1979

A creative writing assignment for our english class to write a short story. This was the first time I attempted it and ended up liking it. Let me know what you think.

Couldn’t say what day it was, all days become a blur in the lock-up. Day becomes night and hours have senseless meaning in our minds. There’s no need for time when you know your going to sit in this cold, damp box for eternity, my own personal box of hell. And who have I to thank? Could it have been a troubled childhood? Possibly a mental disability? Or even temporary insanity? Nope, there’s not an excuse in the book to bail me out of this one, the blame falls squarely on my shoulders. But who am I to complain? The guards always whistle a nice tune as they walk down these dark, gloomy halls; the loud, irrefutable clang of metal always sends a good chill up my spine; and the small, round window at the top of my cell lets in the occasional drop of sunshine. This place is a hell hole where time and life could stand still and no one would know the difference. I mean the only sense of time I really have anymore is the year. But that’s only because Old Red tries to keep track, of course the old man has been in the lock-up longer than anyone seems to know, and of course after a while people tend to get a little crazy. Yep, according to him the year is 1997, which would mean I have been in the box for 17 years. But I can’t be certain on account I’m only relying on Old Red.

          There was a loud beep over the speaker and a harsh voice announced the mail would be delivered with the slop they like to call lunch. These announcements cause quite a stir with the lock-up inmates. Mail is a rarity; they usually try and keep us out of contact with the outside.  I never manage to get mail, I have no one on the outside, and no one on the inside. I only have myself.

The guards were conversing in there normal chatter while they had to deal with the inmates.  They always talked amongst themselves while passing out the rubbery, cardboard flavored, pile of garbage they like to call lunch. The talk of sports and what new movies were coming out always makes me long for a second chance, a fresh start, just to be normal.

They stopped in front of my cell and slipped my tray in between the iron bar, I nodded grimly at them and they turned their eyes to the floor. In turn I glanced my eyes down at the tray to find my slop accompanied by a small white envelope.

“Is this for me??” I shouted after the guards.

There was no reply. Could they of made a mistake? Should I wait to open it? My mind raced with endless possibilities.

Everyone I knew had abandoned me since I was in the lock-up. Like I said before there is no one on the outside for me. So who could be writing to me? I glanced down at the envelope, the handwriting looked somewhat familiar, although who it belonged to, I have no idea.

I began to open the seal with my long, thin fingers. The letter was folded neatly inside on a regular sheet of lined paper, nothing fancy. What the letter contained, however was the biggest puzzle of all. It was mine alright, addressed to my name, Joe Stello. And it was someone who had known me for a while, for here in the letter was nothing but a list of all I did to deserve this eternity in hell. One thing after another, everyone little thing I did that led to another thing, and another thing, until the doors on my life closed in 1980. Who would write such a letter? I obviously realize what I did. I was the one who did it! 

It never seemed like that long of a nap, maybe about half an hour at the most. I remember glancing up to see the blue sky and a full sun. I was lying on the park bench right outside my apartment with my newspaper in hand. It was the church bells that stirred me to wake, a pleasant Sunday afternoon. The date as the newspaper read was Sunday April, 10^th of 1979.  I sat on the bench dazed for a moment; the lock-up was no where in site, not even the outside of the dull, grey, building. Yet, I remembered it so vividly, the years in anguish, sorrow, and loneliness. The letter sitting in my hand is what jerked my mind through the two realities. Post stamped with the date of 1997, I finished reading the last line: “This is my second chance, a fresh start, just to be normal”

 

 

Reviews

[Jordan Cattell]

Interested me from the beginning. I thought it was well written with plenty of detail. Overall, it was a beautiful piece, keep on writing.

[Shane Rendon]

Interesting... What was your inspiration behind this?
"Good chill" I really like that...
I read this because I was listening to that Mewithouyou song "January 1979" it was just way to fitting, but I'd really like to know what made you want to write this.

[Wellum Hulder]

Really nice. I enjoyed ready this one a lot. You have a nice controlled tone and lead the reader to the conclusion nicely. There is not much I would add to to this piece. Well done. Thanks for sharing your writing with me.

Wellum Hulder

[Amber]

Amazing. Wonderfully written. Very inspiring. makes me hope that one day I can write something as brilliant as this.