This is my first 500-word stretch as
, of Gibberish, calls it. I wrote the story based on my own prompt of using the photo below, which I took behind an antique store in Barnesville, Ga. a couple of years ago.I hope you enjoy.
It had been 50 years since Lee Wilcott had seen Calhoun, Tennessee. He’d not given the town much thought since the day cried while watching his grandfather’s mill vanish from the back of his dad’s Buick. That part of his life had essentially never happened. His father, Marty, wanted it that way. Yet in the early days of retirement, the faded memory of Calhoun weighed heavy on Lee’s mind.
He called to his wife in the other room, “May… I’m taking a drive down to Calhoun this afternoon.”
“Calhoun? Whatever for?”
“Well.. I don’t rightly know. But I’ve been thinking about it every day for a while now. I can’t shake it.”
“Would you like some company?”
“I think I need to go it alone.”
“Alright sugah.. Just come back in one piece.”
Hours later, Lee crossed into Calhoun. The sign reading “unincorporated” told much of what had happened in the years gone by. Rounding the corner just past the square, Lee’s jaw dropped at the sight of the derelict Wilcott Mill.
Partially burned and long abandoned, the mill no longer unspooled textiles but exported decay. The crumbling building pulled Lee close and closer as if it possessed its own gravity. An old gear around the back was lifeless as a broken clock, yet time had begun to move backwards all the same.
As he slipped inside, every step recoated the paint on the walls. Every glance revealed a worker standing ready at the looms. Lee came upon a stairwell. In what felt like a dream, he could see his father and grandfather side by side on the catwalk above.
His father gripping the railing like a vice, his face flush with anger. His grandfather shouting, yet silent, throwing his hands in frustration. The argument abruptly ended when his grandfather yelled and pointed toward the door. His father descended the stairs and carried a crying little boy out of the building one last time.
When Lee came to, he was wiping tears from his eyes and was on the catwalk himself, looking into his grandfather’s former office.
Bits of paper and old accounting logs littered the room. Glowing directly under a single ray of sun shone a tattered page barely clinging to his grandfather’s old desk. Burned at the edges, only the bottom portion of a letter remained. It read:
My son, I just want you to know I’m sorry. I mistook your drive for change as an accusation of failure. Please, Marty, come back. Bring back my Lee. I miss you all terribly. - Bruce
Lee knew his grandfather had rushed out during the fire, never having the chance to send the letter. He also knew his father had died never knowing of a thwarted attempt to make amends. And yet somehow things were now mended. A great division between his past and present was now whole.
With the letter in his shirt pocket, Lee drove home now smiling as he watched the mill fade once again into the past.
This hits hard! Have you ever read "The Interlopers" by Saki? Similar themes, taken a different direction. It's a short story--you should look it up and read it if you can!
Good one, Derek. I think deep down, everyone likes Amends and closure.