This began with the heading, "Maybe Story", part way through it became "Carrying On". Will post first part now, the remainder, with permission, in groups of three or four; story not too, too long.
Carrying On
Charlie awakened early and without looking at the alarm clock decided it was too early to rise. Bed lamp turned on before he reached for the book, opened same at the book mark, did not read, placed the open book on his chest and ran thoughts of the previous six months through his mind; concluded with, “should do something, anything would be better than what I am now doing”. He left his bed, prepared his percolator and couldn’t think of a single reason why anything could or should change.
Coffee, black with one sugar, the kitchen window, thought, “my view of the world”, fields not turned, a clear blue sky and, and, a half moon, daylight but still the moon lingered.
He turned, coffee in hand, walked through his small living room and looked directly into the sun, a sun so bright that it took his sight away for fully five minutes. Spring, “when a young”, smiled for the first time in days and told himself how ridiculous that was.
The year is now 2012 and for the preceding six months Charlie has been living in southern Ontario, a small bungalow he bought when his wife divorced him. Eight months before this time he had finished an affair with an English lady; an English married lady whom he thought was divorced; his affair had lasted four months before Claire announced that her husband had been finishing a contract position in Saudi Arabia: Charlie dived into the “bottle” something he hadn’t used for a number of years.
Charlie dressed, readied a second coffee, took that into his back yard; springtime, farmers had turned their fields, robins (American), nests built and more than likely the eggs were laid. Charlie had one of those round tables with the umbrella, furled at this time. He sat, thoughts drifted to Claire, the booze, sobering for the second time, hoping this would last.
He heard his back door open, knew without looking that it was Jean, his next door neighbour, said, “still some coffee” and Jean told him she already had some, added, “picked up your mail, letter from England, Abby someone”. He turned his head and Jean laughed, said, “someone special(?), I always knew there was something wrong with the other one”. Charlie answered, “so you said when she was here”…he held out a hand and took the letter. Jean raised an eyebrow and he said, “later”. They looked at each other, five, ten seconds before Jean said, “Charlie you are dying to know what is in that letter, say the word and I will leave you to it”. Charlie opened the letter saying, “there is nothing between Abby and me, she is a married woman who was a friend of Claire’s.
Charlie read the letter, stared into space until Jean asked if everything was alright. Charlie said, “a memorial service for Claire”, Jean was quite surprised said, “Claire died”(?) and Charlie said, “a while ago”.
No talking, both deep in thought, Jean stood, very quietly said, “I think I know when” and Charlie nodded. Jean placed a hand on his cheek, looked at him, added, “I feel a little used Charlie but I do understand, I’ll do lunch”.
Carrying On
Charlie awakened early and without looking at the alarm clock decided it was too early to rise. Bed lamp turned on before he reached for the book, opened same at the book mark, did not read, placed the open book on his chest and ran thoughts of the previous six months through his mind; concluded with, “should do something, anything would be better than what I am now doing”. He left his bed, prepared his percolator and couldn’t think of a single reason why anything could or should change.
Coffee, black with one sugar, the kitchen window, thought, “my view of the world”, fields not turned, a clear blue sky and, and, a half moon, daylight but still the moon lingered.
He turned, coffee in hand, walked through his small living room and looked directly into the sun, a sun so bright that it took his sight away for fully five minutes. Spring, “when a young”, smiled for the first time in days and told himself how ridiculous that was.
The year is now 2012 and for the preceding six months Charlie has been living in southern Ontario, a small bungalow he bought when his wife divorced him. Eight months before this time he had finished an affair with an English lady; an English married lady whom he thought was divorced; his affair had lasted four months before Claire announced that her husband had been finishing a contract position in Saudi Arabia: Charlie dived into the “bottle” something he hadn’t used for a number of years.
Charlie dressed, readied a second coffee, took that into his back yard; springtime, farmers had turned their fields, robins (American), nests built and more than likely the eggs were laid. Charlie had one of those round tables with the umbrella, furled at this time. He sat, thoughts drifted to Claire, the booze, sobering for the second time, hoping this would last.
He heard his back door open, knew without looking that it was Jean, his next door neighbour, said, “still some coffee” and Jean told him she already had some, added, “picked up your mail, letter from England, Abby someone”. He turned his head and Jean laughed, said, “someone special(?), I always knew there was something wrong with the other one”. Charlie answered, “so you said when she was here”…he held out a hand and took the letter. Jean raised an eyebrow and he said, “later”. They looked at each other, five, ten seconds before Jean said, “Charlie you are dying to know what is in that letter, say the word and I will leave you to it”. Charlie opened the letter saying, “there is nothing between Abby and me, she is a married woman who was a friend of Claire’s.
Charlie read the letter, stared into space until Jean asked if everything was alright. Charlie said, “a memorial service for Claire”, Jean was quite surprised said, “Claire died”(?) and Charlie said, “a while ago”.
No talking, both deep in thought, Jean stood, very quietly said, “I think I know when” and Charlie nodded. Jean placed a hand on his cheek, looked at him, added, “I feel a little used Charlie but I do understand, I’ll do lunch”.
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