Stanley's Heart

[Alex]

Originally Posted by Not Afraid

As for justification.....this is a discussion board and therefore we discuss things.

But conversely, I've recently been told by some that demanding justification is not discussion and that it can be an indicator of being a prick.

I agree that suicide is selfish, but that doesn't exclude romantic elements either. Pure altruism doesn't exist and selfishness is found in every action. But then I view suicide as a selfish decision but not one that it inherently an unreasonable decision.

[Not Afraid]

Originally Posted by Nephythys

I understand discussion boards-please don't be condescending.

While I think we could discuss this topic further, (but I am disinclined to do so) I'll just say that I generally think it is important to remember the purpose of this board and the the definition and elements of discussion.

[Bornieo: Fully Loaded]

I have no idea what to say here. Lot of thoughts.

MBC - Good ideas, not your best but a very good attempt.

Its a tough subject and, as was said, one that taken differently by each individual. The reactions are "healthy" I think. The subject of suicide in these types of stories, IMHO, is just for playing with the readers emotions. No more than any other emotion put forth in storytelling. Romeo and Juliet is tragic and in thier deaths- irony. Whether that, or MBC's story is "romantic" is up to the reader and how they view it.

[Motorboat Cruiser]

I revisited this story today and found a lot (namely, unnecessary adjectives) that bugged me. I tried to clean it up a bit, and if anyone has the time, I would be interested to know if the newer version shows any signs of improvement.

If anyone has an interest in helping out, thanks in advance.


“Stanley’s Heart”

The frigid Dakota wind sliced through Stanley Gardener’s cheeks with little mercy as he closed the wooden shed door and headed towards the house, the frozen earth crunching under his boots. Under his flannel-covered left arm was a piece of wood that he had been saving for this special occasion.

The sun reflected off of the icy ground, occasionally blinding him along his path. The thermometer read in the low thirties at noon, which was downright tropical compared to how it would feel when the sun stepped aside and the wind chill kicked up. In the distant sky, a collection of gray clouds hinted that more snow might be expected this evening. It was of no concern - by then he would be sleeping soundly next to his wife of 47 years, warm as a bug in a rug with not a care in the world.

In the meantime, he had but one task left for today, a handmade gift waiting to be created. From the piece of gnarled wood, he would carve a heart and present it to his wife after dinner as a reflection of his love and devotion. Perhaps it wasn’t much of a gift and certainly she deserved better; a fine silk dress, perhaps, or maybe a fox coat to keep her warm. Unfortunately, his meager resources dictated otherwise, and besides, she would understand.

She always understood.

And so, with the sharpest knife in his arsenal, gripped firmly within his chapped hands, he sat on the back porch and dug deeply into the wood, determined to remove each and every part from it that wasn’t a heart.

Occasionally, Stanley would stop to take a hearty swig of whisky, to steady his hands and warm his soul. Truth be told, it would have been more comfortable to do this work in front of the wood-burning stove indoors. That would mean, however, that he would miss the favorite part of his day, not to mention the mess he was likely to make in the living room. Lydia certainly wouldn’t approve of having her favorite room turned into a woodworking shop, even for a gift as special as this.

No, as was his daily routine, he sat and watched the sun begin its slow descent under the horizon and blanket his beloved farm, the one that had fed his family for the better part of 70 years, in a cloak of darkness. He likened it to watching God paint a masterpiece in front of his eyes. To Stanley’s way of thinking, missing a sunset meant that you didn’t care; that you took such displays of beauty for granted. Stanley took nothing for granted.

As he whittled away, he couldn’t help but ponder why someone as wonderful as Lydia had chosen to spend her life with him. Unlike her, he could barely make his way through even the most elementary of books and didn’t have an ounce of good looks to make up for it. All he had going for him was the strength (and looks, as it were) of a grizzly bear, a detailed knowledge of farming, and an uncompromising devotion to his family. Thank God that was enough for her.

As the carving took shape, and the whiskey bottle grew empty, he held up his handiwork, brushing off the excess wood chips. The edges could have been smoother; it wasn’t perfect by any means. Still, she would adore it, for it was his hands that carved it.

He could relate to that feeling, all too well. The peaches that he had eaten this morning were especially sweet and delicious, simply because they had been canned by Lydia’s loving hands. In fact, when he was done with her present, he decided that he would finish the jar he had opened earlier, the only one that had remained on the pantry shelf, and savor every bite as if it were his last.

As the trees along the desolate farmland danced back and forth, swaying to a silent waltz, and the last remnants of light gave way to the long and bitter cold of evening, Stanley finished up by carving a short and simple message into the wooden heart.

“My heart is yours”, it said.

Stanley sighed and finished off the last swig of whiskey, his legs feeling a bit shaky from the effects. Overall, however, he felt better than he had in a long time, maybe even a few years younger. Entering through the back door of the farmhouse, he placed the carved heart on the kitchen table, took his time finishing up the jar of peaches, then headed upstairs to their bedroom. Opening the closet, he grabbed two of the softest quilts he could find, both crafted by the same loving hands that had canned those succulent pieces of fruit.

“These would be perfect to share with Lydia tonight” he decided. Quietly shutting the door behind him, he wandered back downstairs and into the kitchen, both quilts under his arm, grabbed one more bottle of whiskey in his right hand, the gift he had made with the other, and headed back out the way he came.

With a light snow falling around him, he carefully spread the quilts out on the frozen ground. And in the solitude of this winter’s eve, he laid down upon them, cradling the wooden heart close to his own. He drank as much whiskey as he could stomach, set the bottle carelessly aside and spilling what remained, and began to unbutton his flannel shirt.

“It doesn’t seem all that cold tonight”, he concluded. Besides, he knew that if he were lucky, a feeling of profound warmth would soon spread throughout his blue-tinted skin, aged from three years of misery that seemed like an eternity.

Gently kissing the carved wooden heart, he spoke quietly; “Happy Valentine’s Day, Lydia. We’ll be together soon”. And with a trusting smile, he reclined next to the snow-covered tombstone and gently drifted off into the frozen Dakota night.

[wendybeth]

MBC, were you even trying to romanticise suicide, or is that just a perception that was sort of picked up and ran with? I certainly didn't get that from reading this- I felt badly for the poor guy missing his love.

[Motorboat Cruiser]

Originally Posted by wendybeth

MBC, were you even trying to romanticise suicide

Nope. But it does make for interesting discussion.

And 3894, I'm intrigued by the idea of contrast that you bring up. We'll see what happens when I revisit this story in a few weeks.

This entire discussion gives me plenty of food for thought, which is really what I was looking for. Y'all never disappoint.