The End(3.5.11)

I played with how I told stories, and the amount of detail, I’m special interested to hear how I did with this short story:


There was a table in the corner, I remember, a table that was not there before. It was a short table, maybe 3 foot, made out of oak, finely polished, standing on four legs. The table was familiar and yet I don’t recall ever seeing it. What was on the table was what really got me, there was a picture on it, and there I was in the picture, with a beautiful woman. The woman had dark hair, and beautiful brown eyes, the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.  I knew her from somewhere, but where? I looked down at my glass, the clear dark liquid shown my reflection.  An old tired face, gray hair, I took a long sip, the alcohol burning my old chapped lips.  As I finished the drink, I stumbled a bit before pouring myself another class, I had opened a new bottle of whiskey. The picture began to blur as I realized that I was going to pass out before I got to drink anymore. Then I remembered the picture, my wife, our wedding day, the table. She had carved it herself, for me, for us. I passed out with thoughts of seeing her again, I prayed, I wouldn’t wake up.

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