Beautifully Scarred by Weaver

By Weaver

Their bodies succumbed to the blind horrors of biology. He could not feel his legs, but his heart had a pulsating warmth within it each time he thought about his wife. Although her time was set, she still found herself smirking each time she looked in the mirror and noticed that her wig was askew. Their eyes looked younger as each day passed, in spite of their unwilling stubbornness to seek pity. Nature's wrath and financial circumstance kept them from bearing children, but they were given each other, and that was more than enough.

They at times felt guilty about how much they had; the one thing that truly matters in life. When they would pass a lone adult sitting on a bench at the mall during the holidays, she felt sad. A firm tension of her hand upon his shoulder let him know that as she would guide his chair. After all of these years, that touch still gave him butterflies. It helped him forget about his confinement as his weightless heart soared about. Solitude, they felt, was the greatest sickness in the world. To trade in their health for loneliness was unthinkable.

They atrophied together, his muscles and her strength. They eroded together, withering away at such a relatively young age. Despite their slight and desperate forms, each of them never pictured the other as they were when they first met. That was the person I met, this is the person I love, each would think.

To see such tragedy with two genial souls such as they were made people question their faith. But the laughter always outweighed the cries. The joy shone so bright as to leave no shadow of grief visible. Through the days of minor progress and sullen relapses, they maintained a bond that was simply unwavering and which grew stronger as the ailments intensified.

They died together; he for real, she figuratively. Soon their souls would meet again, freed from their torturous mortalities. Heaven will even take notice when they are reunited amongst the clouds. With his last strength, he held her hand, to let her know that he died a happy man.


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These little five-paragraph bombs are intense. I realize this is just a sketch and not an entire, fully-realized story, but it left me wanting to know more. A nice counterpoint to "Soda Jerks," which, by the way, is awesome.

I think if I wrote anything over 1000 words, I would ruin the idea somehow. Plus, I plan on releasing all of my short stories on those flaps of paper on tea bags. People need more to read on those things than adages from the Orient.

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This page contains a single entry by Weaver published on July 31, 2005 3:31 PM.

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