FRACTURED

hey! here’s a draft of a story i wrote recently. feel free to give it a read (it’s only a mere 1500 words) and let me know what you think!

oh, and about that word count? this short was for my class, so please bear with it. i understand it is very minimal for the amount of substance it contains. i hope you enjoy it regardless though! i’ll upload a finished version once i’ve completed it. any and all suggestions/critiques are welcome! pls be nice :)

Genre: Creative Fiction

Word Count: 1520

!TW: MULTIPLE DEATHS, BLOOD!

I sigh as I tap my pencil repeatedly on the table, the rubber nub of what’s left of the eraser pinging the oak beneath it. What’s it missing? There’s gotta be something missing I ponder to myself. I’ve been working on this poem for ages, but I still feel like it isn’t ready for this contest. I switch back to the website and read the headline ‘Do you want to become a new up and coming writer? Enter this contest to win!’ It’s the New York Times contest for a new up-coming author, and the grand prize would be enough to pay off my entire debt, and then some. I’ve had this poem written for awhile now, yet I still don’t think that it’s ready. I’ve read it over a million times, and I can’t seem to find what it’s missing. My mother was never too fond of my writing, but my father always loved it. He loved everything I did. My father’s always been proud of what I’ve done, and what I do. He’s never once shamed me for choosing what I believe in, and what I’m passionate about. I glance down at the gold-crested penguin pendant around my neck, lifting my hand up to grasp the cool metal. I smile as the memory it holds replays through my head. It was a gift from my father for my tenth birthday. He bought our family tickets to Disney World to celebrate, and purchased this necklace for me after I had mentioned several times in the gift shop how much I wanted it. Ever since it’s been my favourite animal. I hold it in my palm tightly, fingers grazing over the smooth, yet rigid surface of the pendant as I reach for my cell phone beside my open laptop. I begin to scroll through the messages between me and my father, a fond smile appearing on my lips as I read through the texts:

--

YESTERDAY

Dad: Hey, honey! How’s the poem coming along for the contest?

Me: it’s okay… I still feel like there’s something that it needs. I just can’t figure it out

Dad: When is the deadline to submit?

Me: tonight at 6

Dad: I’m sure you will figure it out sweetheart. You’re a great writer. Love you kiddo Xoxo.

Me: thanks dad, love you too

--

I smile again as I set down my phone, peering back to the computer screen before me. What seems like minutes go by and I get lost in the words in front of me. I jump as my phone begins to vibrate loudly on the table. I can’t help but shut my eyes for a second to brace myself:

“Hello?” I answer.

“Hello, what are you doing right now?”

It’s my mother. Great. She’s probably at work.

“Working on my poem for the contest, why?”

“....” There’s silence on the other end of the line. I wait a few moments, then,

“Mom?”

“...Huh? Oh, sorry. What did you say?”

“Forget it.”

“....” More silence. She does this every time. Doesn’t it bother you?

“Are you still at the hospital?”

“....” I’ve had it.

“MOM!!” I yell.

“What? Oh sorry honey, what were you saying?”

“Why do you do this to me every time? You never listen to me! You’re always on a call or too busy for me anyway!”

“Look, I’m sorry, okay? It’s just hard for me when I’m at work sometimes honey but I promise I want to hear it.”

This is always her excuse. It’s always just too ‘hard’ for her to actually have a conversation with her only daughter. It’s always about work for her.

“You know what. Forget it. Call me when you have time for your daughter.” I hang up the phone.

Ugh she makes me so mad! Why does she never listen to me? First it was denying my talent for writing and trying to force me to go down some boring nine-to-five career hole I’d never get out of, now this?

I peer around my dingy, one bedroom apartment. Maybe she’s right. You’ve been living off chickpeas out of a can and barely surviving. I mean, look at you? You have barely any food in your fridge, and your ‘apartment’ is broken down and disgusting! What did you think your BA in English would get you anyway? You’ve been searching for a job in your field for a while, and still no opportunity has come up. Maybe your mother was right. Maybe you should have studied law. Maybe she would have listened to you then. Maybe you should have listened to her—

--

Me: hey dad, can I talk to you?

Dad: Sure honey, is something wrong?

Me: it’s mom, she’s always too busy to listen to what I have to say. it’s like talking to a brick wall

Dad: I’m sorry honey, but your mom is pretty busy at work. Maybe on her break?

Me: i’ve tried. she even calls me and then doesn’t listen! I feel like she hates me...

Dad: No she doesn't sweetheart, she loves you. And so do I. Xoxo.

Me: I love you too, dad where are you now? dad? helloooooo?

--

Ugh, now my own father is too busy for me too? I guess no one has time for me. Or maybe, I’m just not enough for them. Maybe I’m just some big disappointment, maybe—just take a nap, you’re probably stressed from being tired.

I’m abruptly awoken out of my slumber when my phone goes off loudly. I scramble to find it on my bedside table, slamming my hand down repeatedly to try and locate the device. I manage to pinpoint the phone, and hold it up before me. I squint at the screen, scowling at the newfound brightness and see the word “MOM” in bright bold text. I press accept and hold the phone up to my ear:

“Hello?”

I can hear her sobbing on the other end of the line. I sit up straight in bed, eyes wide with worry as I stare at the dark matter in front of me.

“What’s wrong? Are you crying?”

“Honey, your dad’s been in an accident.”

“What? What do you mean?”

I start to shake, eyes brimming with panic, heart banging against my chest as I wait for her response after an ill-conceived sob:

“He was driving on the highway, and um—I found his phone and he was texting you while driving and he swerved into the other lane and he—”

“What, he what?!”

“He’s dead.”

I drop the phone to my side as my life starts caving from the exterior in. I lose my breath as the realization sets in. How did you let this happen? How could you?

“No.”

A single tear streams from my face.

“NO!”

I sob as I wail into the darkness of my room, hands covering my flooding sockets as I scream. A steady river forms blurring my vision for what seems like eternity. I stay like this for a while. You did this. You killed him.

“I’m so sorry”.

I pace back and forth, raking fingers through my hair, tears streaming down my face as I try and accept the truth. How could I have let this happen? I’m the reason he’s gone, if I just would’ve called him instead, maybe things would have been different. I press my spine against the cool tile of the bathroom wall as I stare at my dishevelled reflection. You’re disgusting. I slam my fist against the mirror, shattering the glass littering shards throughout the room. My eyes begin to pour, as does my bleeding hand from the impact. I look below me at my feet, peering at my skewed reflection through the broken, bloody pieces. I’m sorry dad, this is all my fault. I’m so sorry.

--

“Thank you all for coming”.

I watch my mother from the church pew seven rows back, wiping her tears as she stabilizes herself on the podium. The room is dimly lit, filled with a few dozen family members I haven’t seen since infanthood. The white, flowered casket sits perpendicular to my mother on the stage behind her.

“She was always so driven” I hear her say. “She was stubborn,” she laughs, “but we all loved her the same.”

She takes a few new tissues from the funeral-gifted box, looking at my graduation picture surrounded with white roses, taking a breath before starting again with a shaky voice:

“It hasn’t been easy, with my husband passing and now my daughter. But um, I’d like us to celebrate her death. She was a brilliant writer, and it certainly showed when she won the contest for the New York Times Best Up-and-Coming Writer. I’m really proud of her, we all are.”

My eyes well up with tears as her words hit my chest like bombs. She’s proud of me? She thinks I’m a good writer? I smile to myself,

“I finally did it, dad. I made it.”

“I know sweetheart, I’m so proud of you.” He smiles as he wraps his arm around my shoulder.

“C’mon, let’s go home.”

--

Winter eventually fades

Revealing the unknown golden flowers

Blooming just below

FRACTURED

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