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"This Is Your Life"- My first attempt at a short story
Well, this is the first short story I've written just for fun. I'd really like some feedback on it. For instance, how do you feel about my decision to put it all in second person? Please be as harsh as possible. I would MUCH rather hear what's wrong with it that what's right.
THIS IS YOUR LIFE
“Hey, watch where you’re going,” says the huge black man you just bumped into. He doesn’t look happy. “What, are you stupid or something?” asks the man. His shove jolts you back into reality. You’re suddenly very angry. You draw your fist back, as if to strike him, but at that instant your cell rings. It’s Catherine.
“Hey honey, what are you doing?” she asks in her sweet melodic voice. “Nothing, I- I almost killed someone,” you answer. “What?” Her voice was harsher now; it was laced with surprise, anger. “Never mind. We need to talk,” you hear yourself saying. You realize that you’ve been in the door of the Upper 31st street Starbucks for a good three minutes now. People are yelling at you, pushing you, trying to get in. You’re oblivious.
“Leland?” Her voice brings you out of your reverie. You’re still on the phone with Catherine. “Are you listening to me? What color should our bridesmaids’ dresses be?” She was, as usual, preoccupied with something that didn’t matter. “Blue. Tan. You know I’m no good with colors.” Although it was being reproduced in a tiny speaker millimeters from your ear from what seemed like a million miles away, Catherine’s voice retained all of the qualities which made it so tantalizing in person. “I’m sorry,” she says. “How are you doing?” “What? You’re breaking up,” you say. No way is she going to fall for the I-must-be-losing-cell-service trick. You’re in the middle of New York City. “Leland, please. I need to talk to you. I need you to hear what I’m saying. Don’t play these games with me.” You just can’t take it anymore. Her voice is too intoxicating. You hang up and remove yourself from the doorway of the Starbucks, causing an avalanche of incoming patrons colliding with outbound, latte-clutching customers. Your Grande Espresso burns your throat on the way down. You drop the cup in pain. Although you miss Catherine terribly, you dread her phone calls. Hearing her speak is too nerve wracking to handle.
You need some way to get your mind off of Catherine. You drop your USA Today next to the steaming, spilled espresso and start sprinting down the block. You’re wearing your Gucci shoes and a designer suit. You run past incredulous onlookers, your tie flailing in the wind. The office is the other direction, but it doesn’t matter. You were going to get fired soon anyway. You turn randomly, cutting back through sidestreets and alleyways. You have no idea where you are. After around twenty minutes of this, you stop and lean up against a wall in a near deserted alley to catch your breath. Your lungs are on fire, and your $300 shoes are ruined.
“F***!” you yell. “What am I doing?” No one hears you.
This is your life.
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"Narnia, Narnia, Narnia, awake. Love. Think. Speak. Be walking trees. Be talking beasts. Be divine waters."
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