"The Last Time" - 500-600 word story

[Katrina]

Here's a new challenge: Write a story of 500 to 600 words titled "The Last Time". It must contain only three characters.

Enjoy!

[subtlecollision]

The Last Time

Compelled by the final shred of creativity she could ever contrive, Amelia Ivans, forty-five and listless, sat behind her old sewing machine for the last time. Sliding a piece of mauve fabric under the needle, she grunted discontentedly. A sketch of a summer dress with sweeping lines and numerous plaits lay next to the machine. It was, though she did not know it, beautiful.

Many years ago, Amelia had been a fervent, passionate designer and sewer. Everyone who had the pleasure of seeing her work commended it. She strived for the best, working hard and ardently. This paid off, for she earned quite a profit selling her work, with which she despised parting.

Nevertheless, this did not bother her for long. With every new project, she, enveloped in her own eagerness, forgot about her last. It seemed as if she became a better seamstress every time she stepped on the pedal, and a better garment emerged.

Years disappeared and family flourished. She met an ambitious man, Ernie Ivans, and with him had a daughter, Penelope. Other things-- important things-- diverted her attention from her passion. The sewing machine was devoid of company for a time, a time that became a long time.

At this present time, Penelope, now seventeen, stole into the long-since abandoned sewing room and station herself behind her mother.

“Mom,” she breathed, “That’s an amazing design.”

“It d**n well better be. My last four were rubbish,” she said softly.

“So you have been designing again?” Penelope asked, running her fingers over the dress’s curves and folds.

Amelia sighed, “Yes. And I’m making this dress for you.”

“It may be my size, but you’re making it for you,” Penelope lingered a moment longer and left with the sound of the machine ringing in her ears.

Returning to her long-forgotten hobby proved an arduous task. Like a blinded puppy opening its eyes to the wonder and glory of the world and realizing it can see, Amelia delved into something new, yet strangely old. This realm of possibility thrilled her fingers and heart.

Crap. That was the only apt word for her creation. Crooked stitches and sloppily cut fabric made unsightly what could have been beautiful. What was she thinking? It could not have been beautiful had she tried harder. At this moment of frustration, Ernie walked into the room. He also endured the displeasure of witnessing his wife throw the dress to the floor and stomp on it madly.

“I am through!” she shrieked, seizing his shirt and wrapping herself around him, “This is the last time I ever touch that wicked thing!”

He rested his chin on her head and murmured, “Then this is the last time I will ever see your spark.”

“What?” she sobbed into his chest.

Grasping her by the shoulders, he pushed her away so he could look into her eyes.

“Ah, there it is,” said he, “Even as you weep, that twinkle remains. It is unaffected by your tears.”

She waved the dress in front of him and said, “But this is trash!”

“Your success is unaffected by your failure.”

With that, he quitted the room, leaving her dizzy and giddy. Once composed, she delicately placed both hands on the fabric. She sniffed and, checking a sob, searched her design for its potential. She found it. Beauty resided in her compassion and could manifest into something tangible-- something hopefully in the form of a summer dress.

For the last time, Amelia Ivans, forty-five and zealous, sat behind her old sewing machine.

She intended to buy a new one.

Words- 595

[Katrina]

Your story is both beautiful and melancholy. I felt Amelia's emotion very strongly.

[subtlecollision]

Thank-you, Katrina.

[strangexgirl]

Vincent sat in the darkened parlor of his upscale estate, staring into the embers of what had been a roaring fire hours ago. His black frock coat was wrapped around the small form in his lap, contrasting sharply against the rich burgundy armchair he was seated in. The girl was curled up against his chest, and he stroked her hair soothingly as she twitched in her fitful sleep, muttering words he couldn't comprehend. Vincent was shaking slightly, thought he wasn't sure if it was from the cold, or from the knowledge of what they'd done to his Suzy.

His Suzy.

Yes, he supposed, she was his. When the world mistreated her, or when some miscreant boy she dated broke her heart into a thousand pieces, it was always he that fixed things, that repaired the damage others had done. And she would do the same for him, were the tables turned – she'd helped him with all his problems, and without judging, mocking, or telling his secrets, no matter how petty, small, or futile they may be.

The elegant man sighed, positioning his arms securely around Suzy as he rose from the chair. It would do no good for her to get sick on top of everything else, he told himself, as he carried her away. He made his way down the hallway, stewing in his vengeful thoughts as he cared for his slightly younger friend. Quick strides carried him swiftly to his bedroom, where he carefully removed her shoes and the coat he'd wrapped around her, and tucked her safely between the warm sheets of his large, four-poster bed. As he moved a stray lock of hair from her face, he vowed to make them pay, all of them. The one that had hurt her this time, and all those before him – there would be no discrimination in the punishment they would receive from him.

Crossing the room, he retrieved a blanket for himself and quietly pulled a chair near the bed. He extinguished what little light there had been in the room, save one lamp, and sank lightly into the chair. His mind eased a bit as he watched Suzy's breath finally start to even out.

This was the last time.

Vincent pulled the blanket more securely over his tall form, pushing the dark, tangled hair from his hooded and bloodshot eyes. A single tear made its way down his prominent nose as he thought about the immense pain his friend was going through. He was worried deeply about her; he'd been awake for hours, just watching over her, making sure that at least her sleep was undaunted. He closed his eyes wearily, knowing he should rest soon, to be able to care for her when she woke. The troubled man was soon lulled to sleep by Suzy's soft breathing, and a single, possessing thought:

This was the last time they'd hurt his Suzy.

[strangexgirl]

So, did you guys like mine, or not?

[subtlecollision]

Eek, no one posted. I'll look at it tomorrow, I promise.

[Katrina]

Sorry, I haven't seen yours yet! Ok, here goes. I like the suspenseful tone, and the determination of the man, it comes through quite strongly. His protectiveness of Suzy was well-written, and I could see his thoughts very clearly.

[subtlecollision]

You wrote your piece with a chilling atmosphere-- the kind where the reader almost wants to 'shudder.' (If you at all get what I mean; It is a compliment Like it sort of reminded me of Edgar Allan Poe's 'The Bells.'

I would just say that maybe you could improve the first paragraph by using the word 'were' less. It distracts the reader from the story.

Just another little thing:

she'd helped him with all his problems, and without judging, mocking, or telling his secrets, no matter how petty, small, or futile they may be.

For some reason, I just feel as if this doesn't belong. The story has a certain, um, a certain speed at which it is told. It's as if you are going on a tangent almost; like I feel as if you should expand more on how the girl helped the man, but it's a bit irrelevant.. so maybe you should just get rid of this.

This is just my opinion; feel free to disagree.

[strangexgirl]

Yeah, I was kinda iffy about that sentence, but was kind of writing in a hurry. And did you mean 'was' instead of 'were'?
Thanks for the compliments. I'm glad you guys liked it.

[subtlecollision]

Yes, I believe I did.

[jane]

mmm yes, I liked the descriptiveness of it! I could picture it in my mind very well.

[strangexgirl]

yay! thanks