Your Story: The bench

Write me a story about a late summer afternoon, a lonely bench, and an abandoned building.

Your Story is a SethSnap series in which you get to decide the story behind the photos.  You can write a story, a poem or even just one word.  You decide.  To see previous Your Story posts click on “Story Time” on the right.

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40 responses to “Your Story: The bench

  1. I remember….
    When this house was full of laughter,
    We partied and drank to the ever after.
    Each room was filled with love and light,
    Each day a discovery, a new delight.

    I remember…
    This bench, where you used to sit,
    You said there was nowhere quite like it.
    Solid, strong and made of oak,
    The memories that this seat evoke…

    I remember…
    You called this your home base,
    Your safety net, your thinking space.
    This is where you sat when sore impugned,
    This is where you came to lick your wounds.

    And now…
    This beautiful spot has been betrayed,
    Our home is empty and decayed.
    Each one of us drained a bitter cup,
    And so the house is boarded up.

    And yet…
    The bench is still sitting, waiting there,
    To welcome your precious derrière!
    And even amidst this Autumn chill,
    I swear I can hear the laughter still…

  2. She loved the sound of the white gravel under her feet because that sound took her closer to him.
    They met every Thursday at the same bench in the park.
    With it’s stone walls, pathways and greenery, the park was a beautiful place to be.
    The Art Nouveaux benches were very old and had been well looked after.
    Someone, a long time ago had a vision of a park where lovers, children and old folks could come and feel the sunlight and the rain. That vision had been realised in a time when land speculators ruled the world, so how did this park come into being with all that pressure to subdivide?
    Someone with an iron will and a regard for the future, not to mention political clout, had made this park happen.
    These thoughts ran through her head as she waited for HIM.
    He was late, which was unusual.
    He was always on time and if she didn’t love him as much as she did this trait would probably annoy her.
    Paradoxically, she was always late; but not today.
    She had something to tell him and she didn’t want to be babbling out excuses about her lateness, yet again.
    Her constant tardiness didn’t bother him a bit.
    He loved that she was not like him.
    He needed a difference in his life and she certainly was different.
    She waited for more than an hour.
    He didn’t come.
    She didn’t ring him, she was frightened of what he might say, or worse still, if he didn’t answer at all.
    She quietly stood up and walked away; the sound of the gravel under her feet was no longer a comfort.

  3. She crossed the road to the old building. It was as run down as it used to be. But that a didn’t bother her. Not the way it should. She wasn’t sure why and brushed it aside. Standing at the gate looking inside caused a shiver, that feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach.
    Looking up and across the yard, she saw the bench, could still see the markings on it. And in that instant she was 6 again.
    The old man and two little girls.
    Cautiously she went in and shaking like a leaf, sat down.
    She had to face the demons, she had to. If she was ever to move on,
    and live the life she wanted, those demons had to be banished.

    Hell had happened in that building, but it was the bench that held all her memories. It was like the devil, eating her friend’s soul, trapping her forever in an abyss. Tears flowed, and her shoulders heaved with sobs as she finally let go.

  4. Pingback: A short story. The Bench. | Coffee & Camera in Hand·

  5. Nice shot. Such a large building behind the bench. Must’ve been a busy place in its heyday.

    The story -

    Halloween is coming on fast. The dare is to see how long you could sit on the bench. While a handful can sit there for a long time, many can only stay seated for a few seconds or less. The sounds are everywhere as you sit.

    How long can you sit there? One second, one minute, one hour? I dare you.

    • Nice David. It was a military munitions plant that operated from civil war to WWII. They had multiple explosions there and many were killed. The trail in front of the bench is where the railroad used to be. There was a train crash there too that killed some.

  6. I wonder if your bench would like to be friends with mine? Mine is a double artist bench, tucked under a piano. While your building looks like an abandoned factory or school, my building doubles as a home and a piano camp with 40, now vacant rooms. The house is no longer full of students, eagerly awaiting their lessons. I’m left here with their residue. Your stark outdoor bench versus my plush indoor bench. We’d make a good team, no?

  7. I think it is the light in the photo that got me thinking this way.

    She sits on the bench each evening as the sun sinks into the sky. A white haired elegant woman with the kind eyes.
    It was their favourite time of day.
    Here she feels close to him.
    And why not? It’s the very spot where she buried him all those years ago.

  8. He did but see her passing by

    She was gorgeous and he gazed hungrily in her direction. Since there was no-one else in the gardens and the path she was wandering along passed just a few feet in front of him, he knew she had to be aware of him. But there was a fluid confidence in her movements, the assurance of an attractive woman accustomed to lingering glances from strangers.

    He wanted to pretend he was looking elsewhere but his eyes refused to stray from her beauty. They were already captivated. He surrendered to their impulse.

    Her long tresses fanned-out behind her as the wind played games with their soft and lively bounce. The sun joined the frolic, creating a halo of lustrous glints that crowned her regal serenity. She’s a goddess, his inner voice whispered. The moistness of his palms was testament to this truth.

    But then his mind contorted in confusion as she fixed him with her gaze and smiled. He had no thoughts because rationality had fled. But he was her captive slave forever. He would willingly serve her till he died. Just to receive another smile would be all he ever wanted from the remainder of his life.

    As his heart pounded, the sun shone through the fabric of her dress, silhouetting her slender legs with such clarity that he blushed. His groin reacted instantly, so much so that he shifted guiltily on the bench.

    As she moved away, he begged his legs to propel him after her but a nervous fear rooted him to the wooden slats. He would have called out but his mouth was so dry no sound came.

    Stunned, he slumped limply. Her smile teased his imagination and he knew he had been privileged. But an ache gripped his heart as the realisation came that he would have shared his life with this vision of loveliness. He should have. She might have.

    As he departed and darkness descended, the bench sat stoically awaiting yet another one-act play to keep it amused during its not so lonely vigil.

  9. I sit, waiting, empty. You never come. You are gone. No one will come and tell me how you fare. Are you well? Did you move? Did you die? I don’t know. I’ll never know. So I sit, waiting, empty.

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