Jett Diamond

Yeah there are some weird sentences in here. It was written as a parody of Hemingway's writing style for a contest, and I've come to enjoy some of the more awkward phrasings. I haven't decided if I want to expand or edit it yet though.    

The Furthest Table in the Furthest Corner

      Rob sat inside his cabin with a glass of wine in one hand and his head in the other. He had been on this ocean liner for nearly two weeks and left his cabin only for food and drinks. The fear of oceans and interaction kept him confined to his cot at nearly all hours. As he sat, he sipped away the last of his wine and tried to watch the last of the deep purple liquid drip into his mouth. It was fine French wine that the ship had provided. He had not bothered with the name. Setting the glass on a tray by the bed, he carefully rose and opened the door, walking onto the main deck. Numerous couples passed him as he headed for the cafeteria, holding hands and speaking of love. Rob hadn’t spoken of love in many years.

            “What will you have, sir?” the man behind the table asked him, in a heavy accent.

            “I would like a glass of wine.”

            “Would you like anything else?”

            “I would not like anything else.”

            Taking his wine, Rob sat at the furthest table in the furthest corner and sipped. He decided he would escape the confines of his cabin, if only for a moment. Besides, the furthest table in the furthest corner would surely attract no curious, socializing strangers. The cafeteria buzzed with noise, but none quite registered with him. A small gray dress caught his eye. Rob watched solemnly as a young girl began to approach his table. He diverted his eyes.

            “What’s your name?”

            “Rob.”

            “I’m Anya.”

            “Hello, Anya.”

            “May I sit down?”

            “You may sit down.”

            Rob watched the girl. She was young. Startlingly young to be alone. Maybe she wasn’t alone. The girl was the first thing to even interest Rob in the entirety of his trip.

            “Where are your parents?”    

            “Oh, my father’s in our cabin, sleeping.” So she was not alone.     

            “Where’s your mother?”

            “Oh, she died recently,” the girl told him, rather bluntly.

            “I’m sorry to hear that,” Rob replied, sipping at his wine and casting his glance further away from the deep eyes that kept their fixed stare on his worn face.

            “You don’t look sorry.”

            “I told you I’m sorry.”

            “You’re not really sorry.”

            “No, I suppose you’re right. I don’t think I am.”

            “I don’t think you should be,” the little girl told him. “After all, you did not kill her.” To his shock, Rob found himself smiling.

            “No, I didn’t.”

            “Why are you smiling?”

            “Because my own mother is dead too.”

            “I’m sorry, Rob,” the girl told him. Rob smiled.

“Oh it’s alright, I suppose. I was seven and too weak to pull her from the tub.” The girl gasped.

            Rob only smiled.