The only way I’m going to get comfortable finding my voice on virtual paper is practice. Whether or not I feel like writing, whether or not I deem what I’m writing garbage or gold, if I get it out and type it down, it will be that much more practice at finding my prose. Thus, I present to you, my first-ever short story.

PS. I looked it up, and short stories generally range between 1,500 and 30,000 words, so while mine is sitting pretty at 1,736, it is indeed a short story.

 

Living In Sleep

Martin woke up. A feeling of loneliness weighs him down, and he struggles to remember his dream. Something.. sad. Incredibly sad. He tries to shake off the discord that he feels, becoming aware of his surroundings. His left arm instinctively reaches out for his wife, Grace, but comes upon only pillows and empty bed. He looks to the left and sees the imprint her sleeping head had made on the pillowcase. Breathing deeply, he deduces the time of morning by looking at the way the sun slants through the curtains. It casts a lovely golden hue on the dresser, one that he hasn’t seen before, and he realizes it must be later than he’s used to. No surprise, he couldn’t get out of the office until 1 a.m. last night.

It’s Saturday morning, and Martin can faintly make out the chatter of his two children down the hall in the kitchen. He slides his feet off the bed and into his slippers. Uggs, a gift from Grace this past Christmas. He scoffed at the brand that Christmas morning as he unwrapped them, but by God if they aren’t little clouds for his feet. As long as they don’t leave the house, he justified. Sidling past that golden hue and briefly through it, illuminating his old Nittany Lions shirt from his years at Penn State like it was a message from the heavens, Martin walks down the hallway towards the welcoming voices and smell of waffles. Always waffles on Saturdays. He glances up at the wall to his right, where Grace had so proudly hung the children’s newest school photos. Kyle, 13 and filled to the brim with brains and braces, a shock of red hair, smiling big enough to strain his cheeks, and Louise, sweet little Louise, 11 and soft spoken, just the hint of a smile and a natural beauty noticeable even in the dim hallway. Polar opposites and yet inseparable. Martin smiles to himself and lifts a hand, thumbing a smudge off the photo of Louise as he passes it.

He enters the kitchen and sees his wife at the stove, her back to him. Kyle is showing Louise something under his new magnifying glass Martin had picked up for him last week as a result of Kyle’s report card. All A’s, and the kid wants a magnifying glass. It still bewildered him. Looking up, Kyle and Louise both half-shout, “Hi Dad!” in unison, causing Grace to turn around.

“Good morning, honey, I’m glad you slept a little longer. I hope we haven’t been too loud”, Grace says with a wry smile, her right hand pouring batter as her left gestures over to the coffee pot.

“No, not all. I was having a strange dream, I’m glad I woke up when I did,” he admitted.

He pours himself a mug of coffee and goes to put an arm around Grace. She looks up at him, and he’s in awe, as he is every day, how the years of marriage and of raising kids have only served to make her more beautiful. How each wrinkle in her opalescent face, framed by the deep red of her hair, were a message of a life well-lived. He knows the story behind each wrinkle, each freckle, each bit of grey in the red that shows up more frequently these past years. He kisses her brow and goes to sit with his kids.

“Beach today?” he asks casually, and braces himself for the burst response of, “Oh, yes please! Yes please!” Kyle is jumping up and down while Louise turns to her mother, “Mom, can we? It’s sunny like you said it has to be and it’s a weekend and I finished my homework and well it was Dad’s idea anyway and..””Okay, okay”, Grace interjected, laughing to herself, “I can’t argue if your homework’s done. We’ll finish our breakfast first and then pack our day bags.”

An hour later Martin is navigating their Subaru SUV out of the driveway, the backseat an energy of it’s own with ecstatic kids and the smell of sunscreen. They leave their street behind, Martin waving to Mr. Fowler tending to his prized roses; Mr. Fowler waves back. Driving out of their Sorrento Valley neighborhood the few miles to Black’s Beach, Martin breathes in the fresh, salty air of their San Diego suburb and is happy to be alive. The lingering feelings of the dream are still there, he can still sense the sadness, that feeling of nothing, of having nothing and being nothing, but it’s easier to dispel while being outside, while driving his wife and children to their favorite beach.

A short time later, Martin is laying on a beach towel, arms behind his head and propped up, watching Louise shyly dip her toes in a wave, while Kyle was bent over studiously observing something under his magnifying glass. He hears Grace flipping a page in her book, probably a new romance novel judging by the man and woman exaggeratedly embraced on the cover. He knows she’s smarter than that silly literature, but he can’t deny her her small pleasures. She sees him looking at her and puts the book down.

“You going to tell me about your dream now?” She asks quizzically, raising her eyebrows one after another.

“There’s not much to tell,” Martin confesses, “I can’t remember exactly. I know I was alone. But, like, really alone. There was no one around, and no one I could call out and talk to. I remember that. I remember knowing for a fact that even if I shouted, there would be no one to respond. I had nothing, and I couldn’t remember my name. It’s like my identity was wiped.” He shivers, the feeling coming back to him all at once. Grace frowns at him, considering.

“How unnerving. Maybe they’re putting too much on your workload at the office? I mean gosh, Martin, past midnight on a Friday!”

“I know, I know, but I really don’t mind the project, and they didn’t even ask me to stay, I stayed because I got caught up. I’m sorry”, Martin says sheepishly. She knows he loves his work, all that research and data, but he also knows he needs to call it quits and wrap up at a reasonable hour, lest missing Friday night dinners with his family. He smiles at Grace and she smiles back, picking up her book and finding her place.

Laying his head back on his folded arms, Martin closes his eyes and allows the warmth of the summer sun to lull him to a half-conscious state. He drifts then, and thinks about his life. About his job, that he does very well in, enjoys supremely, and has so much room for advancement. About his wife, who understands him better than anyone, a purely benevolent soul who’s gentle nature and tenderness permeate all aspects of her life. And about his children, such inventive minds; Never disobedient and always so quick to learn. His legacies. Martin falls asleep thinking of all he has in his life, of how full and complete and content this world has made him. Of how he must be the luckiest man alive.

Martin woke up. A feeling of loneliness weighs him down, and he knows it to be his permanent state. He grasps desperately at the last remnants of that dream, that beautiful dream, the life he wished he had. He lays motionless a moment longer, eyes closed, trying to relive that moment on the beach with his family. Opening his eyes, he takes in the way the morning sunlight plays off his dresser. The golden hue is unchanged, and yet his perception is, making the rays seem somehow sinister in their brightness.

It’s Saturday morning, and Martin can hear the overwhelming loudness of an empty house. Of a silence so large that it makes his ears ring. His slides his feet off the bed and onto the cold hard of his faux-wood floors. The bottom of his Uggs had given out last year and he didn’t have the heart to replace them. Cringing past the sunlight, Martin makes his way down his empty hallway, noting in his slack-jawed disinterest the lack of pictures or decoration he has on his walls, only marks of pictures he’s long since taken down.

Heading into the kitchen and inwardly sighing at the pile of dishes he keeps meaning to get to, Martin opens the fridge and grabs the OJ. Mostly empty and a few days past the expiration, he drains it straight from the jug and tosses it in the recycling. He goes outside to grab the newspaper from the driveway, and sees Mr. Fowler tending to his prized roses. Mr. Fowler glances up and back down, no acknowledgement, as Martin had stopped waving to him over 5 years ago.

Sitting on the couch with the paper in his lap shortly afterward, Martin allows the business section to become blurred as he thinks back on his dream. It’s been 7 years since the accident, and yet they still come to him occasionally in his sleep. Twice a week maybe, and each day after leaves him numb to life, which isn’t a far cry from his normal state. Little Louise would have gone off to college this year. Kyle would’ve been on his way to being a Nobel prize winner, he is sure of that. Him and Grace would have been looking at vacation homes in Big Bear. That was the plan. That was always the plan, and the plan was thrown out by a man three times over the legal limit behind the wheel of a Ford F350. His plan now was to finish the paper, leave the dishes for tomorrow, and go back to bed. His plan now was to be alone for the rest of his life, because he couldn’t muster up the energy to build or maintain a relationship with anyone but his sister and dad who call once a week, expecting to get the voicemail. His friends and family were there for him in the beginning, but it’s been 7 years, and they’d moved on. He couldn’t move on. Refused to. And so, Martin shakes out the newspaper and continues where he left off, counting down the hours until he sleeps again, and silently praying to catch a small glimpse of his past life in his dreams.