To Close The Book

c1b3b9b0She let the phone ring and ring. No answer.

She sent text after text. No response.

As the waves crashed nearby, she fought the tears, the heartbreak, and the stress of her confusion.

He was pretending they had never happened.

And she needed to close the book.

So she did.

 

Au Revoir: A Tiny Fiction Series
Written by Jennifer Fifield
Image by Unsplash

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the view, the feel, the moment

photo-1445964047600-cdbdb873673d“I’ve been here,” I whispered.

“You’ve been here? When?” he asked.

“In my dreams. I’ve been dreaming of this place for years. I never knew where or what it was,” I said.

I slowly absorbed each detail. How surreal to be somewhere for the first time, and the fiftieth time. The view, the feel, the moment – they were all the same as every dream I had ever had. And it was him, this wonderful person standing next to me, who had brought me.

Au Revoir: A Tiny Fiction Series

Written by Jennifer Fifield

Image from Unsplash

looking back for the matching beat

photo-1414073875831-b47709631146He walked a quick pace ahead of her,
looking behind every so often, to see
her smile, and to make sure she was
still with him. But soon, his pace
turned into a jog. He continued to look
back to find her – her reassurance, her
unconditional love. She kept up behind
him for some time, following his heart
by its matching beat, unable to let him
out of her world. Some time later, the
quiet surroundings made him numbly
look back. Though, this time, her heart
had let him go, and she was nowhere
to be found.

 

By Jennifer A. Fifield

Image: Unsplash

Let’s do this

photo-1428677361686-f9d23be145c9This was the last time, he promised.

This had to be the absolute last time. He would land this one and this would be it. He just needed to get through it one more time. And it would be the very last time. Ever.

The excitement of this thought pulsed through him. He had to make this one count.

He realized that his shoulders were sky-high, so he dropped them, and took in a deep breath – the diaphragmatic kind. The kind they say you should do when you are flipping the fuck out.

He clicked the back button of his iPod to find what he needed. The initial melody always made him think he had picked the wrong song. But when the piano ended, the words he needed were right there.

This time would be different. It would be exciting. It would nourish him. He would try harder. He would remember the others. He would remember the struggle.

The lyrics began to seep deep inside of him, Look, if you had one shot, or one opportunity, to seize everything you ever wanted. In one moment, would you capture it, or just let it slip?

He pushed “up” on the volume button so that he could belt the words. So that he could slip into his state of readiness.

There was no way he was not getting this. This was all his.

He screamed, You better lose yourself in the music, the moment, you own it, you better never let it go, you only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow, this opportunity comes once in a lifetime.

As he approached, he bellowed the last – and his favorite – part, Success is my only motherfucking option, failure’s not.

Let’s do this.

 

 

By Jennifer A. Fifield

Italicized song lyrics by Eminem, Lose Yourself

Image: Unsplash 

Room of Endless Possibilities

windowShe would occasionally peek out her kitchen window at the house next door. But the day she discovered the third floor room, it was because her head was cocked in an unnatural way.

The breezy days were her favorite – quite truly.  One could almost call it a love affair. Her thoughts were often swept far away by those sweet gusts. It was a breezy day when her eyes stumbled upon this strange room.

Tattered white curtains billowed in the windows upon its first and second floors. From the view from her kitchen, there were only windows, and each window adorned the ripped, eggshell fabric.

The moss-colored cottage was situated between Maple and Nutmeg and was tightly wrapped by a porch. The house had been converted into various offices. The sign in the parking lot listed that one occupant was a property management company. Another was a law office. The other office she wasn’t sure about. She kept meaning to look it up, but she never did.

For months, she watched the torn curtains blow in the soft San Diego breeze. She wondered why all of the windows were always open. She made up stories about what was up there.

Maybe it was simply an attic where boxes were stored, and the owners kept it cool by leaving the windows open.

Maybe the third floor was an art studio. Maybe the damaged drapes and fresh air were eerily inspirational for a painter or sketch artist.

Maybe the owners hadn’t visited the third floor in years, and years, and years.

Maybe someone was living on the third floor, quietly, alone.

The fabric waves to her most every day. It tempts her with strange thoughts. It prompts curious stories and ideas. It is the room of endless possibilities.

Jennifer A. Fifield

Image: Google Images

Life in Colors

art floral vintage rainbow  background with astersVictoria painted every day now. Creativity and emotion seeped from her skin after losing her husband.

But she would have given anything to be less creative again. To have him back. To see his face. To touch his hand. To watch him walk. To hear him laugh. To listen to his voice.

With each brush stroke on the canvas she thought about life, and about it’s strangeness. Some days the painting calmed her. Some days she could not be calmed by anything.

She chose different colors for the moods that she was in. Dark gray and blue for days when she felt that life was just a bit too harsh. Bright yellow and orange when she missed him terribly and wanted to feel his warmth and cheer. Deep green and red when she wanted to scream at the world through vibrant color.

She felt weak, but wanted to be strong. Life had dealt her so much. Breast cancer at age 44. Breast cancer again at 51. And the health issues of her beloved husband. She had fought a hard fight, and at times painted in various shades of white, a surrender that seemed easy and painless.

For how was she to go on?

Now alone, a young woman. She walked the beach each morning, picking up a shell for each time she thought of her lost love. Thirty nine years they had spent together. She knew of nothing else. No love as great as the love they shared.

She spoke out to him. She felt close to him here. The ocean, so vast and open. She knew he was out there. She knew he was watching. She knew he was listening.

The waves rolled back and forth and wet her bare feet. She collapsed to the ground and released the shells from her grasp.

“Where have you gone?” she cried out, over and over.

Today she would paint in dark gray and blue.

Jennifer A. Fifield