Bristol_Thrall

This is a sequel to an earlier short "Her Last Breath"



Samuel Alone


“I love you too,” he whispered. But she had gone.

His love, his wonderful, perfect love was gone. He shut his eyes and imagined her spirit, now free, now soaring with the angels.

Then Samuel wept. He wept for the end of their journey together; too short - why so short? And as he wept, his soul’s tears washed her frail, defeated, beautiful body, her beautiful self, still warm as he held her in his arms; held her and would never let go. Never.

“Dear Lord Jesus, take her into your care. Love her and protect her, until that day we may be together again. I ask this as your humble servant.” He rocked her then; rocked slowly and gently, backwards, forwards, his face buried in her hair, her lifeless body safe within his strong embrace.

The night had been endless. Emily’s condition had worsened through the small hours as she passed beyond the help of their crude medication, declining the little laudanum that remained, wanting to stay lucid for him in their final moments together. They spoke few words, but he never left her side. They had both come to understand that this time, he alone would wake to a new day. She had known when it was time. “Hold on to me my love.” Her breathing had been a distress; her voice had faltered and failed, but her eyes shone with love for him and he would keep this precious memory of her for ever. His Emily. His life.

***

She was still in his arms as the unwelcome first hint of morning seeped through the makeshift curtain to cast a yellowed taint across the sparse, cold room. Samuel had slept for nearly two hours. Now, with the dawn, he struggled to open his swollen eyes. Her body, which had only moments before been the delicate and frail figure of his one true love, now lay cold to his touch, heavy and unyielding. Of this he was conscious, but he dared not allow himself to fully waken; could not face what he had lost. His heart raced; he could feel it pumping his useless blood through his useless body. He would not wake. Who was he now, without her? His life too had surely ended at the moment she had given her last breath.

He was cold; he felt himself shiver as his eyes slowly adjusted to the light. He had fallen asleep holding her, and now his body ached and cramped in protest. Closing his eyes he thought only of being able to reverse the march of time; to go back beyond this spoiled garrett that now stank of disease and defeat. He tried to remember the first time they’d met, but he could hold the thought only for an instant before his mind and body dragged him back to the present.
As he lay in his semiconscious purgatory he became aware of the sounds of Old Port going about its business in the streets and on the quays below, just another December morning, like any other. A sled cracked along the cobbles outside, and Samuel imagined it to be loaded with cotton, headed toward Corn Street and the merchant nails. Emily loved the hustle and bustle of market days, and although they had barely a few shillings to their name, she would always throw a penny or two for the mudlarks along the banks beneath the bridge, as he held her hand.

A dog was barking; why could he hear it so clearly? The window behind him must be open; or the door to this old tenement at the foot of the stairs outside their room. Yes, that was it, some one was leaving for the day. A young gentleman had just last week taken lodging in the room below theirs; they had not had the opportunity yet to make his acquaintance but Emily believed him to be one of the new teaching staff at Colston’s, on account of his kempt appearance and the bundle of books she saw him carry with great diligence, as she watched the ebb and flow of Bristol life from their tiny window. Samuel thought they must meet him soon, and Emily could take him down a piece of her pumpkin cake – there was no finer way to greet a new friend. Yes, they would do that, and soon.

There was a gentle ‘tap, tap’ at the door.

Samuel awoke from his reverie and listened.

Tap. Tap. It came again, and then the handle was turning. He brushed Emily’s hair gently aside and looked past her to the door.

“Sam? Em? It’s me and Thom. We wanted to see how you were. If you needed anything.”

The door pushed open and a young girl stepped inside, an infant snuggled into her shoulder, fast asleep. She saw her two friends together on the old mattress that served as both bed and armchair, and she smiled. Samuel had once joked that it was the grandest armchair in the land, room enough for the both of them and Good Queen Bess herself, should she choose to visit.

She looked down at Sam and he looked back up at her. Thom stirred as his mother’s eyes filled with an ocean of sorrow.

“Oh no. Oh no,” she shook her head and clutched Thom tight to her, “Sam?…”

But the desolation in his eyes left no doubt. It was over.

crzywriter

There was nothing really wrong grammatically with this story, but it felt very cliched. Maybe this just isn't my kind of thing, but it didn't do much to grab my attention. I didn't even really feel all that sorry for Samuel.

Hope you don't take this the wrong way. I've read other stuff from you and enjoyed it. I just don't think this is your best stuff.

Bristol_Thrall

All crit is good crit. it's a very cliched storyline really; I'm just finding my way with a language that suits the period. I don't want to be Mills and Boon.

You're right about grabbing attention. I'll have to work on that.

Thanks,
BT

Chris Miller

Hi Bristol,

Your style is (still) too melodramatic for me. I get the feeling that you write for yourself much more than for other people. I'm not sure this is a criticism. Just an observation.


This is a run-on. Also, should read "dared" to stay in the very clunky past perfect tense that you have chosen to write this in.


You are a good writer. I beg you, please write a story about something you have experienced. Write it in the 1st person, present (or maybe simple past) tense. Use the material you have been given (that life has given you). Do not try so hard to dictate my emotional involvement. Write about the mundane, if it is mundane. Let me find my own feelings. Don't tell me how people/you are feeling. Let me figure it out.

__________________
the fairwriting blogs

Barcelona Review story: http://www.barcelonareview.com/64/e_cm.html

Bristol_Thrall

Thanks for your comments Chris. Yes, i remember you have advised before on writing about myself. It doesn't seem natural (we Brits are horribly reserved when it comes to saying anything - even mundane - about ourselves); I'm probably worse than most, rarely peeping out of the safety of my box. But I know you're right, and I will give it a try. I trust your judgement on this. I know what I'm going to write about too - how I discovered misanthropy on my soul destroying 3 hour commute to work in my last job! Actually, in hindsight, it was quite amusing.

BT