THE SHORT STORY

On this page, you will find my amateur (humble) attempts at writing short stories. I have found that one requires such courage in order to write; and in lacking such courage I have decided to "fake it until I make it" - in other words, just to go for it and try, try and try again. In each story, I have grown so attached to my characters - it is hard to articulate such a surreal relationship - and I hope that you grow fond of them too.

Also, my aim is to grow and learn and so if you have any guidance, advice or constructive criticism please e-mail me at kayleyjanevn@gmail.com
I would truly appreciate your feedback!

The Seed

By Kayley Jane

Written May 2016
(My first attempt at writing a short story0

A fiction.

A story about how one doesn't always see the fruit of what one sows,

but no matter how long it takes, it will always come.

An old man's life loses purpose after the death of his wife.

A little seed brings the old man out of his humdrum existence, and

a different kind of seed sprouts within him.

The autumn sun glinted through the wooden blinds in the kitchen. The old man’s slippers dragged under his feet as he walked steadily towards the fridge. His eyes narrowed as he ambled through each pencil of light; focusing on the levitating dust particles. What captured his thoughts most was the way they seemed to be living in slow motion. After some time, the old man blinked, then turned to the counter. Without a thought he flicked the kettle switch on, dropped one tea bag into one mug, and lifted his head with a deep sigh. His eyes widened, and he gazed through the kitchen window in wonder of what was: lavish bushes of roses, vibrant beds of tulips, generous herb gardens, vivid rich colours… Click. The old man’s eyes darted towards the sound. The kettle had boiled. He instantly looked back up, as if to grasp his memory. His shoulders sank. All he could see through that kitchen window was an abandoned garden that had been scorched by the sun.

The old man’s eyes fixed upon the cracked soil as his hand wandered through the top cupboard in search of a sachet of diabetic sugar. Ah, here it is. He ripped the top of the sachet off, and his eyes finally released their hold of the garden and sunk down to the mug. Little brown seeds flowed from the small sachet into the steaming hot liquid. Mmh? The old man frowned as he lifted the packet into the light. He pushed his heavy, oversized spectacles up the curve of his square nose, squinted his eyes and began to read. Overcome by frustration, he threw the small paper envelope across the counter, scattering it’s contents. He leaned heavily on the counter, trying to catch his breath. In. Hold. Out. In. Hold. Out. After a long while of silence the old man suddenly rushed towards the discarded sachet and gently gathered the seeds from the floor.

xxx

For the first time since the old man could recall, he shaved his beard, and from his side of the closet he took out his best suit, and brushed the shoulders. Of course. More dust. His slippers were placed neatly next to his side of the bed, and the old man smiled faintly as he carefully combed his thin strands of hair neatly to one side with a pea-sized blob of gel. Before leaving the bedroom he stood in front of the mirror, strained to lift his back to stand up as straight as he could, and stared at himself with pride. Looking sharp ol’ man. He scanned his reflection for any creases or imperfections. Okay, alright. Straightening his tie, he took a deep slow breath, clapped his hands once as if to encourage himself, and then left the room.

Out of the garden shed, the old man gathered the small shovel, the rusted water can, one of the two fold-up camping chairs, and the sack of soil and fertilizer. Not much left. Should be enough. Endeavouring to carry everything at once, with the ripped sachet locked in his lips, he walked to the centre of the desert garden. The old man struggled to unfold the old chair. This darn thing! I can never… Crack. Finally. He stood there alone for a few moments, and then eventually picked up the shovel; shifting it around, he wondered if he was holding it right. Forgetting about his suit, he knelt both knees into the dirt and began to dig up the earth. Sweat slithered down his deep wrinkles and puddled in his shirt. How deep did she used to dig? How do I not remember? Did I not notice? He panicked as he fumbled through his memories.

The soil embraced the small clump of seeds as the old man scraped the earth back into the hole, and droplets of water glistened as they rained down from the spout of the watering can. That should do it. Dusting the knees of his trousers, and fixing his ruffled hair, the old man dropped heavily into his camping chair. He sighed as he took in the fragrance of the afternoon. Clouds danced above the old man and his seed; the sun grew cooler and slowly came closer and closer to them as if to get a closer look; and the crickets in the neighboring gardens began to surround them with their singing. It was as if they were as expectant as the old man was. There in the evening breeze, the old man still sat waiting eagerly. After a dozen stars had joined the moon, the old man stood up slowly and turned towards the house. Maybe tomorrow.

After a handful of sunsets the old man decided he would try to help his little seed. During the next few days the old man sat in his chair and read all 365 pages of the book that was most read in his house, Pride and Prejudice. He turned each fragile page and read aloud with a warmth in his heart. This was her favorite, you know. Could never put it down I tell you. As the old man finished the last sentence – Finis – he smiled with a glint in his eyes - something that had been missing for a long time. Remembering where he was he quickly looked over to the flat patch of earth. Nothing had changed. Maybe tomorrow.

The black cord tangled around the old man’s foot and the timepiece on the writing desk was knocked over by the plug which had come soaring out of the wall socket and through the sitting room behind him.  The legs of the small plastic table, which had been moved outside, strained under the weight of the old man’s record player. You will love this. The smooth rushing waves of Mozart resonated all through the garden. The old man sat in his chair as he caught his breath, engulfed by the melodies. Every now and again, he would glance over to the patch of earth. By the time they had relished in the grandeur of Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert and Wagner, a fortnight had passed. Slowly picking up the music box, the old man sighed and walked toward the house. Maybe tomorrow.

Tomorrow came and went. Over and over, it came and went. The days grew cooler and the nights started to come sooner. The old man shared many mornings, afternoons and evenings with the seed, hoping that it would be the day that he would see at least a glimpse of the fruit of what he had sewn. He looked after the seed the only way he knew how to look after anything; and she was the only one that he had taken care of. Why has it not worked now? He sat with the seed, and sang beautiful ballads to it. He played his harmonica through the cold winter days, and he took out the dusty photo albums for the frosty early nights. The old man held tightly onto his hope as he grew more tired and weary day by day.

The only thing the old man had left was his memories. And so he began to share them with the seed. As each echo of his past flowed from his lips, he relived the years he had so quickly forgotten. His frown began to lift off his face and his heart began to feel again. Tears pooled in his eyes, and laughter simmered up from his round belly.

Each new morning brought a new decade of stories and as the old man travelled through time he slowly began to forget about the seed. Yet he remained loyal it, and to his ritual of spending his days with it. The seed listened, deep beneath the dark and rich earth. It listened to the music, to the ballads, to the names of the old man’s family and to his stories, and the seed remained low, so as to let the old man absorb the new life of the seed that was sprouting within him.

As the days grew warmer and the trees in the neighbors’ gardens grew greener, the old man had journeyed through the distant years, and had now come to his recollections of a more present time. He told the seed all about her. What she smelled like; what her laugh sounded like; what her favorite flower was. It was always lilies, you know. Never a time when this house didn’t smell like lilies. He told the seed about the day he met her at the theatre and about her love of film. At least half the day was spent on describing her zest for life. The old man lay down beside the patch of earth, and the stars reflected off his moist eyes. He spoke until he fell asleep mid-sentence under the crystalline sky.

The sun oozed up onto the horizon, illuminating the new colours that had been painted over the trees, the ground and the bushes, by the newborn buds of flowers and fruit. The sound of skittering and scattering, and of chirruping and whistling, permeated through the atmosphere. Even the air smelled fresh and new. The old man still lay there in the soil. The brilliance of the spring sun had not woken him. The wind breathing through the trees, and the singing of the birds had not woken him. The piercing sound of children giggling as they played in the sprinklers next door had not woken him. As the sun slowly climbed to the centre of the sky, beaming down directly onto the patch of earth, a small blade of green cut through the dark layer of soil and two baby leaves stretched out as they breathed their first breath of air. Today was the day. The music, the ballads, the stories - they had worked. But the old man still lay there in the soil. The brilliance of the sun had not woken him.