The Bench - A Short Story
a little experiment in fiction
Well friends, I have been sitting on this one for a while now. I took a short story course with
last year and this is the story that came out of it. I've been both excited to put it out into the world and terrified that it's crap. I have told myself that maybe more people to review it first is what I need, then I realized that I was only looking for permission, so why not just give that to myself. So…here it is. I hope you enjoy it.When you are done reading, drop a like or a comment if you're up for more experiments in fiction like this.
The Bench
When you wake from your daze, I search your face Looking for you The version of you that is part of us The you who’s been beside me all these years I look for the glint in your eyes that knows The look that is an opening To find our way back to us Even if the moment is fleeting
My parents were storytellers. That is where my imagination came from. Where my parents tended towards the mystical and magical, I preferred realistic stories. I wasn’t convinced by stories of magical rings or sleeping princesses. I was interested in the stories that make people who they are. I suppose that’s what brought me to the bench.
The bench sits on a hill on the outskirts of town. It looks down over the town, watching the comings and goings of everyone. Those prone to the magical, like my parents, say that the bench knows our stories, given the constant vigil it holds. Back then I gave no credence to the omniscience of the bench. Now, I wonder, if I asked, would it whisper in my ear all the stories that have left me?
It was also said that if you came upon another on the bench, then you were lucky, for that person was your soul mate. More magical thinking. I wasn’t looking for a soul mate by visiting the bench. I sat there simply because I enjoyed the view, and it gave me a vantage point from which to write my stories. I would sit and watch the people bustling, pull out my notebook, and record my stories of the town’s inhabitants.
The story of the baker, an old war hero who used kneading, slapping, and folding to chase the carnage from his mind.
The story of the florist who was lost off the coast of town. One of our fishermen rescued him and brought him home for to assist in his recovery. The fisherman’s wife had the biggest garden around and the lost man (for he was not yet a florist) would spend his days recovering among her plants. It was in that garden that the flowers called to him.
The story of the chimney sweep who was always stirring up gossip from the things he overheard while cleaning people’s chimneys. Who was only looking for a way to be seen.
None of these stories are true, mind you. I didn’t write their true stories. I believed that the ones I imagined were far more interesting. Perhaps because I didn’t bother to look or listen closely enough. It is a sad act of fate that the only stories I remember now are the ones I created, rather than the truth of my townsfolk.
The town was a simple town. No one moved in or out. Professions passed down within families. Days were predictable, consistent, without surprise. Not once was there a true story of soul mates that began on the bench, so I couldn’t gather why anyone continued to spout the foolishness. Perhaps they saw something coming that I didn’t.
Perhaps they saw you.
My heart did not leap that day I came upon you sitting on the bench. The sky did not open. Angels did not sing. Rather, I was annoyed to not have the bench to myself. I considered turning around and making my way back down the hill, but my curiosity got the better of me. After all, you were not from town. You were a surprise.
“It’s You!” You exclaimed when I arrived. You have always been expressive.
“It’s me?” I replied, confused. You just nodded your head and smiled at me. I found it all very odd.
“You’re not from here.” I said, hoping you would explain.
“Oh no. Not at all. But I suppose I am now!” you announced with no explanation.
Unsure how to proceed, I sat a comfortable distance from you, silent. We sat that way for a while, looking over the town. It was market day, and everyone was out on the main street, buying or selling.
After a time, you said, “lovely view!”
“It’s why I come here, but I’ve never seen you here before.” I was still waiting for an explanation.
“It’s my first time. I’ve lived down the other side of the hill, in the next town over. Just moved here.” Something about this fact deflates your shoulders a bit and my imagination takes hold.
Man flees a destroyed marriage.
Black sheep of the family leaves them all behind.
Outwardly, I was silent, waiting for the real story.
“The truth is the bench brought me here.” You admitted.
“Oh gosh, you believe that nonsense?” I saw you flinch at my response. “No one in this town has ever met their spouse on this bench. So why does everyone believe this story?”
“Stories point us to ourselves. True or not, they remind us who we are. I’m sure you’ve learned this as a storyteller.”
I realized the truth of your statement as soon as I heard it. I was struck silent by my shame for not knowing this as a storyteller.
“What now?” I ask you.
You turn to me, patience in your eyes, “tell me about this place.”
I’m not sure why, but I began to tell you all the stories I have imagined about my town. I told you about the baker, the florist, the chimney sweep, and others. You told me later that those stories actually taught you about me.
“Come back to town with me?” You asked, offering your hand, a look of hope stretched across your face. I felt frozen, unsure. I didn’t trust the story of the bench that you were so sure of. I didn’t know if I wanted to be part of your story. Yet a part of me was also excited about the prospect of something new.
As I considered, you stood smiling, hand outstretched. Something about the moment felt familiar, so I reached to take your hand.
When our fingers touched, I felt a jolt of electricity. Suddenly, I’m no longer on the bench. I find myself in a house, in a chair. My chair, I remember. My hand is still in yours.
“Ah, welcome back, my love. Making stories again?” The hope I saw that day we met lighting up your face.
“Only remembering,” I say. “The bench. It wasn’t nonsense.”
Relief transforms your face. “It wasn’t nonsense.”
My Love, The stories we made after that day on the bench! I miss making them with you Rather than replaying this one But I will replay it over and over To glimpse that look that says, this time, you remember
Lovely, Kim!
Beautiful. Intriguing. Gave me space to fill the gaps and imagine while being led to a heartfelt ending. Loved it !