Samantha (Unfinished Short Story)

The letter was unexpected.  Thomas hadn’t heard from his sister since she’d moved to Los Angeles almost a decade ago.  He’d assumed she’d done well for herself since she’d only written once a year around Christmas for the past nine years.

He fiddled with the crisp envelope, observing its off-white color and his sister’s mangled handwriting, before ripping it open to reveal what appeared to be a torn page from a notebook folded once inside.

Thomas,

By the time you receive this letter, I’ll have arrived in New York.  I was laid off from my waitress job (yes, I’ve been working as a waitress to pay my bills because I haven’t landed a part yet) and I haven’t been able to afford my rent for the past four months. I’ve been living at my boyfriend’s ever since, but we had a huge argument last week and decided to end things.  I just don’t think LA is working out for me anymore, so I’ve decided to come back to the city.  As you can probably imagine, I can’t exactly afford a hotel, and the last thing I want to do is let Mom know she was right all along.

So, I guess I’ll get to the point of this letter…  I don’t want to impose, but I’m afraid that’s what the conclusion of this letter has come to. Can I please stay with you just for a little while until I get back on my feet again? I think this will be a good opportunity for us to bond again.

Give me a call when you get this. My number’s on the back.

            Sam

Thomas flipped over the letter and sure enough, her number was scrawled on the back.  It never occurred to him that his sister wouldn’t make it as an actress.  After all, she’d been acting in school plays and musicals since she could walk and talk.  Though, perhaps it was the support of their father that had kept her going.  When he passed of complications with his heart, Sam had flown back to New York for his funeral and kept mostly to herself, saying an estimated three words to he and his mother.  She had brought her luggage with her, and after the funeral commenced, she’d taken the first cab she could find to JFK.

Maybe she had been on a downward spiral since.

Thomas picked up his iPhone and dialed the number, drumming his fingers against his kitchen counter top.  The sun’s rays illuminated his modern one bed, one bath apartment on the Upper West Side.  A floor-to-ceiling window in his living room boasted a view of the horizon of Central Park, where locals accompanied by their dogs and tourists from all over the world enjoyed the scenic views and warm air.  He meandered to the window when her voice rang through his ear.

“Hello?”

“Sam, it’s Thomas.  I just read your letter.”

“About time.  I’ve seriously contemplated calling up Teri… You know, the bitch who single-handedly ruined my life in high school, just because I know she still lives in Manhattan.”

Thomas smiled.  His sister was never short on humor.

“Well, you won’t have to do that because I’ve got a pullout couch with your name on it.”

There was a pause on the other end.  Thomas watched a boy and who he presumed to be his father bike past his building.  He turned away from the window.

“You’re serious?”

“I would never let my sister be homeless,” he said. “Come by when you can, I’ll be here for the rest of the afternoon.  Around seven, I have a dinner date.”

He could envision her eyes popping at the mention of a girl. “Do tell me all about it later.  I’ll be there in an hour.”

He chuckled, “See you soon, sis.”

*

“It’s a lot bigger than I imagined it would be.”

“I assume that doesn’t bother you in the slightest?” Thomas shut the door behind Sam as she entered, noticing the lone suitcase in her hand.  “You definitely traveled light.”

She set her suitcase down next to the couch and collapsed onto it, “I ended up having to sell a lot of my stuff to afford rent for the last few years.”

“And you never thought to ask mom for a little help?”

She rolled her eyes and sat up, sitting on her hands and kicking her feet back and forth like an impatient little girl. “Of course that thought crossed my mind, but I could never tell let her tell me ‘I told you so.’”

The unspoken battle between them was clearly nowhere near its end, Thomas decided.  He reached into his wine cabinet and pulled out a Pinot Grigio.

“Care for a glass?”

“You know I’m not one to turn down a drink.”

Thomas pulled out two glasses, opened the bottle, and poured them each a glass.  He handed it to her and watched her relish in the first sip.

“That’s perfect,” she said, setting it down and patting the spot next to her.  “Sit down, little bro.  I need to hear all about this girl you’re seeing.”

Thomas rolled his eyes playfully and took the seat next to her, placing his wine glass on the coffee table in front of the couch.

“So… what’s her name?”

“Lauren.”

Thomas found it odd that she was the one asking him questions when he assumed he had far more questions for her.  He watched as Sam’s hazel eyes glistened at the mention of his girlfriend’s name.  She flung her blonde locks over her shoulder and clapped her tanned hands together.

“Is she cute? Older? Younger? Where’d you two meet?”

“What is this? Twenty questions?” Thomas smirked, picking up his glass and taking another sip. “If you must know, she’s twenty-six, so she’s a year younger, and stunning.  And we met at a coffee shop in Brooklyn.”

“Sounds like a keeper,” she said.

Thomas unlocked his iPhone and pulled up a picture of he and Lauren taken three weeks prior. “We went to see ‘The Elephant Man.’ She might love Broadway even more than I do.”

“Definitely a keeper then,” Sam said, sipping her wine.

“So what happened with your boyfriend?”

“On top of being a self-righteous asshole, he happened to cheat on me with not one, not two, but three other girls... all of them barely legal.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I mean, he’d been cheating on me with them for a while, and I was too stupid and caught up with all my financial shit to notice.”

“You can’t blame yourself.  The guy was obviously a dick, and you know you deserve better.” Thomas put his hand on Sam’s shoulder.  He’d wanted to comfort her, but perhaps it had come across as awkward, unexpected contact, as she shrugged his hand off.

“It’s fine, really.  I left him behind and I’m across the country now.” Sam was on her feet now, pacing the small living room.  “I have time to get back to my roots, back to the person I was before I met him, and back to the person I was before the sad reality of an aspiring actress in LA getting rejected at every audition came to be my norm.”  

Thomas looked at the clock on his phone and jumped to his feet. “Sorry to cut this short, sis.  I’ve got to get ready for my date.”  Admittedly, he could’ve given his sister more time to vent, but the conversation had become too uncomfortable for him to muster.

Sam watched as Thomas made his way towards his bedroom. “Anything I need to know before you leave?”

“Oh, right.” He stopped in the hallway and ran a hand through his short brown hair. “Just fold the couch in half, release it, and then it will turn into a bed.  There’s plenty of food in the fridge and I’ll be back around ten at the latest.”

“Thanks, Thomas. I really can’t thank you enough.”

Thomas smiled weakly. “Like I said before, I would never let you roam around the city with no place to go.  Oh, and I promise I won’t let mom know you’re here, though she has made an unexpected appearance every now and then.” 

“And that translates to?”

“Don’t worry,” he grinned, “she stopped by last week.  I highly doubt she’ll come by for at least another week or so.”

“Good, that gives me time to find a perfect hiding spot.”

Thomas chuckled as she shut his bedroom door.

*

Being an investment banker had proved to be a wonderful job for Thomas.  He made far more money than he knew what to do with and was able to treat he and his girlfriend, Lauren, to dinner once a week, occasionally accompanied by a Broadway show, or two.  He loved that Lauren could keep up with his constant thinking and his above-average vernacular and intellect. 

Sam’s visit reminded him of just how polar opposite the two were.  Despite her being five years older than he, she often spoke and acted like a girl in her early 20s.  She was more of a wild child than he was, a sorority girl and a partier in college, while he stuck strictly to academic clubs and avoided fraternities and parties like the plague.  He’d made his fair share of connections while studying at Harvard, then subsequently Columbia Business School, which had helped him land his coveted job on Wall Street.  Though many might say his job was unexciting, Thomas found it rewarding and genuinely enjoyed coming to work everyday.

It was a shame, he thought, that his sister had had a very different experience.

*

“Hello is this Jake O’Dell? Yes, hi, it’s Sam… Sam Johnson.  Yes, I just saw that you’re hiring and I wanted to see if I could schedule an interview with you for the job.  Uh huh… yes, I’ve done a few short films and commercials in LA. I can actually send you my resume.  Fantastic!  I can come in anytime tomorrow.  8 AM is perfect.  Thank you so much.”

Sam hung up the phone and frantically searched her computer for her resume while simultaneously jotting down the job details and her interview time for tomorrow.  Her ringtone went off while she was still typing and she paused when she saw that the incoming call was from an unknown number.  She hesitated momentarily, then answered it.

“Hello?”

“Samantha, it’s your mother.”

Sam froze, biting her lip and mouthing ‘shit.’ She stood up and began pacing the room, as she often did while on the phone. “Mom, hi.”

“I was just calling to see how you were doing.  I’m afraid it’s been nearly four months since I received a letter from you.”

“Yeah, well… just been really busy with work and auditioning like crazy.”

“We all know it’s about more than just that, Samantha.”

Sam brushed off the question.

“Have you spoken to Thomas recently?” Her mother asked.

“Yes, actually.  I think we’re as close as we’ve ever been.”

“That’s good to hear. I was actually planning on stopping by his apartment tonight.  I like to surprise him with some home-cooked dinners every now and then.”

Sam froze, her gaze darting to her opened suitcase in the middle of the living room floor with clothes sprawled everywhere. “Oh, uh, he told me earlier that he was going out with his girlfriend tonight, so I doubt he’s even home.”

“You two spoke today?”

“Yeah, we just got off the phone a couple hours ago.”

“Well, I’m already about five minutes from his apartment and he gave me a spare key, so I’ll just leave the food in his fridge if that’s the case.”

Sam bit her lip and twirled locks of her hair nervously in circles around her finger. “Um, okay then. Listen mom, I’ve really got to go. I’m not supposed to be on my phone at work… bye!”

She hung up her phone, tucked it into her back pocket, and immediately began stuffing all of her clothes back into her suitcase.  A door next to the bathroom turned out to be Thomas’s closet, so she stuffed her suitcase inside and situated herself in the corner, behind a row of elaborate suits and pants.  She closed the door just as she heard the front door open.

Response to "Convalescing" by Joyce Carol Oates

The beginning of this story immediately drew me in due to its unusualness.  I would probably never think to start a story off by talking about toothpaste, something that seems so benign, and for a character in the story to be asking another character about toothpaste in comparison to tooth powder is a good way to get readers hooked because it is such an unusual question.  I, for one, did not even know that tooth powder existed; I assumed everyone brushed their teeth with toothpaste. I also like how through the series of questions one of the characters asks the other, we learn that this story takes place around the time of the Vietnam War; I mentioned this in my previous post about the short story "Admission" and how I like this trick that writers use to inform their readers about important elements of the story such as the setting through dialogue rather than through description or expository writing (i.e. explanation).

I also loved on page 4, where Oates writes about how David Scott feels about his wife. How he was "in love with his wife but it was a condition he could not feel." That line really spoke to me because I believe it could possibly describe how many married men and women feel about their spouses. As I read further however, I realized that he felt this way because he had been in an accident and felt like he had "won" her hand in marriage in a former life, as if he was an entirely different person back then. Joyce goes on to write that "he could not remember, though he tried desperately, the enormous joy that must have been his" on his wedding day.  I then began to really feel for this character and was eager to learn more about his accident.

I love the way we learn about his accident. We learn while David himself remembers the way that he got hurt in a car accident and how he begins to piece who he is and the details of his life together while he lies convalescing (the title of the story!) in the hospital.  I love how at the end, he questions the way that he remembers certain life events, however, particularly his wife committing adultery and telling him that she wants to be with another man. It surprised me that he was so convinced that he was imagining all of this that he was willing to take a can opener and hurt himself in order to wake himself up from the dream he assumed he was having.  I also thought it was interesting that he considers that his wife could be thinking that he wants to use the can opener as a weapon against her, and that it truly terrified him that she could possibly be thinking that.  It is obvious that he really does love his wife, as he begs her to stay with him, and he decides that past events in his life are not that important, and he probably imagined the negative ones about his wife.

Response to "My Father's Chinese Wives" by Sandra Tsing Loh

This story is a perfect example of a great piece of creative nonfiction. Aside from this class, I'm actually taking creative nonfiction right now, so this piece gave me quite a few ideas. Sandra does an excellent job retelling this true story of her father marrying a new woman. What I noticed right away is how well Sandra explains the cultural differences between her Chinese father and a father of another race. These Chinese cultural norms are further highlighted when she describes the way that Zhu Ping acts towards her and her sister, particularly through her broken English.

The description throughout the story also stuck out to me. I loved the way that Sandra describes her father in the first few paragraphs, ranging from details such as "a retired Chinese aerospace engineer, is starting to look more and more like somebody's gardener" to "If he's that old, why does he still do the same vigorous daily exercise regime he's done for the past 10 years? 45 minutes of pull-ups, something that looks like The Twist and much unfocused bellowing. This always performed on the most public beach as possible in his favorite Speedo, one he found in a dumpster." I was able to get a really clear picture of the type of man her father is, despite the fact that he is 70 years old! I also really loved the paragraph where Sandra describes Zhu Ping's laughter, how it was completely unexpected and almost awkward to hear because Sandra and her sister had never laughed that loudly in front of her father. Instead, they laughed in private, which perhaps highlights a Chinese cultural norm, and further explains the type of man that her father is.

In the final few paragraphs, Kaitlin, her sister, asks her father why he was so angry in the past when he was married to her mother, and it is a question that she has wanted to ask for thirty years. Her father simply says that he doesn't know, and that "people get angry." But this response is deemed acceptable because "he is old now" and the anger has seemingly left him.  I like this idea of being too old to be angry.

I think the way that Sandra chose to end the story is very interesting.  She, her father, her sister, and Zhu Pang all long for something they miss and can no longer have - for her and her sister, it is their childhood home, despite that they are in it right now, for her father, it is Shanghai, and for Zhu Pang, it is for her bitter winters. It is particularly interesting that her childhood home no longer feels like her childhood home with her father's new wife taking it over, rather than her mother. I think this is a huge part of what this story is really about. 

Response to "Admission" by Danny Senza

I love stories that begin with dialogue because, at least for me, it pulls me into the story right away. Dialogue is so interesting to me because the characters reveal details about themselves and their situations through natural conversation with one another, and it can either be easy or hard for the writer to implement this strategy. I love the way that Senza uses dialogue in the first couple of pages, where the reader can immediately see the type of people that Cassie and Duncan are--very different from one another, despite being married-- but both united by this tour at this Institute that they both did together.  Duncan is clearly not as invested in the school as Cassie is and this becomes more clear through what he says and how he says it throughout the story.

Going off of that, I love that Senza chooses to tell the reader a detailed description about Cassie and Duncan starting on page 9 and then again about 3/4 of the way through the story. We have an inkling of the types of people that they are in the first half of the story, and it's an interesting technique that he chooses to "info dump," as I call it, details about both of their lives that might be considered unclear or unable to be discerned through their dialogue with one another.  I'm glad that he chose to do this in the middle of the story rather than at the beginning, because now I've made up my own opinions about these two characters and am more invested in them than I would be had he chosen to tell me all of these details about them in the beginning.

The persistence of Penny's character to accept Cody into the Institute definitely surprised me. It became more intense as it carried on and Cassie was grappling with the decision of whether or not she should let Cody attend the school. For a while, I thought the story was going to be more about Cassie and Duncan's relationship as a result of them arguing over the school--Cassie wanting Cody to go, and Duncan completely against the idea of him attending--but it turned out to be much more about Cassie wondering if she made the right decision or not by refusing the offer. I was definitely left wondering why Penny wanted Cody to attend so badly. I assumed what Duncan assumed, that she would be calling the next family to allow them in without a second thought as to their rejection of the school, but that was not the case. I wonder what was so special about Cody that the Institute just had to have him, and why they were "the perfect family" that the school so desperately needed...

Response to "Events at Drimaghleen" by William Trevor

Before I even started reading this story, I was turned off by its title because I couldn't pronounce it. I still don't think I can, but as I began reading it, I became enthralled by it. I think it's because I'm a sucker for mysteries. About four pages in, when Mrs. McDowd finds Maureen and Mrs. Butler dead, I became hooked.  It seemed incredibly fishy to me that the police and the town are convinced that Mrs. Butler murdered Maureen, and Mrs. Butler's son murdered his mother before then taking his own life; I've seen too many episodes of Law and Order and too many crime shows to believe this. It just seemed too easy, which is why when the letter is introduced about halfway through the story, I found myself saying "I knew it."

I loved that on page five, Trevor writes a beautiful depiction of the town of Drimaghleen. It's very clever that he changes the subject completely from the murders to give the reader a sense of what this community looks like, how it's very unorthodox for a murder to occur in such a place, let alone three murders. I also love how, on the following page, he goes into great detail explaining how the McDowds have "nothing but the waste of life" to contemplate following such a terrible tragedy. That entire paragraph is filled with such beautiful language; Trevor does a wonderful job describing the emotions that come in the wake of a tragedy.

Throughout the story, I really admired Trevor's descriptions of the characters that he introduced. The language that he used gave me myriad ideas of my own on how to paint a visual picture of the characters that I create in my own stories. For example, he describes Mr. Tyler from Mrs. McDowd's point of view on page 9. She knows that there is a "seediness about him" or "a quality that city people seemed often to exude if they weren't smartly attired." This word alone is one that I would not think of when picking adjectives to describe my characters.  I love how clever he is with his diction.

I thought the ending was brilliant. Again, Trevor does a remarkable job conveying the emotions that one experiences after a tragedy, especially in the case of the mother whose daughter was murdered. I believed it was a very satisfying ending to a brilliant mystery.

Writing Prompt #1

Prompt: She was the last person on this Earth that I expected to see. (Richard Bausch's prompt)

She was the last person on this Earth that I expected to see. She hated hospitals ever since we were little. Always said she'd either contract something or wander down the wrong hallway and find herself in a morgue. She had a pretty big fear of heights, too, so it didn't help that I was stuck in a room on the 53rd floor.

"Gary?" She pushed through the throngs of people and knelt at my bedside.

"Hey," I said with a weak smile.

"Oh my God, are you okay?" She clasped her hand in mine, careful not to sway the multiple IV needles hooked into my skin.

I offered a smile, and watched as she shook her head. Her eyelids slid shut and she chuckled.

"What a stupid question," she answered for me.

"I'm surprised you're here."

Her indigo eyes shimmered under the harsh fluorescent light. She opened her mouth to speak but a flurry of a pastel white appeared in front of me and blocked her.

"Mr. Thompson, I'm afraid we're going to have to clear out your room. Visiting hours are over and we need to continue to treat you."

My hand became frigid as her fingers slipped from mine. The once suffocating room was now empty, save for two doctors and several machines. The doctors' conversation was muddled over the wailing machines' various beeps and buzzes. The slightly larger of the two reached for the remote that controlled my bed and he pressed the button that raised it higher.

"We need to pump you with a few more antibiotics to keep the infection from spreading further down your body," the larger doctor said.

"This will only hurt a pinch," said the other. He configured several needles together. I closed my eyes as he inserted them one by one into different veins on both of my arms.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I woke several hours later to a warmth in my stomach.  As my vision focused in the dark room, I realized she had returned and her head was resting on my chest.  Her eyes were closed and her lips hummed as she took deep breaths.

My parents were seated in the far corner of the room, also asleep. I glanced upwards to see the lone clock on the wall, its seconds ticking by as I discerned it was nearly 4 AM.

She lifted her head from my chest and my gaze returned to her.

"Hey," I whispered.

"Hmmm," she breathed, her delicate fingers lacing with mine. "How are you?"

"As fine as I can be for a guy with acute bone cancer and a dozen needles in my arms."

"We were supposed to grow old together."

"We were supposed to live down the street from each other. You weren't supposed to runaway to Chicago... You were supposed to keep in touch."

"Gary..."

"Emma." Her name felt foreign as it escaped my lips. "Why did you disappear from my life for almost ten years?"

"It's complicated, Gary." She paused. "But, I caught the first flight out of Chicago as soon as I'd heard what had happened."

"So you're saying I should've gotten sick nine years ago?"

"Maybe."

I rolled my eyes and she tightened her grip on my hand.

"I just needed to get away from this place," she said. "Too many painful memories." She paused, perhaps realizing the error of her words. "You weren't a painful memory, but I thought it would be too difficult to continue our friendship if I was cutting ties with everyone and everything else from here."

I stayed silent. The second hand on the clock ticked again and again.

"But I'm here now," she said after a few minutes of silence. "And I promise I'm not going anywhere."

 It was fruitless to argue, I decided. There were bigger issues at work. So, I gripped her hand and relished in the comfort of my childhood best friend.

"Good."

She rested her head on my chest again and her soft breathing soothed me to sleep.

Response to "Letter to a Young Writer" by Richard Bausch

The ten list of commandments for writers that Mr. Bausch has come up with are fantastic. I've heard several of these tips before and it is always good to have them reinforced from other successful writers. Probably my favorite of all of these tips is that in order to be a good writer, one must read often. One thing about being part of the millennial generation that bothers me is that a good portion of the people I meet seem to hate reading and just avoid it altogether. This is so damaging because reading is so important. I think that kids need to learn how to select their own books and read books that give them joy, rather than develop a hatred for them because their schools and teachers make them read certain books that they are uninterested in. In my opinion, that is where this "hatred of reading" begins.

Another of Mr. Bausch's tips that I really appreciate and agree with is learning the ability to write anywhere. Personally, I used to have this ability when I was younger and I seem to have lost it over the years. Now, when I write, I need a space where I am alone and some faint music is playing in the background. I want to be able to write when I'm on a crowded subway in New York City or on the train ride back to my mom's house in Connecticut. I'm disappointed that this ability has slipped away over the years, so this is something that I need to pay attention to and practice more.

I also think that the tip of not thinking, but dreaming when one is writing is especially important. Sometimes, I get caught up with the words that I'm using and the way I'm structuring my sentences when I'm writing rather than getting what I envision in my head down onto the page.  I think that the amount of essays I had to write in high school (and even in college) has made me hate revising and editing, and this has trickled over into my own personal writing. I am well aware now how important it is for me to revise and rewrite before I submit any of my own work, and I am trying to allocate more time for this each time I create a new piece of prose.

I would love to add my own personal tip to this list, and that is to find what genre you love to read, write that particular genre and practice it persistently. Often times, many writers have said to constantly explore different genres even if you are sure you have found your niche with one.  I respectfully disagree with that because I believe that, for example, if you don't read science fiction, you are going to have a difficult time writing it. You won't know all the tips and tricks that science fiction writers know if you try to write science fiction but enjoy reading nonfiction. They are completely different for a reason! That being said, if one wants to try to write a different genre, then they should absolutely read lots of books written in that genre before trying their hand at it themselves.

Response to "Snow" by Anne Beattie

The way that Beattie structures this story is very interesting. I really like how the story is told through flashbacks and memories. There are a lot of events that the narrator recalls, ranging from the country house, to the winter, to the snow, to the chipmunk, to the death of Allen, to the purple grape, etc. Each of these memories are associated with who she is addressing this story to, her lover, and each evoke the compassion and romantic feelings that she had (and perhaps still has) for him.

The chipmunk is the detail in the story that stands out the most to me. The chipmunk is present in the beginning of the story when the narrator is sharing her perspective and her memories of the relationship. Then, it pops up again when the narrator is explaining her lover's perspective of their relationship and how he remembers the events differently, except this time, the chipmunk is running away to hide in the dark, to find a door to escape. I believe that the chipmunk is a symbol for the narrator. In the beginning, during the narrator's perspective, the chipmunk runs through the house and all the locations that she and her lover have powerful memories in, such as the library, and the living room. During her lover's perspective, the chipmunk is running away to hide, and this simple act shows that their love is falling apart and she is running away to escape this relationship.

What's interesting about the ending of the piece is that the author breaks the fourth wall by summarizing her work of fiction to the readers, "This is a story... Somebody grew up, fell in love, and spent a winter with her lover in the country." She even admits why she calls the story "Snow," because that's all she remembers about that winter; when she says the word 'snow,' "her lips move so fast that they kiss the air." Perhaps the snow represents her cold, broken heart, and despite their tumultuous relationship, the narrator's continuous strong desire to be with this man.

In the final paragraph of the story, the narrator mentions a snowplow, and how it was a detail of both her memories and her lover's memories that was left out, even though it was always there.  My question is, what do you think the snowplow is symbolizing?

Response to "The Story of an Hour" by Kate Chopin

I thought it was very interesting that the writer chose to write this story from the third-person perspective as opposed to a first person perspective. It immediately conveys a distance between the narrator and Mrs. Mallard. Distance is a common theme throughout the piece, in my opinion, because I believe there is a clear distance between Mrs. Mallard and her husband. Towards the end of the story, we finally get a description of her husband, Brently Mallard: he is "travel-stained" and "carrying his grip-sack and umbrella." It is interesting that Chopin chose to describe him as travel-stained when he was not onboard the train that had crashed, after all. I believe that this description, which is the only description we get of him, is hinting at a literal distance between he and his wife.

In the fourth paragraph, we get a description of the room that Mrs. Mallard is in: "an open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair." These adjectives starkly contrast with her current state of being trapped; they are open, and free, unlike her, and the lines that follow "a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to reach into her soul" are very dramatic and highlight this contrast even greater. Her body and soul feel trapped and confined when she desires to be free: free of her illness, from the room she is in, and potentially from her marriage.  A few paragraphs down, this notion is again highlighted when she is compared to a dreaming child in the lines "She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite motionless, except when a sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a child who has cried itself to sleep continues to sob in its dreams."

In the eighth paragraph, we get a physical description of what Mrs. Mallard looks like. It is surprising to me that she is so young and is dealing with a diagnosis of heart trouble, "She was young, with a fair, calm face." The negative state that she is in is again highlighted in the follow lines, "But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed away off yonder on one of those patches of blue sky." These lines highlight her state of lifelessness, and her continued feelings of being trapped.

I am curious to hear everyone's thoughts on the last line of the story. "When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease--of the joy that kills." To me, this line ties together the feelings that Mrs. Mallard has been experiencing apart from her physical heart condition and wraps up the story appropriately. Do you all agree?