I'm doing my leaving cert and really need help with my compositions!
Short Story (heart still aches for Darren)
Where is it?
I looked around and tried to fight back the tears. Every nook and cranny of the empty house had a story to tell and I was terrified that the memories we had made would be forgotten.
I stared out the bedroom window onto our garden. Although it was small, it was full of charachter and held for me more than an measure of memories. At the end of the garden was a small patio and cheap wooden furniture. It was on that very patio that Darren proposed to me one summer evening sixteen years ago. He wasn't exactly a romantic and randomly popped the question after a couple of bottles of red wine. He fell asleep soon afterwards and I wasn't even sure if he'd remembered the precious moment the next morning. I was pleasantly surprised when a week later he marked his relationship status as 'engaged' on an insurance form. It was one of his more romantic moments.
As I turned my back on the window and opened my wardrobe it was my wedding dress that immediately caught my eye. My hands carefully and slowly removed the her from the wardrobe and laid her out on our unmade bed. Although she had faded from a crisp white to a dirty cream I was still overwhelmed by her beauty and had to fight the temptation to try her on. Thirteen years and three pregnancies later my slender size six body was no more than a distant memory. As I stared and stared at her, memories of our special day came flooding back to me. The day was far from perfect to say the least. The morning was a rushed frenzy of screaming women with streaky tans and stringy perms. I was already in the early stages of pregnancy and trying to disguise my small bump was almost next to impossible with every female member of my extended family poking and prodding at my anatomy. As the tradition goes I was fashionably late to the church, but Darren was even later! Possibly one the most shameful moments of my life was sitting on a church step, a knocked up bride stood up by her groom. Eventually he arrived with his fly undone and his face unshaved. Easily pleased, I was the happiest bride in the world!
I packed my dress away with my other delicates and started to strip the bed. It was that bed that the our first of our three darlings, Conor was born. As usual, things didn't go to plan. I went into labour in the middle of the night. It was the coldest winter Ireland had ever seen and in the sleet and snow our '87 Micra hadn't a hope of taking off. During 24 hours of excruciating labour I was left alone with a clueless man who had one eye on me and one eye on the Ryder Cup. Suprisingly Conor's delivery was without complications and unsuprisingly Darren was more traumatised by the event than me. Some things never change, after the birth of our third child Darren was still uncomfortable with the concept of pregnancy and vowed never to have unprotected sex again.
I put my bedclothes in the washbasket and went to the boy's room to strip their beds. I directed my gaze to the faded patch of wallpaper where one Sunday morning the boys drew dragons and dungeons. It took weeks to persuade Darren to disguise the drawings, but six years later I wanted nothing more than to see those scribbles again. I stared at the wall pleading it to show me the array of colourful crayons but without success. A colony of super heroes and stuffed animals cluttered the floor but what used to seem like a chore was a moment to be cherished. This time I didn't mind tidying away the toys, each one I picked up reminded me of a birthday, a Christmas or one of Darren's fun days and I realised how lucky the boys were to have such a great Dad.
As I carried the washbasket down the stairs I was struck by the image of Darren staring at me from his condolence card. I stopped in my tracks as I felt as though he was trying to tell me something. It dawned on me as I let the washing basket slip out of my grip that I didn't want to leave this house. Darren and I spent the best years of our lives together in this house, building a home for ourselves and raising our children to be beautiful young men. I sat on the stairs surrounded by dirty clothes and bed sheets and stared long and hard at the card propped on the hall cabinet. His friendly face begged me to stay in the home we made together. Deep down I knew the boys were happiest here and that in years to come I would regret the move.
A year and a half later my heart still aches for Darren and his perfect imperfections. Sometimes life can be a struggle and the days seem dark but everything seems brighter when I look out my bedroom window.
Sorry I'm new to this and it took a while to figure out how to use it!
Please comment x
I stared out the bedroom window onto our garden. Although it was small, it was full of charachter and held for me more than an measure of memories. At the end of the garden was a small patio and cheap wooden furniture. It was on that very patio that Darren proposed to me one summer evening sixteen years ago. He wasn't exactly a romantic and randomly popped the question after a couple of bottles of red wine. He fell asleep soon afterwards and I wasn't even sure if he'd remembered the precious moment the next morning. I was pleasantly surprised when a week later he marked his relationship status as 'engaged' on an insurance form. It was one of his more romantic moments.
As I turned my back on the window and opened my wardrobe it was my wedding dress that immediately caught my eye. My hands carefully and slowly removed the her from the wardrobe and laid her out on our unmade bed. Although she had faded from a crisp white to a dirty cream I was still overwhelmed by her beauty and had to fight the temptation to try her on. Thirteen years and three pregnancies later my slender size six body was no more than a distant memory. As I stared and stared at her, memories of our special day came flooding back to me. The day was far from perfect to say the least. The morning was a rushed frenzy of screaming women with streaky tans and stringy perms. I was already in the early stages of pregnancy and trying to disguise my small bump was almost next to impossible with every female member of my extended family poking and prodding at my anatomy. As the tradition goes I was fashionably late to the church, but Darren was even later! Possibly one the most shameful moments of my life was sitting on a church step, a knocked up bride stood up by her groom. Eventually he arrived with his fly undone and his face unshaved. Easily pleased, I was the happiest bride in the world!
I packed my dress away with my other delicates and started to strip the bed. It was that bed that the our first of our three darlings, Conor was born. As usual, things didn't go to plan. I went into labour in the middle of the night. It was the coldest winter Ireland had ever seen and in the sleet and snow our '87 Micra hadn't a hope of taking off. During 24 hours of excruciating labour I was left alone with a clueless man who had one eye on me and one eye on the Ryder Cup. Suprisingly Conor's delivery was without complications and unsuprisingly Darren was more traumatised by the event than me. Some things never change, after the birth of our third child Darren was still uncomfortable with the concept of pregnancy and vowed never to have unprotected sex again.
I put my bedclothes in the washbasket and went to the boy's room to strip their beds. I directed my gaze to the faded patch of wallpaper where one Sunday morning the boys drew dragons and dungeons. It took weeks to persuade Darren to disguise the drawings, but six years later I wanted nothing more than to see those scribbles again. I stared at the wall pleading it to show me the array of colourful crayons but without success. A colony of super heroes and stuffed animals cluttered the floor but what used to seem like a chore was a moment to be cherished. This time I didn't mind tidying away the toys, each one I picked up reminded me of a birthday, a Christmas or one of Darren's fun days and I realised how lucky the boys were to have such a great Dad.
As I carried the washbasket down the stairs I was struck by the image of Darren staring at me from his condolence card. I stopped in my tracks as I felt as though he was trying to tell me something. It dawned on me as I let the washing basket slip out of my grip that I didn't want to leave this house. Darren and I spent the best years of our lives together in this house, building a home for ourselves and raising our children to be beautiful young men. I sat on the stairs surrounded by dirty clothes and bed sheets and stared long and hard at the card propped on the hall cabinet. His friendly face begged me to stay in the home we made together. Deep down I knew the boys were happiest here and that in years to come I would regret the move.
A year and a half later my heart still aches for Darren and his perfect imperfections. Sometimes life can be a struggle and the days seem dark but everything seems brighter when I look out my bedroom window.
Sorry I'm new to this and it took a while to figure out how to use it!
Please comment x
Every nook and cranny of the empty house had a story to tell, and I was terrified that the memories we had made would be forgotten.
Use a comma to separate the 2 halves of a compound sentence (above).
his perfect imperfections.----> You are brilliant!! This is a great essay, and I love your ability to "keep it real", eloquently, with passion. Congratulations for being able to write a piece like this. Use your superpowers to uphold goodness and justice!!!
Use a comma to separate the 2 halves of a compound sentence (above).
his perfect imperfections.----> You are brilliant!! This is a great essay, and I love your ability to "keep it real", eloquently, with passion. Congratulations for being able to write a piece like this. Use your superpowers to uphold goodness and justice!!!
Thankyou!
I wish my English teacher agreed though!
=)
I wish my English teacher agreed though!
=)
This is a wonderfully written narrative essay. You have a great style and sense of important details. However, I couldn't help but notice that you said that the assignment was supposed to be a short story. Short stories normally have conflict, resolution, elements of plot. What you have now sort of doesn't. The main character feels nostalgic as she moves out of her old home. She continues to feel nostalgic. Then, a year-and-a-half later, she still feels nostalgic. So, while it is an excellent piece of writing, your English teacher might be critical of it if it is the wrong type of writing for the assignment! If you were aiming for a narrative essay, or even for a descriptive scene that could be part of a longer fictional work, you're on solid ground. If you really do need a short story, though, you may need to file this piece away for a while and try again.