my area of calm

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic
a short story, consisting of a character waiting for her loved one to return.

Submitted: July 29, 2012

A A A | A A A

Submitted: July 29, 2012

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A A A


Ice. I feel the cold, ice-like water glide over my feet, as I sit on the rock beside the stream, smiling to myself. This is my secret place; a place for thinking, laughing, crying, sharing with only the dearest people to me. Though I must say, I’ve not shown anybody else my little tranquil hideout. If I were to show people, then they’d bring more, and it wouldn’t be tranquil at all. I know that nobody else knows where this is; or if they do, they never come.

I spend most of my days sat here, this exact spot, but the context is never the same, if that makes sense. I’m never thinking of the same things, never feeling the same; no two visits are ever the same. Sometimes, I come here to picture my life in 10 years time, and how my experiences would have affected my decisions. I don’t know if they would at all, realistically. I don’t tend to make hasty decisions; thinking is one think I’ve always been good at. It’s not like I’m upset, or depressed, or have secret burning passions, simply that I don’t feel like sharing my thoughts aloud. What’s the point- nobody really pays attention anyways? I know for a fact that very few people actually care about what one another says; the only thing they care about is how/if it will benefit them. Or, alternately, they’re thinking about what they’ll do when they get home.

The trees sway above me, and the sun’s rays cut through the air like blades, before setting their sights upon the stream and the quiet, dark-haired girl sat beside it. I push my hair out of my face with my hand, and look at the willow tree to my left. I love willow trees; always have. They’re beautiful. The way the strings of leaves fall, the shape of each individual leaf, the colour, the thick roots pushing up from under the tightly packed muddy ground. To my right, the stream continues, looping around fallen branches, small pools, as it continues until it’s out of my sight.

I can remember exactly how I found this place. 3 years ago, I think it was, with my boyfriend, Seth.  We used to come here every evening, watch the animals stumble back to their homes, and watch the nocturnal creatures come out from their hiding, and see the world at its most beautiful time of day. We’d sometimes fall asleep out here, actually. Well, I know I would, my head falling on his shoulder, as usual. He’d stare up at the moon, arm around me, and allow me to drift off. If I had to personify comfort, it’d be him. Just everything about him made me feel comfortable.  I often wonder what happened to him; I wonder why one day, he just disappeared from my life. Rumour has it, he’s been seen since, but I don’t think that’s true. He’d say something to me, if that were the case.  Maybe I forgot to mention earlier, the reason I’m smiling.

My favourite flower has always been- and always will be- dark, red roses. There’s something so dark, so tempting about them. The way the petals gently, but firmly, close in on one another. The way the thorns poke out from the stem; symbolising the balance of comfort and danger, just in one simple plant. Seth always used to buy me red roses; he’s the only one who knew why and how much I liked them.  And that’s why I smile as I’m thinking right now. Beside me on the rock lies a single red rose, with a piece of pale notepaper wrapped around the bottom, and I don’t need to open the paper to know what it says on the inside.

I pick up the rose, and stroke the petals with my own delicate finger, before uncurling the piece of paper, just to confirm what I already know. I unfold it, and as a ring falls out, I reach down to catch it before it gets taken downstream. I place the ring on my knee, and read the 3 clear words on the paper, as my eyes well up and I stop myself crying.

“I’m coming home”


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