Claire Turner-A Short Story

Claire Turner

Claire Turner had always hated being underneath the bridge that rests in her backyard. Even with its sparkling, alive stream, flowing under it, it was a place where she felt sad. After all, her dead mother spent her last moments under that bridge.

Claire was a sad, skinny, tea drinker with a long, beautiful face and pink lips. Her peers saw her as a quiet but valuable mouse. Once, she had helped a fluttering, sick, old women cross the road. That's the sort of 16 year old she was.

Claire walked over to the window of her ill grandmothers old, sturdy house and reflected on her abandoned surroundings. The rain hammered to the flat ground like falling pebbles.

Claire despises storms. The stream that's flows in her back yard would rise and become violent and fast. It could take a life, if it wanted...

She sits by the cold window, staring at the stream and bridge.

Then she saw something in the foggy, wet distance, or rather, someone. It was the pale figure of Joseph Wilson. Joseph was a tall, optimistic teenager with long legs and black hair that was always combed.

Claire gulped. She was not prepared for Joseph, who had, for years, been the one boy she was fond of.

Joseph Wilson was walking to Claire Turners house, in the cold, gray rain.

Claire stepped outside with an ugly umbrella for him and Joseph Wilson came closer, without saying anything.

Claire invited Joseph Wilson into her old, creaky house. He simply shook his head and handed Claire a dry, crumpled, folded piece of paper.

"Put it somewhere were you won't forget to read it." Joseph said.

Claire looked into his eyes, trying to find out what was on the note.

"You are all wet, and it is pouring." Claire pointed out to Joseph Wilson. He smiled then spat out a sentence.

"Let's get out of the rain." He turned on his heal and began walking to the bridge and stream.

Claire's small, dull heart skipped a beat. She set the small note on the clean but worn out counter top, so she could read it later.

Claire ran to the skinny boy that was kneeling down to get under the bridge. Even though the water had rose up, the small space of land under the bridge could fit two young, brave people.

Claire hadn't thought twice about going under the bridge. The stream had become faster and deeper, but Claire was focussed on the guest who had mysteriously came to her backyard and handed her a note.

Even though they were getting slightly sprayed by the stream water, they were out if the rain.

Claire Turner and Joseph Wilson sat under the bridge in a comfortable silence.

Joseph gazed with affection. He said, in hushed tones, "You haven't been at school."

Claire looked back, and began rubbing a dull rock behind her back. "My Grandmother is sick," she replied.

They looked at each other with in sad feelings.

"I missed you..." Joseph Wilson barley said.

Claire's gaze broke with Joseph and she began to feel uncomfortable, studying the ground. Eventually, she took a deep breath. "I'm sorry," began Claire in apologetic tones, "but-"

Joseph stopped her, "I have something for you." He reached into his well fitting jacket and pulled out a red rose. Joseph looked happy.

He reached out to give it to Claire and Claire reached out to take it from him.

A huge gust of wind grabbed and threw the delicate rose into the stream.

Without thinking, Joseph Wilson dove into the water, trying to retrieve the rose.

Claire tried to grab onto Joseph's pants to hold him back, and while leaning in, she herself splashed into the rapid stream.

Between her trying to catch her breath and find Joseph, she hit her elbow and her head on large rocks.

Dizzily, she tried putting her feet on the streams ground to look for Joseph.

Claire's feet were cut and scraped when finally, her left foot got trapped under and large rock.

Her wet, terrified face got pushed under the stream with force.

Twelve seconds later, Claire Turner had her last moments as an alive soul. Her last moments where terrifying, and horrible. Just like her mothers last moments...

Claire Turner had drowned on a rainy Tuesday, her ugly umbrella laying under the bridge, next to a once, calm stream.

And in her warm home, a note sat upon the kitchen counter, from Joseph Wilson, that will always, remain unread.

THE END

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And that is my first short story. (,: