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#Post#: 8694--------------------------------------------------
Dust Storm
By: Walrus365 Date: May 15, 2014, 6:23 pm
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I wrote this story a few months ago for a writing contest at my
school. The story had to be 600 words and start with the first
sentence of this one. It won 1st prize and 50$. Enjoy!
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She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally,
decided to walk through the door. Mr. Wight didn’t seem to be
kidding when he told her that the attic was full of dust and
memories he would have rather forgotten, and if she had been
able to maintain a rational perspective, Mrs. Wight might have
agreed. Mr. Wight had always been her other half; the
unshakable rock on which she had built her new life upon, but
now everything seemed so strange.
Did the fact that the book was tucked away in the farthest
corner of the least accessible room in the house mean it was out
of his mind for good? How many times a day did he think about
venturing up there and retrieving it? The questions multiplied
like ants in a pantry, and before she realized what had
happened, Mrs. Wight had tripped on the trapdoor to the lower
floor of the house. She picked herself up shakily, and
descended the ladder to their bedroom.
Out of habit more than anything, Mrs. Wight gave a sweeping
stare across the room. Her eyes rested on a painting on the
wall. The familiar picture of two trees, side by side,
overlooking a lofty cliff while a thunder storm raged overhead
greeted her view. Looking back on it, she was uncertain the
year Mr. Wight had picked out the picture. She had never liked
the depressing grey clouds and dramatic lightning, but Mr. Wight
had insisted on it, and she had never understood why. The year
he had purchased the painting escaped her, however: one of the
many irregularities of nineteen years of marriage. Mrs. Wight
felt a sudden urge to return to the attic and check the date on
the book.
She pushed the idea away. Didn’t she trust him? Many couples
went through trials like this, but it seemed so different now
that it was happening to her. It was always something that
other people dealt with, not the happy Wight family. How many
times had he been late coming home when he was really visiting
another place? How many times, when he told Mrs. Wight he loved
her, he was thinking about something else? How many times did
he fall asleep loving the book almost directly above his head in
the attic, instead of the family that surrounded the hours he
spent at home!? Mrs. Wight became enraged at the thought. It
would stop here!
She would burn it. The next time he stole away to the attic,
if he ever did again, Mrs. Wight would be waiting with closed
arms and clenched fists. It frightened her how quickly the
trust of her husband had dissipated. Maybe deep down she had
suspected, maybe a few too many weekends were spent with friends
from work or on business trips all those years ago. Her anger
expedited her ascent of the ladder. She forced the door open
and snatched the book off the table viciously, sending a cloud
of dust flying into the air. She coughed on it, and took a
lingering look at the thick carpet of dust that settled in all
parts of the attic.
He hadn’t returned here in a very long time. There wouldn’t be
that much dust if he had. She felt subtly comforted by the
thought. The hysterical malice vanished, but the hated book
would not escape unscathed. After returning to the bedroom, she
threw it out. In the darkness of the trash can, the picture of
Mr. Wight and his lover forever smiled at the inside of the
front cover.
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