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There Are Three Ways To Break Someones Heart

Short story By: Scottie Stockman
Fan fiction

This embellished feature is told by a 23 year old narrator who describes that the term "Women want love to be in the form of a novel, and men will settle for a short story." to be incredibly incorrect in few situations. Although the sporty cover, the short story at hand was developed as a true romance type genre as opposed to anything belittling.

Submitted:Jan 9, 2014    Reads: 50    Comments: 0    Likes: 2   

Explanatory Introduction to Professor

I feel that the following short story I have written shows great versatility and diversity for myself as an author due to the differential aspects of the assignment; traditionally I do not normally write about such topics but I chose the prompt at hand because I wanted to challenge myself and create the sensation of struggle upon difficulty. I enjoy writing because unlike any of its counter-subjects in the classroom there isn't a "correct or incorrect" answer format present. With writing (fictional writing at that) everything scripted is perfectly fine. I have every reason to be unsuccessful with literature; and those same reasons are reason to succeed. This story attempts to reveal that the term "women want love to be a novel, men prefer a short story" is in fact untrue in many situations. Writing about people doing their best is one thing, writing about people doing their worst is another. This story is an embellished implication among multiple problems. Amongst the hissing and thrashing of snakes in life, find time to thrive in literature.

There are three ways to break somebody's heart

When the human body experiences the sensation of physical pain, the part of the brain that is stimulated is called the Anterior Cingulate Cortex. The same portion of the brain is again stimulated when you feel emotional pain: Proof that it is possible to feel physical pain when incredibly emotionally conflicted.

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When the 92 year old woman named Margaret looked over at me with her glowing face dilapidated yet still shapely and refined. She had a look of patience, the kind of stature older people have that you know are just waiting for their time to come. I would see her regularly sitting on the city bus as she was always speaking of her husband's death; almost so much that most people familiar with her would seem to avoid her. We would ride past buildings and she would reminisce to herself about how he had taken her dancing "there" once, or how they had walked a 10 mile breast cancer awareness race "on that street" the year before, and went to eat "at this such n' such restaurant" afterwards just as he promised her. She would be talking to herself but she most certainly wasn't crazy. Margaret's husband had passed due to lung cancer. "He never smoked a day in his life." She would repeat like a broken record as she would light up another cigarette… Margaret's stories broke my heart.

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The voice I had heard at that moment was the most exquisite I had experienced in 23 years of living. The sound danced through the air and made the center of my body ache in sorrow. My brother possibly had the most beautiful tone of voice when he shouted my name with warning, moments before I was hit by a car and launched into through the air. I laid there in a puddle of my own blood for some time, my brother walked over to me in his rain boots but the tips of his shoes halted at the beginning of the red pool. He just looked at me, and sat "criss cross apple sauce" right there in the middle of the street until I regained consciousness again. I wasn't bitter at that moment because of the hit and run that had just occurred. I felt like shit because I knew what my five year old sibling was feeling as he watched his "invincible" older brother collide with a thousand pounds of metal going thirty miles per hour down the col de sac. Christopher's little voice broke my heart.

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There I was back in the gymnasium filled with mats, slamming my fist into the wall and feeling the extract of sadness run down my face in the form of twin salt water springs. My coach; yelling and screamed at me for being upset after a tough loss in front of the entire student section, he really should've expected the outburst. His head flushed cardinal red, and his facial expression could have committed murder. I was the one who lost ¼ of my body weight to get down to weight. I was the one who spent days on the treadmill, and nights starving. That didn't stop him from taking me into the bathroom and shucking me to the floor, screaming at me to do pushups. It didn't matter to him that the ground beneath the urinals had all been severely deteriorated due to large amounts of misdirected piss. I sacrificed my body for the team, the town, and that man; but even as a former weight competing athlete he didn't seem to care. I was replaceable, Coach broke my spirit.

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"Do you have something to tell me?" I beamed a smile at her: A smile that was intended to make her heart race, her palms sweat, and her core temperature rapidly increase. A smile that was intended to make her feel the same way I did.

"You know I wish I did… You really are something." She replied with no attached emotion, although I was still intrigued by her smooth yet subtle vernacular.

"Let's just go out again, please?" I wiped her bangs away from her beautiful blue eyes.

"I just don't have the same feelings, I'm sorry."

"Stef… come on." The idea of giving up was apparent, but not realistic for me.

"I'm sorry." She repeated as she handed me a frown and let out a deep goodbye as if I wouldn't see her in class on Monday.

She had been leading me on for a little over two years now. We would go on month long sprees of intense conversation, and meaningful authentic dates. Then she would come to her senses and stop talking to me for some time before repeatedly starting back up again creating the inner phenomena that I was a romantic failure, giving me the impression of an almost broken feeling that stimulated my mind towards many other situations in life where the same vibe tingled in my thoughts… Stefani broke my heart.

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As I was ripping through the air before the sudden impact and crack to the street concrete, I was feeling lament for my brother. I, the one five seconds ago who was hit by a car was sympathizing for him. My condolences were apparent and present; this heartbreak was that of sympathy. As did Margaret's story had this same effect on me. When I got chewed out for giving up a 1-point loss to the number one kid in the state, and was handed embarrassment in return from my coach I was changed. The heartbreak in that matter was it was when Stefani handed me an empty shelf where the words trophy wife read in the golden plaque which now collected dust. That one may have hurt the most. This heartbreak was lack of acceptance.

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Material heartbreak: I am not afraid of the monsters of life. I'm not afraid of altercations. I'm not afraid of zombies. I'm not afraid of mankind. There are simple answers to all of the above. I am however afraid of intangible things that I can't handle. What I am afraid of is death, abandonment, debt, failure, disappointment, lack of purpose, resentment, to be forgotten, and above all heartbreak.

My Athleticism can't beat my death.

My Education can't beat the possibility of abandonment.

My Dedication doesn't always beat disappointment.

My Hard work doesn't always overcome failure.

My Success won't insure resentment or the possibility of being forgotten.

And contrary to common belief these rugged good looks and incredibly chiseled features won't always defeat heartbreak.


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