walked into writer's club with an agenda this evening.  I knew what I wanted to write, but I didn't know what part of the story was going to come out.   But now I know in part.  Because tonight, I wrote an ending to a new short story.  I'll be writing this story backwards (one of my favorite ways to write), so stay tuned to see the events unravel before your very eyes (in reverse, of course.  And if I stay interested enough to keep the story rolling).

The title of the story is "Window Blind" that I admittedly stole from a beloved Denise Levertov poem.  I would like to create strong imagery of light and windows throughout the entire story, along with multiple metaphors relating to love and relationships.   

Window Blind (The Ending)

A cool breeze from the bedroom window stroked Michael’s face, interrupting his dreams and waking him to a better reality.  Without moving, he could feel Elizabeth lying next to him; her long brown hair sprawled around the white pillowcase.  The breeze had not awakened her, and Michael was careful to do the same.  His feet retreated to the soft carpet below, although his eyes never left her face.  The large satin curtains began to twirl in the wind, now strong enough to whistle through the shades.  He carefully closed the window, allowing the first day’s light to enter without the chilling October breeze disrupting Liz’s sleep.

He slowly walked down the few stairs and into the kitchen.  The small room was only slightly lit by the dawn light reaching through the window blinds.  The rays danced through the glass vase holding the roses he gave Elizabeth the evening prior.  He gave a full grin in the flowers’ direction; they laid perfectly still side-by-side, beautiful and serene. 

It was then that his eyes caught the yellow legal paper waiting for him on the kitchen table, tucked away in a corner of the small room.  The leaky pen Liz used still sat next to its paper counterpart. The written words were small but filled Michael’s heart with more hope than he has had in years.

He read what he imagined to be the softest of spoken words, but written in an even gentler way, “You smiled and talked to me of nothing, and I felt that for this, I had been waiting long.”