The Sunday Story

The Tree of Life

So it’s Sunday again, so I’m going to have another crack at writing an improvised creative writing piece. I’ve managed to get into the Creative Writing Prose module for this year, so hopefully my writing will improve, but for now you’re stuck with me. Last week only two people replied to the post, one suggesting Bolivian Tree Frogs, of which I know next to nothing, and the other merely commenting ‘sick…’. So, I shall go with the one I can write the most about, which will be the latter. This probably won’t be particularly chirpy, but then when have I ever written anything chirpy?

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A palsied hand reached out, wavering in the evening light. Strong fingers gripped it, pulled it towards them into a firm hold, another hand meeting the two. A pair of lips met the grasp, pulling liver spots and frail hairs to their kiss as a tear rolled down one cheek. There was a smile, weak and warm in equal measure, the corners twitching a little before they relaxed back down. Someone sighed.

“You should be with Laura, you know.” The patient nods, tugging slightly at their hand, trying to reclaim it to give the illusion of strength. With it not being surrendered, they sigh again, before tilting their head to one side. “Ben, I’ll be here tomorrow, and she needs you. It’s not like I’m bed ridden or anything.” A forced laugh crawled it’s way from their collective throats before Ben finally let go, leaning back as he folds his arms.

“And she’ll be around for the rest of my life. Dad, I want to be here, and we both know she would be here to if it wasn’t for Sam.” His father nodded, clasping both his hands together as he tried to ignore the intrusive tubes trailing across his face. He sighed again, although this time more to get a good lungful of air than out of exasperation.

“She’s a good woman. You chose well. I wanted you to know that.” While he closed his eyes Ben chuckles again, a quick shake of his head as he humoured the man. The smallest of smiles graces his lips, bubbling to the surface as they both try to ignore the tragedy of the situation. After a moment it became too much.

“How are you feeling?” His father stiffened at that. Illness showed weakness in his book, and he didn’t want his son to see him like that. He brushes Ben’s hand away and tried to sit up a little higher in his bed. Drawing his gown around him he brushes down his hair with one hand.

“Doctor says the bugger’s grown a bit. That last siezure really was my last, apparently. If there’s another, I won’t be able to enjoy it to the end.” The gallow’s humour didn’t sit well with his son, he looked, away, eyes drawn to the last rays of sunlight as they scatter across the linoleum floor.

“Do you think this is it, Dad?” The question was expected but still came as a surprise to the man. Religion was done but not talked about, and philosophy was even less of a conversation topic. He followed his son’s gaze, his eyes squeezing shut as he sees the trailing sun seep across the landscape.

“No. But then who can tell? It’s stupid to think about it son, so we won’t talk.” The conversation now closed, the man moved his glance across to the door. “You really should go Ben. I’ll be fine. Doctor says so.” Ben nodded, sighing as he picks up his coat.

“I’ll be in tomorrow, with the kid. Laura will come too if she can. Ok?” The shortness of the sentences left the air pregnant with the question he didn’t ask. His father nodded, his eyes closed once again.

“Ok, see you tomorrow.” Hushed tones filled the room before the sound of the door clicked shut, leaving the man alone in the room with naught but the dying light for company. A fitting companion.

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About Phill Cameron

I've graduated, had a look at the world, and spat. Now I'm devoting my time to moving from 3/4 of a games journalist to 9/10ths. I figure I can get away with 9/10ths.
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One Response to The Sunday Story

  1. stevetheblack says:

    Bolivian tree frogs next week, please.

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