Short Stories Chapter 2 Poll |
Rednin « Citoyen » 1465000260000
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Xenomphking « Citoyen » 1465589700000
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Out of good sportsmanship, I will not vote for my self, Lightsoulz has my vote |
Rednin « Citoyen » 1465669500000
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Nine years and 361 days ago, a pair of newlyweds moved into a small, cozy building along the main street of their beloved hometown. Soon after, however, in front of that very building while crossing the street, one was killed in an accident. Heart completely destroyed, still tender from fresh love, the remaining half of the couple remained in a state of depression for the rest of their short life. They committed suicide a week after. Since then, after hearing the accounts of police and worried relatives who visited the building, there has been a heavy atmosphere surrounding the area, as if the remains of the soul that had given itself away to the mate that had passed on continued to linger. -- With a heavy heart I take the letter before my eyes. Another complaint. I see tears staining the edge of the paper. Tears of some lovesick somebody, heartbroken for a love torn apart too soon. I sink deeper into guilt and shame as I see the angry writing, cursing me. I file the paper in a drawer already full of letters like it. I bury my doubt as I stuff the crisp writing with the rest. I bought this building for my cafe two years ago. It’s only rumors. They are from awhile ago. It’s not true. These are merely coincidences. Yet all insist that the “Half-Soul” that presumably haunts my cafe building has cursed it so that all couples who visit will be separated by death soon after. It’s only rumors. They are based from awhile ago. It's not true. I've reputation to uphold. While the unfortunate flood their eyes with tears and blame, blame, blame on a myth, pummeling their fists against what I've worked hard to create, I must carefully maintain my cafe--a place of romance, perfect for a date. This place is hailed as the Love Garden--fresh buds of couples visiting all the time. So I keep my mouth smiling against the hot mourning wind, and I let them bloom. -- With sinking heart I grasp the letter closely before my face. Another complaint. My hand shakes. Signed at the bottom is my cousin’s name. I had invited him to take his girlfriend here and propose to her. Soon after he had proposed at my cafe, she had fallen down the stairs and broke her neck. My cousin is a kind man. He could never curse me outright. He hid his anger in his words cleverly. But I can see the quiver in the writing, and I can feel the malice underlying the gentle “I hate to break it to you” tone. And in solid, confident writing, he writes that I should close the cafe--curse or not, these coincidences were too much to ignore. It’s only rumors. They are from awhile ago. It's not true. These are merely coincidences. -- With shaking heart I crumple the letter with my grip, raising it before me. Another complaint. I shake. Signed at the bottom is my sister’s name. She had had a long history with her husband; they were a happily married couple with two children. I’d convinced her to come to my cafe. Soon after visiting, her husband died in a construction accident. My sister is a forward woman. She has no anger for me, only sorrow and worry. She pleads for me to close the cafe. In rushed handwriting, she attempts to convince me there is indeed a curse. It’s only rumors. They are from awhile ago. It's not--- These aren't merely coincidences? “My” voice commands me to move on. -- My beloved husband has visited me today. He's busy with work and often eats at other places closer to his workplace without me, but today he found time. As he leaves for his night shift out the door, I turn back to the front counter. With quivering heart I hold the letter in my hand, skim it with my eyes. Another complaint. I sigh. I read unfamiliar handwriting. The paper is old and crinkled with age. It’s my first customer’s letter, which I hadn't received until now, somehow--there's no signature. She's sorrowful and wrathful over her husband’s death. Ten years ago, she had come; he died after being hit by a car in front of the building. The voice I use to read her handwriting isn't mine. My mind synthesizes a realistic and loud sound effect. I can hear the honk and the screech as the car tries to stop. “The rumors are from ten years ago. They are true. These are not merely coincidences.” Her heart is pounding. My heart is pounding. Her husband walks through the door leading the line. My husband walks through the door and sits with weeping half-souls. We sign our letter of complaint. You have been rewarded here Dernière modification le 1465670040000 |