Drama Fiction Sad

She visited them every night.

Some might have labeled her a stalker. A night-watcher, a bum, a girl clueless to the ways of the world. But they did not. They didn’t even know she existed. They never saw her tear-streaked face outside their window while they ate dinner, bathed in golden light.

And that might’ve been her favorite thing about them.

She was eleven when she saw them for the first time. It was their happiness that struck her, drew her eye, pulled her in and never let go. They were like a whirlpool, she always thought. Irresistible. She saw the mother, the daughter her age, the father, the baby. The love.

Irresistible.

She stayed close to them, from that day. Never interfered, never made herself known—simply observed.

 

I’ve never really kept a diary before. Never had the time. Or the money—even journals cost a few dollars.

I saw them today. I don’t know what to call them—the family, I mean. I’ll stick with “them,” I guess. There’re always four around their table, and one looks about my age.

I don’t know why I’m saying all this. I don’t have any poetic descriptions, or any worthwhile stories to tell. I’m hoping, maybe, this family can change that. Maybe they can change me.

It’s like how reading a book can change a person, I think. At least, I hope. When even though you’re nothing but a spectator, you feel their pain. You experience their triumph.

I think—hope—this might be like that. Maybe they can change me.

Maybe someday.


She knew the notion was nothing but fantasy. A daydream. She wrote the words nonetheless.

She crept in the shadows every night, following them home.

They walked in the home laughing, joking, smiling. The warm light from the door seeped out from the open frame. It enveloped them, pulling them into the home with fingers of love. She wished that she could feel the home’s welcoming arms, but rejected the thought. It was another fantasy.


I had a realization today.

I was watching them go back to their home, like they always do. The home itself was full of yellow, orange, brown—warm. The light seemed like it pulled them in. When they opened the door, it came out and welcomed them.

I thought about that as I walked home. I wonder why I call my place home—a home is what they have. The place that holds out warm, welcoming arms. Where I stay, there is none of that. My home holds out tendrils of shadow, reminding me who I am, where I come from.

I never thought myself a prose-y person, but sometimes, journaling forces prose out of you. Sometimes, life forces it out of you. It seems like the darkest times lay the most beautiful words on a blank page.

There it is again. Prose, coming from my dark abode. The irony of it almost makes me laugh, but it proves my point.

I wish my home could be like theirs. Maybe that’s why I want so badly to change with them. Someday, I want what they have. That’s all I want.

But that leads me to my realization. A home like theirs is not meant for me. I’m meant for the shadows.

But maybe someday.

 

She became obsessed. Not clingy, not creepy—only filled with an insatiable hunger for the light. She knew she couldn’t partake, but she couldn’t keep herself away, either.

So she settled for the outskirts. One foot in, one foot out. Watching them have dinner, filling their mouths with words of her own, crafting stories for what the daughter did at school or what the father did at work.

When she walked home, the rain washed away the warmth they had given her. She wrapped her arms around herself and tucked her chin to her chest. Her only coat was at home, next to her journal—she didn’t often need it this early in the fall. Nothing stood between her and the frigid wetness.


They always seem so…joyful. It makes me wonder if all families are like this. Most families seem to start out this way, but slowly, painfully, fracture into little pieces. Like a broken window. The shards of glass land everywhere, dig under your skin, bury themselves deep into your body.

Or maybe that’s just my family.

But they are different. So very different. If my family is a shattered window, they are a pristine panel of glass.

There I go with imagery again. In a different world, maybe, I could be a writer. Something tells me I might like that.

Maybe someday.

 

Three months passed. The pumpkins on their doorstep became Christmas lights above their driveway. Her routine never faltered, never changed. The family—that she now thought of as her family—grew. She stayed the same. Sometimes, the light from the doorway didn’t shine as bright as usual. She was cautious those days, and so were they. When they spoke over dinner, she could sense the tension from her customary place outside the house.

Whatever happened, they made up by the end. She stayed at the window, heart pounding in anticipation, until the moment where one of them broke down and the others rushed to comfort, to forgive, to heal together.


It was the daughter today. She came home, had a fight with the mother. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. But in the end, after dinner, they had a long conversation. They embraced at the end, like they always do.

I sat down there, with my back against the wall, staring into space. Wondering. Wondering what might’ve happened if that had been my mom in there, holding me. Things might have turned out so differently.

But I don’t have the luxury of wondering. They are the closest to an escape I can get. I want nothing more than to live in that fantasy. I know the odds—but despite them, something inside me still whispers:

Maybe someday.

 

Tears trickled down her face as she wrote that night. She didn’t have the luxury of wondering, she repeated to herself. But she wondered anyway.

And somehow, the wondering was the worst of all.

Numb, she turned the page and sketched. The first blank paper became a mess of jagged black lines, harsh cracks in the pure white. On one stroke, she ripped the page, but she hardly noticed as she dragged the pen over the paper. Her breathing quickened. Her hands shook. Sweat dripped down her temple. Her vision hazed red.

She took a deep breath and flipped another page.

On this one, she drew with steady hands. Easy strokes, forming a simple rectangle.

Two windows. One broken, one unbroken.

She tore the papers out of the journal and laid them out on the street in front of her. She had a foot in both worlds, half of her in the house with them, the other half of her here, in the shadowed streets.

She couldn’t keep torturing herself like this, torn between two opposites. She couldn’t become a living oxymoron. It would tear her apart as easily as her pen had torn the paper. She had to choose one world, one window, one drawing.

She closed the journal and fell asleep with the sketches in front of her.

The family was changed the next day. The daughter was nowhere to be found and the mother’s eyes were red and puffy.

The light didn’t shine through the doorway.

They fought. She didn’t know what about, but the mother and the father fought harder than she’d ever seen. Both left the room in tears. Only the father returned.

The father came to a standstill for a few beats before seizing the nearest cup and hurling it at the window. The window shattered.

She huddled against the wall of the house as shards of glass rained down, biting into her skin, burrowing their way into her flesh. Her features twisted in pain, but she didn’t cry out. She’d been through worse.

When the sharp hail subsided, she stood on shaky legs. Shivering, she let her winter coat fall to the ground. Her fingers fumbled in the frigid air, but she managed to pick the fragments out of her tattered shirt. Each one made the tiniest sound as she dropped it and it connected with the rest of its kind.

Moisture sprang to her eyes. Even the glass had something she did not.

She picked up her coat and gently brushed the shards away. Surrounded by a dusting of snow, glass sparkled on the concrete by her feet. A glittering reminder of something never to be repaired. A glittering reminder that hit her close to home.

Blood seeped from the deeper cuts on her arms, but she ignored it. A few scratches could never hurt her, compared to the gut-wrenching feeling that wracked her body when her gaze fell on the empty window frame.

She took a piece of the broken glass with her when she walked away from the house—no longer a home—for the last time.


I drew two windows last night, in this journal. I have one of them in my pocket, now—the other is somewhere in a gutter.

Did I choose right?

I’ll never know, I guess. But after what I saw with them, I had to make the decision I did. Being grounded, down-to-earth—it’s something that comes with being a street-orphan. I can’t choose fantasies.

I made the choice I had to. I made the choice that will make me stronger. I think I made the right choice.

But I will always wonder.

Maybe someday, I will know.

Posted Nov 02, 2021
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30 likes 25 comments

Jon Casper
09:31 Nov 02, 2021

Wonderful story, Tommie! I like the framework of the two alternating POVs -- third person to first person.

It feels like she isn't envying some literal family, she's remembering glimpses of her own broken family from whom she has run away -- and from whom she is so estranged that she thinks of them as "them." Having an internal battle over whether she could ever belong with "them" again, which seems like something a runaway might contend with. The earlier reference to the broken window vs pristine panel ... vs the father shattering the window later on. The fact that the daughter goes missing one day, when everything shatters. You tie together how she straddles the two worlds -- "She settled for the outskirts, one foot in, one foot out" vs later, "She had a foot in both worlds, half of her in the house with them, the other half of her here, in the shadowed streets." Which to me sort of reinforces that "they" aren't literal. Is that where you were going with it? I think it works either way, I'm just curious.

It seems like the darkest times lay the most beautiful words on a blank page.
-- Great line!

I just found one thing that snagged my sails:

The warm light from the door seeped out from the open frame.
-- "from the door" ... "from the frame" -- seems like this repetition could be tightened somehow? Example: "A warm light seeped out from the door frame."

This is a powerful story and I found it engrossing and enjoyable. Very nice work!

Reply

Tommie Michele
12:52 Nov 02, 2021

Wow, your interpretation is definitely a lot better than my idea—for some reason, I was less than inspired this week, so I took the prompt quite literally, but I tried to leave it pretty ambiguous because as a reader, taking stories and interpreting them myself is my favorite thing to do. Thank you so much for the feedback and the kind words!

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Tommie Michele
04:40 Nov 02, 2021

Line-edits welcomed with open arms! This draft is fresh off the word processor, so I don't doubt that there are some (likely egregious--did I spell that right?) grammatical errors. I don't know if I like this one enough to submit it to the contest, but maybe after a couple rounds of polishing I'll be more fond of it.

Thank you for taking the time to read, and I hope you enjoy!

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Esther :)
19:05 Nov 09, 2021

Wow great job! From the second I started reading it to the end I was captivated!

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Tommie Michele
20:56 Nov 09, 2021

Thank you, Esther!

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Renda Hanson
17:39 Nov 08, 2021

Your perspective on the prompt is fantastic. I enjoyed reading of the girl's struggle with watching "them" and her journaling. The entry "but sometimes, journaling forces prose out of you" resounded for me because of the solid truthfulness of it. Also, and then I will end the comment so as not to be so longwinded, the imagery and emotion of it all was outstanding. Thank you for the great read.

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Tommie Michele
18:28 Nov 08, 2021

Thank you so much! And don’t worry, I leave long comments all the time :)

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Elise Aries
17:03 Nov 07, 2021

I was gripped by the first sentence! The emotional scenes are written so clearly I could feel what the main character was going through. This is very difficult to pull off, so well done!

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Tommie Michele
18:45 Nov 07, 2021

Thank you! I’m trying to work on clarity in my writing and cutting out fluff while having vivid description, so this is very encouraging!

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Eliza Entwistle
17:01 Nov 07, 2021

This story is sad and beautiful, fits the prompt so well, and I like the repetition of "maybe someday" and the symbolism of the broken window. "It seems like the darkest times lay the most beautiful words on a blank page" was one of my favorite lines. So meaningful! Good luck in the competition and well done :)

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Tommie Michele
18:45 Nov 07, 2021

Thank you so much!

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Barbara Mealer
14:29 Nov 07, 2021

A really good story and very powerful.

Just a thought. If it was written as all as journal entries. What would she write for that last part?

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Tommie Michele
19:17 Nov 08, 2021

Thank you! I must admit, I don't quite understand your question--the last part of the story is a journal entry. What part do you mean?

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Cannon Taylor
19:33 Nov 06, 2021

Wow, this story was weirdly relatable. I like that the narrator can be seen as abstract or real - I prefer the abstract, personally. I love stories that are able to take such complex feelings and create something truly artistic from them. This is one of those stories I feel anyone could enjoy - it captures the human experience so well. I think we all have felt like jealous outsiders looking in. I’d say this is worth submitting to the contest, if you have the spare cash. Great job!

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Tommie Michele
22:33 Nov 06, 2021

Thank you for the kind words! I did end up submitting it—crossing my fingers :)

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Kay Northbridge
00:50 Nov 06, 2021

Hi Tommie, I don't have time to do line by line but just wanted to let you know that I have read this story and I really like it. I especially like the ending, where all the creepiness is explained and the characters perspective suddenly makes sense. It's a great write.

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Tommie Michele
01:00 Nov 06, 2021

Thank you so much! I’m so glad you were able to read and enjoyed it :)

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Suma Jayachandar
04:42 Nov 05, 2021

Wow! this works so well both literally and metaphorically! Enjoyed reading it.

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Tommie Michele
05:24 Nov 05, 2021

Thank you so much! I’m glad you liked it :) I was not very inspired at all this week, but I’m happy I got something out and all the positive feedback is really encouraging!

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Alex Sultan
15:48 Nov 03, 2021

I enjoyed reading this! I know what you mean when you say inspiration won't flow but this was definitely worth posting - a good addition to your library of stories. I like the repetition of the title, and my favourite parts were the subtle POV switches.

I really like how you build up the orphan character. It does get sad near the end.

I like the first paragraph and the opening sentence. The simplicity of it is nice, and a good introduction to the story. It sounds like you and fits your style.

here is what I have for line edits:

A night-watcher, a bum, a girl [who was] clueless [as] to the ways of the world. - Consider cutting the brackets for a smoother sentence.

But they didn’t. -Possibly break the contraction here for flat emphasis.

Some might have labeled her a stalker. A night-watcher, a bum, a girl clueless to the ways of the world. But they did not. (See how it sounds from your POV)

It was their happiness that struck her, drew her eye, pulled her in and never let go. -The structure here is great. It reads very well. Is there any way to add a bit of imagery right after it? To show they are happy? They laugh as they eat, or something like that?

Paper is in short supply on the streets, anyway. -Great detail. Is there any way you can expand on it? Why is it short? Either or, this sentence is a cool bit of worldbuilding.

I saw them today. I don’t know what to call them—the family, I mean—[so…]I’ll [just] stick with “them,” I guess. -You could cut both brackets here, and the 'I guess' too for a slightly more confident character.

If you do decide to cut the brackets out of last sentence, consider changing the next to cut the repetition of 'them'
There’re four of them, and one looks about my age. >
There’re always four around the table, and one looks about my age.
Or something like that.

When even though you’re [simply] a spectator, you feel their pain. You experience their triumph. -You used 'simply' earlier with 'simply observed'. Is there any way to change the adverb here? I think the repetition of it stands out.

She knew the notion was nothing but [a] fantasy. - I think cutting 'a' might sound better from the POV of a street orphan.

A daydream [for someone who could never have what they had]. -Maybe just 'A daydream.' ? The brackets feel like implied info. [But] she wrote the words nonetheless. -Then possibly cut 'but' for more emphasis.

She crept in the shadows [behind them] every night, following them home. -Brackets is an unnecessary detail, I think. Id cut it for a shorter sentence.

They walked in the [door] laughing, joking, smiling. Warm light seeped out from the open [door]. -Repetition of door.

She [briefly] wished that she could feel the home’s welcoming arms, but rejected the thought [immediately]. -Two adverbs here. I personally would cut both for more emphasis, but read it from your POV. See if either can be replaced.

The place that holds out warm, [yellow], welcoming arms. -I'd cut 'yellow' for the repetition following the colours in the last sentence.

It seems like the darkest times lay the most beautiful words on a blank page. -A great sentence here. I like this one. It is funny that it follows 'I never thought myself a prose-y person'

A home like theirs [isn’t] meant for me. -Consider breaking the contraction here. See how it sounds.

She became obsessed. Not clingy, not creepy—just filled with an insatiable hunger for the light. - This is cool! I like this part since it gives us more info on the character, and a reason to feel sad, you know?

However, I'd try to rework the rest of the paragraph. Nearly every sentence starts with 'she', and while this is fine, it starts to feel a bit like bullet points. I'd just find a way to switch one or two up.

Most families seem to start out this way, but slowly, painfully, fracture into little pieces. Like a broken window. -This is good! It might be just me, and I'd skip this piece of critique if you disagree, but try reading it without the adverbs. Might just be a style thing - I'm used to cutting 95% in my work, and I'm being as picky as possible with this critique.

But they are different. So much different. > But they are different. So very different. -Naturally, I think 'very different' than 'much different'

If my family was a shattered window, they [are] a pristine panel of glass. -Beautiful sentence, but did you mean 'were' instead of are? You have was, earlier, maybe switch it for 'is'? The tense here sort of confused me.

Three months passed. -Any way to show this? The weather changing, the trees breaking apart to winter, or changing colour for fall, or something seasonal? Pumpkins on the doorstep to Christmas lights above the driveway?

Her routine never faltered, never changed. -I like the structure here :)

The family—that she had [begun to think] of as her family—grew. -'Begun to think' sort of feels wrong here? If it has been months, shouldn't the brackets be 'thought'?

Sometimes, the light from the doorway [seemed dimmer] than usual. -Didn't shine as bright? Is there some way to change 'seemed' here for more imagery?

She stayed at the window, heart pounding in anticipation, until the [final] moment where one of them broke down and the others rushed to comfort, to forgive, to heal together. -I'd consider cutting 'final' here. It's implied, but read it over with and without from your POV.

I sat down there, with my back against the wall, staring into space. Wondering. Wondering what might’ve happened if that had been my mom in there, holding me. Things might have turned out so differently. -Wow, what a depressing sentence. Well done - this paragraph and the one that follows are my favourites.

Numb, she turned the page and [began to sketch.] > Numb, she turned the page and sketched.

On this one, she drew [calmly]. Easy strokes, making a simple rectangle. -Any way to cut the adverb? On this one, she drew with steady hands. Easy strokes, a simple rectangle.

She had a foot in both worlds, half of her in the house with them, the other half of her here, in the shadowed streets. -This is good! I have a character very similar to this, and I hope to eventually write about them when the right prompt comes along. I hope you don't mind if I take inspiration from this story.

The family was strange the next day. Changed. > The family had changed the next day.

She huddled against the wall of the house as shards of glass rained down, biting into her skin, burrowing their way into her flesh. She didn’t cry out. She’d been through worse. -Three sentences with 'she' here. I don't think it's too bad, but I'd see if you could draft something different.

I drew last night. I drew the two windows. I have one of them in my pocket, now—the other is somewhere in a gutter. - This could probably be tightened up.
>
I drew two windows, last night. I have one of them in my pocket, now—the other is somewhere in a gutter.

it’s something that comes with the [street-orphan job description]. - I'd just say 'street-orphan' and leave it at that.

I do agree with S. Thomson that a bit more life to the world might be a good thing, but in a different way. Could you explain the weather? Is it raining, and the MC's coat is wet and she shivers and therefore we feel bad for her? Or does it snow, and she wipes frost off her eyelashes? Or does she swat as mosquitoes in the summer? Something like that. An outside reason for us to feel for the MC, which is out of her control, might make the story a bit sadder.

Also, control+f 'just' and see if there's any you can cut. It does show up a bit.

That is all I have for notes - I hope it is not overwhelming. I want this story to do well and am looking forward to reading over any more edits you might make. If you drop a comment when you do, I'd be happy to read over it again. I think with some polish, this might beat 'Mirror, Mirror' for my favourite story of yours. :)

Reply

Tommie Michele
04:23 Nov 04, 2021

Thank you so much, Alex! A lot of edits, for sure, but much-needed and definitely not overwhelming. I made some changes and tried to add a little imagery.

I'm not sure if I'm going to put this one in the contest--maybe it's because I wrote it in a pretty uninspired state of mind, but I'm just not sure if it's quite at the level it should be.

I would love to know what made "Mirror, Mirror" and this story your two favorites! They're on pretty opposite sides of the spectrum (Funny story, I wrote "Mirror, Mirror" in about an hour on my phone on a lengthy car ride).

Thank you again for the edits! They are so helpful :)

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Alex Sultan
11:48 Nov 05, 2021

I read over your story again, and the changes you made really polish it up. I'm so glad you took my suggestion on the Christmas lights. I really like this story now and I hope it does well in the contest. All the weather touches are nice too! It adds life to the environment, and I feel bad for the protagonist since it is out of her control.

With 'Mirror, Mirror' I like the concept and time skip a lot. The writing style was very simple(I mean this as a compliment) and easy to read. It was such a cool ending to jump forward 30,000 days in it. With this story, which I think I like more, the character you wrote reminds of me one I've drafted out a while ago. I've written one story on them so far and waiting for the right prompt to do another - the way you wrote your character here is nice and I might take some inspiration from the idea.

I'm looking forward to your next story! I hope the upcoming prompts are good.

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Tommie Michele
13:12 Nov 05, 2021

Thank you! I definitely like it more with the polish—I wasn’t going to put it in the co test, but I changed my mind last minute. I’m looking forward to your next story, too! Definitely hoping for more inspiration this week, too.

Good luck in the contest!

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S. Thomson
12:34 Nov 02, 2021

First of all, I wanted to say you are a really good prose writer. You are asking for line edits but you barely need them as you have a great sense of sentence structure and word choice.

If I had to give a note, I would say that your uses of "she" and "they" are quite impersonal, which makes the characters harder to empathise with and connect to emotionally. Why doesn't your main character have a name? Maybe she could dig through their bins and find bits of mail with their names on.

I also think the narrative becomes a little repetitive in points, and perhaps is lacking in grounded detail. We understand quickly that the narrator is fixated on observing the family, so it doesn't need restating. It would be more interesting to hear more about the changes the family is going through in my opinion.

Also, I think it could be nice to see some more of your MC's life on the streets. That must be a really harsh environment, and would serve as an effective contrast between the comfort of the family home. Is she begging for money? Stealing? Where does she sleep? Is she scared? Other than that, excellent work, thank you for sharing.

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Tommie Michele
12:57 Nov 02, 2021

Thank you! I definitely don’t consider myself a prose kind of person, so your words are super encouraging. As for using “she” and “they” versus names, I wanted to give the reader the same kind of disconnected feeling as the narrator feels toward “them”. I can see how it gets a little repetitive—that’s definitely something I struggle with in my writing. A lot of the problem is that I haven’t had any ideas for what else I can put in between each of the narrator’s journal entries—this week was definitely not an inspired one for me, hence the non-entry to the contest (at least for now).

Thank you so much for the feedback!

Reply

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