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Collector
“It is the last time I will see you,” said the old woman from her armchair. It was easy to believe. Many wrinkles and cracks mapped the bygone path of her life onto her paper dry skin, so clear for everyone to see. This special aura surrounded her that was inherent of all things and people that have been around for a long time.
The woman must have noticed my hesitation, because she sat up, cobweb hair falling over her temples as she bent forward to look at me. “Don’t be sad, love. People like me know when their time has come.”
I wasn’t sad for her. “I understand.”
Whether she believed me or not, after a moment, she leaned back again, already panting from the effort. I could hear it, hear the air rustle in her old lungs. “Now where did we stop last time, remind me?”
We resumed, me sitting on the thick wool carpet, legs crossed, her telling the story. Her story. I listened closely, trying to remember every part as well as I could, while my mind drifted off, forming a stage and curtains out of clouds.
I had spent most of my summer here, crammed into the sticky apartment that smelled of cats. They had left her already, her cats, now waiting for her to follow. The doctors said she had many more years, but they did not know. Did not understand. It was always like this. Sometimes it dragged out over months, sometimes it came in surprise over night, but I could always hear the life fading out of their voices.
“And then came the day,” the old woman finished, “when a formidable youngling appeared at my door and asked, may I enter? And, may I ask you a question? And had I known you back then I had not kept the door chain locked of course, but there was I, alone, and so I said, you may ask from outside door.”
She chuckled. So faint already.
“I remember,” I said, smiling.
“But do not come back next week. You will not find me here.”
“I know.”
A long look from her tired eyes. Her glasses had broken a while ago, so she could barely see me.
“I have seen and done many things in my life, as you well know. After all of it, one becomes alone. That is the worst that has happened to me. Come here.”
I got up. The woman held out her hand and put it on my heart. The touch was cold, a corpse’s hand almost.
“You now carry my story in you.” Her voice grew quiet, almost scared. “Promise that you keep it. Promise that you won’t forget.”
I nodded. I kept all of their stories in me, every singe life that was given to me.
Thank you, said the old woman, without saying it. Only looked at me, withdrawing her hand.
There was no need for more words than the thousands that she had already spoken. Her dreams were unveiled now. Wounds had grown into scars. That had to be nice, I thought, to be able to put all the things behind. Maybe, one day, so would I.
As I turned to leave, she grew restless, fingers shaking on the armrests of her chair. “There is one thing I always wondered about, is why you came here in the first place. You never talk about yourself.”
I simply answered, “there’s nothing worth mentioning.” Then I went away.
The woman must have noticed my hesitation, because she sat up, cobweb hair falling over her temples as she bent forward to look at me. “Don’t be sad, love. People like me know when their time has come.”
I wasn’t sad for her. “I understand.”
Whether she believed me or not, after a moment, she leaned back again, already panting from the effort. I could hear it, hear the air rustle in her old lungs. “Now where did we stop last time, remind me?”
We resumed, me sitting on the thick wool carpet, legs crossed, her telling the story. Her story. I listened closely, trying to remember every part as well as I could, while my mind drifted off, forming a stage and curtains out of clouds.
I had spent most of my summer here, crammed into the sticky apartment that smelled of cats. They had left her already, her cats, now waiting for her to follow. The doctors said she had many more years, but they did not know. Did not understand. It was always like this. Sometimes it dragged out over months, sometimes it came in surprise over night, but I could always hear the life fading out of their voices.
“And then came the day,” the old woman finished, “when a formidable youngling appeared at my door and asked, may I enter? And, may I ask you a question? And had I known you back then I had not kept the door chain locked of course, but there was I, alone, and so I said, you may ask from outside door.”
She chuckled. So faint already.
“I remember,” I said, smiling.
“But do not come back next week. You will not find me here.”
“I know.”
A long look from her tired eyes. Her glasses had broken a while ago, so she could barely see me.
“I have seen and done many things in my life, as you well know. After all of it, one becomes alone. That is the worst that has happened to me. Come here.”
I got up. The woman held out her hand and put it on my heart. The touch was cold, a corpse’s hand almost.
“You now carry my story in you.” Her voice grew quiet, almost scared. “Promise that you keep it. Promise that you won’t forget.”
I nodded. I kept all of their stories in me, every singe life that was given to me.
Thank you, said the old woman, without saying it. Only looked at me, withdrawing her hand.
There was no need for more words than the thousands that she had already spoken. Her dreams were unveiled now. Wounds had grown into scars. That had to be nice, I thought, to be able to put all the things behind. Maybe, one day, so would I.
As I turned to leave, she grew restless, fingers shaking on the armrests of her chair. “There is one thing I always wondered about, is why you came here in the first place. You never talk about yourself.”
I simply answered, “there’s nothing worth mentioning.” Then I went away.
I've always liked the premise of soul/life collectors. I don't feel like this really delivers, though. I feel a bit shallow for admitting it's because technical errors in the writing itself kept yanking me out of my immersion, but there you go. I apologise for my brusqueness.
I actually think it would be much better if it was even shorter, even though it isn't exactly pushing the word limit. That's because there's some redundancy in what we're told, and also because the author absolutely nails certain ideas in very few words - for example:
Simple and direct and oof, I think I got more of a sense of the collector's personality from this than the longer segments that tried to give them more depth.
So: could do with another editing run or two, but the bones of an intriguing story are definitely present in here. Good effort.
I actually think it would be much better if it was even shorter, even though it isn't exactly pushing the word limit. That's because there's some redundancy in what we're told, and also because the author absolutely nails certain ideas in very few words - for example:
“Don’t be sad, love. People like me know when their time has come.”
I wasn’t sad for her. “I understand.”
Simple and direct and oof, I think I got more of a sense of the collector's personality from this than the longer segments that tried to give them more depth.
So: could do with another editing run or two, but the bones of an intriguing story are definitely present in here. Good effort.
I feel like I might be missing something here. >>Astrarian says the narrator is a soul/life collector, but I got the impression that they were just collecting stories, especially since she's still alive at the end. In any case, I feel like I'm just missing something here.
The other problem with this story for me is that both the narrator and the old woman seem to be trying to feel the role of "mysterious old person who imparts wisdom and knowledge," and it doesn't quite work for me.
Overall, it seems like a good story that just doesn't click with me.
The other problem with this story for me is that both the narrator and the old woman seem to be trying to feel the role of "mysterious old person who imparts wisdom and knowledge," and it doesn't quite work for me.
Overall, it seems like a good story that just doesn't click with me.
My thoughts echo pretty much all of what >>The_Letter_J said.
A collector of stories, the way you’ve introduced it, can be an interesting premise. And it was interesting, in this case, but just kind of low key and generic. I think this story had heart, but it didn’t do much for me.
A collector of stories, the way you’ve introduced it, can be an interesting premise. And it was interesting, in this case, but just kind of low key and generic. I think this story had heart, but it didn’t do much for me.
There's a lot of skill here, but it needs polish. Descriptions were generally strong, such as "cobweb hair" and "paper-dry skin." You also mentioned scent, which many overlook. But it needs an editing pass, and not just grammar; some of your word choices are undermining the strength of your sentences. For example I think your third sentence would be stronger if you cut 'Many' from the beginning.
Also, the line:
It's interesting, that, though the story is about a story, we never actually hear the story. It still works well, though. This is a hard one to rank; there's not really an arc here, just a single scene, but one that is written both powerfully and flawed.
Also, the line:
Thank you, said the old woman, without saying it.I found this disconcerting, because the beginning is structured exactly the way it would be said, except without the quotes. Times like that you should think if there is some way you can restructure the sentence, like 'She said nothing, but her thanks was clear in her eyes as she withdrew her hand.'
It's interesting, that, though the story is about a story, we never actually hear the story. It still works well, though. This is a hard one to rank; there's not really an arc here, just a single scene, but one that is written both powerfully and flawed.
*skips other reviews*
Interesting. Very interesting. I like the concept... It's a form of immortality, isn't it? To have your stories, you life and times and memories.. carried on generation after generation.
But.. It would be nice to know a bit more about our mysterious protagonist. At first I thought it was just a relative.. A grandchild or niece or nephew, send to keep the old woman company. But clearly it's not that... So why is he/she there? Why this old woman? Why is he/she uncertain if they'll ever get to rest?
Mysterious. But fascinating and well written. I liked it. :)
Interesting. Very interesting. I like the concept... It's a form of immortality, isn't it? To have your stories, you life and times and memories.. carried on generation after generation.
But.. It would be nice to know a bit more about our mysterious protagonist. At first I thought it was just a relative.. A grandchild or niece or nephew, send to keep the old woman company. But clearly it's not that... So why is he/she there? Why this old woman? Why is he/she uncertain if they'll ever get to rest?
Mysterious. But fascinating and well written. I liked it. :)
Interesting, if a little slow. I would've liked to see some sort of reveal of the narrator at the end though. I assume this is a "reaper" character of some kind, but it's left too vague for my liking. As such, that final line seems like a direct stab to the reader, who really DOES want to know.
I don't have any advice for this. The narrator's ambiguity might have rankled me if the story were different, but in this case it didn't bother me because the last line kind of summed it up: it doesn't matter.
I have to say that this didn’t really do a whole lot for me. It was just too archetypal, to the point where it didn’t really do anything divergent from the standard soul collector/death/grim reaper/whatever thing. It is ambiguous what exactly the narrator is, but ultimately, what they are doesn’t really matter to the story because the story doesn’t actually end up going anywhere other than with the core idea.
The core idea is good, as proven by the innumerable studies about psychopomps and people who collect the stories of peoples’ lives, but this doesn’t go anywhere beyond that.
The core idea is good, as proven by the innumerable studies about psychopomps and people who collect the stories of peoples’ lives, but this doesn’t go anywhere beyond that.