Writing Dead Letters [E]

[eleanor]

[color=firebrick] This is a story I had to write for literature [maximum 4 pages, that's why it's not longer] and I'm just posting here to soak up ANY thoughts you may have on it. I'm trying to get a good grade on this and stuff. [/color]


[b]Dead Letters[/b]

All that Marcus had really left behind was an empty house, rotting from the inside with peeling walls and the occasional bug skittering around and disappearing into one of the many nooks and crannies of the house. There was nothing left in it, except for aging windowsills and creaking floorboards; and it didn?t matter that seven other people were there discussing their lives: war, politics, how many times they had lost of their jackets or one of their hats in this house.

Death.

The absence of Marcus seemed to loom over every corner I passed by, whispering at me whenever I walked past a dirty curtain. The house seemed to be full of him. The kitchen brought back memories of disastrous attempts to cook when they were little, spilling bowls of flour and dropping eggs on the floor.

The floor used to be white, filled with small little tiles that Marcus? mother scrubbed about every month or so. Now they were specked with dirt and dust, driving away any idea to scrub at them again. The plaster was brown, peeling, a constant reminder to what the house used to be. I remember just two years before, the leaves growing into waves of red and orange, dotting the sky as the wind blew them away. Marcus had tried to clean the house up. ?It?ll be good as new,? he had said, lifting pails of red paint out of the car. At the house we had run around like the children we once were, throwing bits of paint and rubbish at each other, tumbling down the rasping stairs and making the house more of a mess than it originally was.

The house that Marcus had tried to leave behind when his father died and had been buried in the backyard under the large maple tree he loved so much. But even death hadn?t knocked out Marcus?s confidence. In all truth, it made it stronger. After that, he lived out his life like one big joke. Like it was something that didn?t really matter, and he had one day casually remarked that life was no good for being serious and decided that he wasn?t going to die soon so he might as well have some fun.

He used to joke about that a lot.

But now he was dead and his family was sitting at the old oak table in the kitchen, solemnly going over past memories and stifling laughs at the things Marcus used to do. How his nephew Joshua had followed him everywhere he went, choosing to walk home with Uncle Marcus after they went out to eat and how he giggled as Marcus swung him around and perched him on his broad shoulders.

They had gone through Marcus?s room and quietly picked out some things and put them in a box, placing it in Joshua?s room. But Joshua had never looked at it and now it sits in the hallway, along with the yellowing walls and the growing collection of cobwebs. And without Marcus everyone in the house seemed a ghost, drifting along the hallways and fingering tables trying to remember with clear thoughts their fondest moments with him. And I drifted as well, lingering on doorknobs and closing doors, trying to pick out a memory that stood out from the rest.

But for now it was clumped together into one big ball and rolled into the deepest corner of my mind, and I couldn?t seem to pick just one out anymore. Just unimportant photos of the past popping up- how Marcus had worn brown shoes when we were at the hospital, watching his father slowly die and how he rubbed his hands against his pants when he was nervous. Because when his aunt had phoned me with a sobbing voice and great spurts of unintelligible dialogue, I did the same thing. Rubbing my hands all over my pants, probably making them wet and smeary, I swear. He had died and I was his best friend and he was never going to come back unless it was all a nasty dream. I knew it wasn?t. And I wasn?t going to throw a fit like those people in the movies and throw things against the wall. I wasn?t going to slowly rot away and spend the rest of my life moping over his death.

[i]To: Terrence Wiltsmore, 113 Eastmore Way. From: Marcus Baxtor

Terrence,
Sorry for all the fuss. I left this with Aunt Tracey, oh, maybe somewhere in August, 1994. Right after I moved out of the house. I hope you got this. Maybe I don?t. I wouldn?t like the idea of being dead. I?d say it?s around 1999 now, am I right? That?s what the doctor said. Five years. But for all I know my cancer is gone and I was stupid enough to fall over and break my neck on something. Maybe that loose ledge that kept on falling down and waking us up at night. But at any rate if you?ve gotten this I?m dead and buried and Aunt Tracey has not given you this as a nasty joke, which I doubt because that?s not really her style.

Tell Katherine that I love her more than anything, even though she left me years ago and I told her I hated her. I don?t. The ring is still sitting behind all the clothes on the last drawer on the right. I didn?t know what to do with it when I found out. I only had five years.

Tell Joshua I miss him and I hope he doesn?t grow up to be a morbid bastard like me, which I?m sure he won?t since you?re there. Oh, and my aunts and uncles and everyone, but they don?t really matter. They probably liked you better than me anyway; you were always the good boy. You always managed to get us out of trouble, you did. Or maybe my mom just let slip by because you were there, I don?t know.

Don?t mind me. I?m old. I just get stupid some days? I feel like an old man. I worry too much. Never really thought that would happen. Remember when dad ran away for a bit and it was just you, me, and my mom sitting at the table? Somehow managing to laugh at jokes and smile at small mistakes- when we were so little. When did we get so old, Terrence? Like my father. And all the relatives that squeezed our cheeks. I guess by now you want to tear this letter apart. I spend too much time thinking about the past. I don?t blame you. I guess I?ll just move on. Take care of my mother for me. She wasn?t the best, but she was there. And she knows that, I guess. I?m not sure. But you?ve probably already taken her under your wing, it?d be just like you.

I guess to make things feel better by saying we?ll be together again. We can sit around at the table on Sunday night. Always at seven o? clock, I remember. And you?d swing your legs back and forth and then we?d look at each other and giggle. Giggled, for god?s sake. I don?t remember clearly the last time I had done that in a while. Like I said, don?t mind me. I guess I?m just extra weight now, or maybe you?ll burn this letter after you?ve finished reading it. I hope not.

But there is one thing I?ve been wanting to say for a while. Well, two things, but that doesn?t matter. And when I say for a while, I mean ?forever? so I might as well just go ahead and say it because I?m horrible at these things.

I love you.
I?m sorry.

-Marcus[/i]

In the silence the dust started to gather. The house was old, I knew. Spread newspapers littered the floor, reaching all the way to the stairs; various paint cans were placed throughout the hallway.

The wall was peeling, brown stains spreading across the walls. It was fall again. Red leaves swayed together on the trees, barely clinging to the branches, holding on for just a short while. And the lone maple in the center, now with two headstones sitting at the base, staring up at me like eyes. I looked away.
A fresh layer of paint I painted on the walls, and in the curtains there was a slight rustle that sounded like a sigh.

[color=firebrick] Yeah, so please feel free to tell me anything you would change or...anything. Lol.[/color]

[Guest Agent ThePro]

Whew. Now THAT is some good stuff. Man, how old are you? Couse, honestly, that was quite gripping, even though the overall story was a bit of a bring-down, ti was incredibly discriptive, and i think i definatly see some talent, assuming, of course, it is an origonal idea. Well, the only tihng i would change, is MAYBE but the letter in Italics, just becouse that makes it seem more dramatic for some reason. Great stuff. Definatly a 95% or an A or whatever they call it in whatever county your in. GJ, and Cuddos. Oh, and possibly, after he finishes the letter, mkae him shed a tear or too, to show even more-so how much he cared about his friend. Just some little dramtic, cosmetic,effects.

~Pro Inc.~

[eleanor]

[color=firebrick] ^_^ Thanks. I did quickly think of making someone cry when I was writing the story but it just my personal preference that made the story have no crying or whatsoever. I just think a character crying makes the mood somewhat different and takes away from what I made in the story. *shrugs* Just my writing style, I guess.

Oh yeah, and I'm 14. :)[/color]