Sparks of Inspiration: Short Stories

The Hare and the Boar

"What is it?"
"Hm?"
"You were just talking to me!"
"Yes, I remember that."
"So what is the end?"
"The end of what?"
"Your story! Don't you remember? You were telling me a story!"
"Oh yes, a story."

The woman frowned, her age revealing itself through her words as much as her complexion. Though one could not blame her, for the wrinkles in her sullen cheeks were highlighted by the falling sun as a clear reminder that she was well worn.

The young child breathed slowly, realizing his rude behavior, and watched the woman daze off out of the window aside them, her pale hands loosely wrapped around the edges of the arm rests. The outdoor view laid still.

He was frustrated. But he could not be impatient with her, no matter how difficult it was for him to watch this once familiar face fade into a stranger's.

"Gran, what's my name?" The boy could hardly bring himself to ask, but the question had pounded in his head so loudly he had to let it slip.

The old woman slowly turned her head to look at the young boy—her grandson— with a thoughtless expression. The young boy drew in a breath of air. Then suddenly her eyes began to glitter, and a smile slowly formed, crinkling her face even more. Though it made her look ancient, the smile made her face more familiar, and the young boy sighed with relief.
"Why, Lucas Chad!" She exclaimed much louder than her usual croak, making Lucas jump slightly with concern.
"Why do you question me so, young man? It hurts my heart more than anything."
"I'm sorry, Gran," Lucas grinned meekly. "Just keeping my hopes up."

"I see... so has it happened before?"
"What, Gran?" Lucas asked calmly, for he had not been fully attentive after hearing his name so exactly.

There was silence.

"Gran?"

She must have faded, Lucas thought. Her eyes were clouded again.

He scratched his scalp disappointedly, and then observed the room around him; the one he had been in all day. It was mostly empty: an open, tiled fireplace with fresh wood to burn, a stack of wood close by; the rocking chair his Gran rested in; a white rug with intricate blue designs of fine China teapots laced in curled vines and flowers; the entrance to a darkened hallway with wooden flooring that went behind the wall of the room; a threshold—with no door— leading to a modest kitchen; a chandelier with unlit candles. There were flower pots in various places of the room, one could only image. Many of the flowers were already dead, but the ones alive were brightly colored and filled the room with delicious perfume. Most of these I picked myself, Lucas recalled, seeing a bouquet of wild flowers he had searched for in a wood nearby.

It was still silent, aside from the soft breathing of the stranger in the armchair.

"Hon," she breathed weakly as if just waking up from slumber. "I have a story to tell." Her eyes were wide with desperation.

"I'm listening," Lucas spoke sincerely, sitting upright, his hands on his thighs, resting his rear on his feet. His eyes looked into hers, them shouting, "I'm ready!" He avoided using "Gran" this time, not wanting to confuse her if she was no longer familiar; he didn't want to bring about any unnecessary heartache to either of them.

The old woman prepared to start a story, one Lucas had surely heard so many times before. But watching his grandmother become so animated every time she spoke one made him relax, and no matter how many times he had to hear it, he would stay with her until the very end.

"Milly!" The woman suddenly yelled for her daughter. Her daughter was still out shopping for groceries. "Come here would you, darling?" The woman smiled sweetly as she looked down at Lucas, who resembled his mother so much when she was younger, especially when she had her boyish haircut. "Would you fetch me some tea, dear?" Her voice was young; light.