forgotten_dream

The room was empty as Alan dressed for the last time. He walked to the dresser, the second drawer from the top sliding open with a thump as he grabbed a T-shirt. It was plain white, he had several like it so it was often the first thing he grabbed. There was the soft swish of wood scraping the tile as the closet door opened, and he grabbed a black shirt to pull over the T-shirt. It was a black knit shirt; his favorite, even with the hole in the shoulder. As he slipped the shirt over his head he considered the hole briefly, realizing that he never was quite sure where the hole had come from. He shrugged. It had never really mattered before, no reason it should now. He grabbed his jacket from the bed and threw it on, then started to walk out of the room. He paused, then turned and removed a thin silver chain from his neck. That he would leave behind.
He turned left down the hall, then ducked out onto the fire escape and took the stairs up to the roof. He tread silently as he went, not a single noise to be heard, but a song continued to play in his head- One Song Glory. Ironic, he thought. He never had found his song. All he had found was an empty, devastating silence. He had been known of course, and had been likable enough. He even had people he would call friends. But he had never really felt loved, found someone that would miss him when he was gone. He had reached the door to the roof, and opened it with one hand.
He stepped out into the darkness of the rooftop, putting on a pair of sunglasses with his free hand as he did so. There he paused as the door swung shut again, simply standing for a moment with his eyes closed, still silent. The wind whistled softly in his ears, the gentle whispers of a lover he had never known, and now never would. He took a few steps out, hearing the soft click of the door behind him. Then the wind picked up to a howl, one his own heart echoed and his voice returned. He screamed wordlessly at first, sending his pain out into the night. He tore the sunglasses off, flinging them away. They bounced once on the hard surface, then skittered off into the shadows.
“Why?!?” he yelled into the night, asking the question even when he knew there would be no answer. “Why is it I’m so damned hard to love??” His words echoed across the sky and several birds took flight, but no answer came to him as he fell to his knees and wept silently. After a minute or so, he stood. The wind whipped his hair out of his face, stinging the wet lines that ran across his cheek. He slid out of the black leather jacket he wore, letting it fall to the ground the ground. It had been his armor through the years in many ways, but it could not save him now. He had used it to keep out the cold, keep out the hurt, keep out the world; but even it could not save him from himself. He added a few more lines to the black notebook he carried, then tossed it on top of the jacket. It carried his musings, his joy, his pain. On it’s pages were written songs, poetry, notes from old girlfriends. The first two hundred and twelve pages would be his eulogy. The last four would be his requiem. The rest would be left blank.
He stepped up onto the ledge, his mind wandering to all the things he had done. He had been forgotten before, they would forget him soon enough. The wind whispered once again in his ears, the call of that distant lover. Alan took one more breath of the air, closing his eyes for a moment of serenity. Then Alan pushed off of the ledge, and leapt out into the darkness.

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"A ouija board just works better if you've made it yourself. It's sortof like how 'Clue' is more interesting when one of you has actually killed someone."

Golux

I think the stories that leave us with questions are better than the stories that answer them all for us. I appreciate the small hints of larger stories left to your reader in small gems like the silver chain and the hole in the shirt that give your character more depth than just a name. However, I think the character has far more potential than just his death at the end. The best stories come from change, and from development that the reader can see. The story here provides us with a character that doesn't change, he doesn't come to a realization that he wants to die, we find that this has been his intention all along. If he must die, the story would become much more powerful if we were to come to the realization with him that he cannot be loved. I think your words are very pretty and your character significantly deep, I just wanted to share something with him rather than just watch him go through with a decision he made before the story even started.

Despite my criticisms I like it, I don't mean to offend, but I guess this is the kind of reply that I'm looking for when I post things here. Keep up the good work. And keep posting prose and short stories here. All this poetry is great, but I do love a good story.