'Today'

Here you go kids!
A short little piece that I wrote in class again.

                Today, my granddaughter brought me flowers.

I smile and she talks.

“Remember the music box?”

 How could I ever forget.

“What about that time you bored me half to death with fishing?” We both laugh.

Her voice carries across the room in the gentlest manner possible as she reassures me, “everything will be alright.”

But then, her smile fades and she grips my hand tighter; now it’s time for me to tell her, “Everything will be alright.”

My voice does not carry so well, but she hears it. The heart monitor beeps and boops in a timely fashion; setting a rhythm to the room.

Her head lurches forward a little bit.

With what strength I have backing me, I brush her hair to one side with my free hand. The long trails of yellow hair sit comfortably behind her ear, unmasking her watery eyes.

I smile and stroke the side of her cheek.

Her grip on my hand softens until she lets go and smiles back at me.

The smile fills my heart with a little vitality and joy; enough to tell her again;

“I love you.”

A smile, a genuine smile; it’s been awhile since I’ve seen one of those dressed across her face. I push it a little further and make a joke... She laughs with me; the tears don’t seem so apparent and distressing.

Soon, a man walks in and sits on the edge of my bed, dressed in a decent suit and even more decent shoes. His smile is soft, gentle and full of something I once had; a man I have not seen in many years.

The gentleman puts an arm around the shoulder of the girl; she doesn’t register it, not from him. I tell her that it’s time to go and she drops her head.

Grace kisses my cheek and for a moment I feel alive again, but not more than a moment.

“I love you.” Grace stands up and walks out, waving with one hand and wiping away her tears with the other.

 The smell of perfume drifts through the air of the room, covering the smell of morphine and clean away; things are acceptable now. She and the smell linger in the doorway for a few more seconds, before they exit.

Sat on the edge of my bed, the man moves down towards my side and holds my hand. The world compresses around him, not much else is visible.

My youth stares me in the eyes and looks upon me with happiness and bliss. I say to him;

“We did well.”

He nods and pulls a cigarette from his pocket. I wink and so does he.

Somewhere in the background I can hear a string section performing out. He lights the cigarette with a certain grace only the young at heart possess and with one careful movement, he pops it in his mouth; inhale and exhale.

He hands me one.

With my left over strength, I place it in my mouth... He ignites it.

My lungs draw in the last bit of smoke and it floats over me

“I think this is it for us old boy.”

His hand sits on my shoulder and I exhale.

The strings stop playing.

“It’s been a pleasure.”

Have fun with this wee piece of writting.

A short piece.

As the curtain rises, you step out, awkwardly, but surely and say those lines that you've rehearsed to mundanity.
"I love you!"
This is the point when the crowd cheers, the lighting technicians do a fancy show, a few roses are thrown at your feet and people call you 'captivating'.
You smile and take a bow, the tie you straightened this morning falling forward and your smile taking on a life of it's own; the applause carrying your spirit as high as a weekend worthy of forgetting.
The reviewers describe how heart-fell and beautiful your performance was, worthy of that Oscar you had always wanted sitting on the dusty mantelpiece in that fifteen by fifteen apartment that you call home.
Alas, love is never that simple; your lines come out in a incomprehensible cloud of stink that have little to no effect.
A crowd that fails to react is never a bad crowd, ever.
You slouch and your head cranks forward... Smile and exit stage left. A stage-hand tells you that the lines you fluffed were decent and  you get the impression that he's a better actor than you.
"Strike while the iron's still hot!" he says, firing off clichés like fly-spray.
The iron grows cold and the moment exits, stage left, it's face clutched in hands.
It disappears and your role diminishes.
Supporting actor, minor character, one-line-wonder and eventually, an Oscar-less extra that you see drinking in the pub, muttering silent words that no one ever picks up on.
"I'd like to thank my parents, but only a bad workman blames his tools."

Again, just a short piece I worked on in class, but never got a chance to actually type up.
Enjoy if at all possible! Any comments or criticism are welcome.