He didn’t look like anything that she was expecting. She expected him to a stocky little man, a bottle of beer in his hands and a paunch in his middle. He was none of those. Instead, He was tall, broad-shouldered and carried a backpack. It seemed to outweigh him by several pounds, but he carried it with ease. He had on an Ascot cap, and his arms rested on the straps of the backpack. He looked young, fit as a fiddle and not a day above forty. But she knew better. She knew that he was fifty five years, seven months and thirteen days old. From her position, she couldn’t see his eyes, but she knew they were a deep, crystal blue, just like hers. She knew that he liked chess, sausages and hated Nickelback. She knew that he was here to meet his daughters. She also knew that she wasn’t one of them. She sipped the soda from her glass slowly and readjusted her cap over her forehead. Not that anyone would recognize her; she rarely ate here. She doubted if people even knew that she existed. But she did not want to be remembered. She was here as an observer, not as a participant. She watched as he arrived at a table, heaving his backpack off and setting it on a nearby chair. He then placed his hands on his middle and puffed out a long breath. He wiped a layer of sweat off his forehead, which was plastered with bronze hair. How she had looked at his photo over the years and wished for that bronze hair. But she was blonde, like her mother.
When she had first learnt that he was visiting their town again, ten years back, she had been overjoyed. She had thought he was finally coming to meet her, to get her out of this godforsaken place. It was the typical hope of an innocent ten year old. But then she discovered she was not the only one. There were two more. But they were fine, her mother had patiently explained to her. Newborn twins, she said. They were the good people, not like her or her mother. He did not even know about her. It had shattered her world, but it did not stop her from hoping that one day, she would see him. Not meet him; her mother had begged her not to. Her mother had her reasons. But she would see him. And she did, today.
The diner bustled with people, but to her, he seemed to be the only one. She watched as he looked toward the tiny entrance of the diner and beamed. Two girls, not more than ten, ran inside and jumped into his arms with identical whoops of joy. He held on to them, and bent down to kiss their foreheads. They started chatting with animated expressions on their faces and he patiently nodded his head, smiling, while seating them on the chairs around his table. He told something to a waiter nearby, and minutes later, there were two large chocolate ice-cream scoops on his table. Two tables away, her stomach twisted. Chocolate ice-cream was her favorite. She remembered how she had wished for one as a child, and though her mother had worked here as a waitress, she was not allowed on the house orders and neither there was ever enough money to buy one.
Now, she looked on as both the girls happily tried to lick on their scoops and talk at the same time. She watched sadly as he lovingly pushed away a bronze lock that had fallen over one of the girls’ forehead, and something inside her broke. Her lips trembled and her eyes filled with tears. She had had the right to be there, in his arms, ten years back. She had the right now. She took out a pen and grabbed a napkin and scribbled on it. Then, she slowly got up, the napkin held tightly in her fist and headed towards his table. Her hands were shivering and her legs felt like lead. She had almost reached his table, when all of them rose. She looked up as a beautiful blond woman in her forties approached the table, her eyes on him. She walked up to him. Her eyes tearing up, she hugged and kissed him. The children wrapped themselves around them, laughing. It was a beautiful re-union, filled with love and happiness.
A few feet away, an outsider crumpled a napkin in her hands and silently walked out of the diner, her head bowed. She signaled the first cab that came her way, climbed inside and threw out the napkin.
The napkin read,
“Dearest father.
Love,
Commentary
Writing is one of the most beautiful ways to express feelings that cannot be said. It helps me alleviate any stress that occurs in my day-to-day life, and some daily turn of events sparks some new ideas in my mind that helps me write them down. They may not be just feelings or ideas, but musings, imaginations, wishes or any future goals that I would like to achieve. Writing fiction is the best way to get away when one wants to take a break, and this short story made me enjoy my break. Initially I just wanted to write a story that is entertaining. I wanted to put a lot of conversations that could help the reader relate better. Rather than have a solid step-by-step plan on what to write, I started with an idea and a theme. It turned out to be less conversational and more of an emotional story, which is fine anyway, since I think the reader can connect to the emotional state of the female protagonist. My story comes about as a cross between Bildungsroman genre and the psychological genre where the emotional state of the protagonist is explored, the depth of her feelings, her remorse and regrets are focused upon and finally about her emotional and moral growth. A mixture of novels and short stories from the Internet has helped me set up the tone and space of the story, but it is hard to define if there is any emulation of a certain author. This is because when one reads a varied collection of novels over a course of time, it is difficult to discern which author is being emulated, since one creates a style of his/her own from the myriad of styles of different authors. However, I think I need to improve on my style of writing and create a definite style unique to myself. It is also essential that the ideas generated be original and not plagiarized.
References
Anon., n.d. Bildungsroman. [Online] Available at: https://www.princeton.edu/~achaney/tmve/wiki100k/docs/Bildungsroman.html
Chbosky, S., 1999. The Perks of Being a Wallflower. s.l.:MTV.
Lurie, M., 2000. When and How to Write Short Stories and What They Are. s.l.:Common Ground.
