My Summer with Maggie

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic
Set in the classic city of love: Paris.

"My Summer with Maggie" is revolved around a young, heart-broken man named Billy, who is brink of depression; due to the death of his early-wife Pam. He then decides to go back to the 'city of love' where he recaptures the memories of his dead wife. He then meets Maggie: a blind girl who seems to make him feel better.

This heart-breaking romance tells the story of how two complete opposites come together in a romance so passionate that it make Paris seem insignificant.

Submitted: March 10, 2012

A A A | A A A

Submitted: March 10, 2012





Sometimes the loveliest of memories can turn to sheer horrors: like the unpredictable weather. One minute its sunny,  the next it's utter raining. Truth be told I once recalled on having a memory. One that seemed to be hazy; a dream-state way. The sound of a nearby chime-bell signaled some place behind me and I knew that from the recollection of biblical wording and stained-glass windows, that I was in a church. The sound of movement drew my attention away from the clock towards a heavy-built door with iron handles. It's wooden grains bared harshly under the single spotlight of sun that escaped far west above the open window. I grasped the wooden chair two inches next to me as to my utter dismay and horror the door opened; reviling a single-shadowed figure.  It's fair share of vintage lace was covered in a layer of white pearls, that seemed to move to graciously against the figure's moving body. A strand of heavens cloth dragged itself slowly across the floor. A pair of legs and a pair of hands collided in four singular movements. My eyes traced the horrific features of her gracious body and sinful hands that locked perfectly around a bouquet of snow droplets. It was then I realized the horror of the memory, when the lustful amount of pink flesh was stained in blood. It seemed as though the blood had a life of it's own as it continued to roll like life of its own down the flat cheek of this creature.  Her mechanical eyes twitched in pain as my grasp seemed to loosen with weakness. How could she? How could a innocent fragment of heavens beauty be effected that much? I laughed bitterly at the site of her. I knew what had happened and it was going to happen again. I had played this memory over and over again like a caset tap on speed. I drew a breath and waited patiently for her eyes to see mine. The glass windows appeared to be darkly neon against the flat pains of the church walls. The claustrophobic furniture highlighted the small distance between us. 

I gasped in utter sickness at her frail features. Her swollen cheekbones, her bruised eyelids and blood-stained locks. My vision seemed to collide with the horror of expectations as her eyes do solemnly lift upon mine ever so slowly; lifeless and rimmed with blood.  Oh hail those who seek better memories never let the past control you. The force of natures balance lied in the hands of myself as the ruins of dead wife seemed real. I felt as though this memory was a magnetic force. A force that was controlling my memories: ones that never associated with the life outside this one. . . 

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