Trunk of Memories

I'm not too sure if this belongs in the Romantic Fiction section, but it's based off my series I'm currently working on and that series is Romantic Fiction.

This is my first time posting work on this site, so I'm nervous about what y'all are going to say, but please don't hold back.

I guess you could call this a "spin-off" or an "Extended Universe" story. It's not going to be a part of the series, I was just interested in writing a short story about were my characters would be 71 years from now.

(Oh, and I'm sorry for the horrible title!)
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My hands sweep over the trunk's top and dust fills my nostrils. The leather of the trunk is still hard and sturdy, yet slightly damp from the summer's humidity. My rough fingertips trace the intricate designs on the brass lock as waves upon waves of memories crash over me, bringing tears to my eyes.
The tears are most likely a result of the dust that just attacked me and the onions I left half chopped down in the kitchen. Lee will still be tinkering in the garage for another couple of hours and rarely comes inside unless I call him. Dinner can wait.
My arm struggles as I lift the trunk an inch or so off the ground, searching for the key hidden underneath. The key was placed there many years ago, when I first moved in here after my marriage to Lee when I was 18, almost 19. I finally find it, and the key feels cool in my parched hands despite the hot air outside. A couple of wiggles and the key is it's hole, and with a jerk I'm able unlock it. The lid creaks open as tears gently flow down my wrinkled cheeks, but this time I can't blame them on those onions. Too many memories from eight short years have been stuffed in my two old school trunks.
The first thing that meets my eyes is a picture of me and my two friends from our 8th Year, my last year there. Surprisingly, it hasn't yellowed much since it was first taken seventy-one years ago, when the three smiling faces looking back at me where sixteen.
On the back of the photograph is a date and place hastily scribbled in red ink. May 22nd, 2009, taken right after last soccer game of the year. L to R, Melissa Baldwin, Peter Paternoster, Melanie Thompson. I can scarcely remember the day it was taken. I had finally gained the envied position of Captain, and we had won the last game, the Championship. The smiles on our faces were genuine. None of us knew that that was my last game I would ever play at our beloved school. The smiles were hopeful, because we knew that even though the school year was ending, we would see each other by summer's end, not including the week long visits we would all take.
On the left is Melissa Baldwin, my best friend. She now lives in a mansion in Italy, a dream she's been telling me about since Year 1. Her loose blonde curls are slightly frazzled from excitement, and her blue eyes, all though bright and inviting, look as if they're challenging someone to spoil her good mood. I smile back at her, and make a mental note to tell her about my scavenge of memories the next time I write, which will be soon.
On the right in the picture is the young me, in the prime of my beauty. My hair had fallen out of my trademark ponytail. I notice that I took the time to position those abandoned pieces of hair so that they would cover the two year old scars on the right side of my face.
My leathery hand instinctively traces the once prominent scar on my face, though now it's lost in a sea of wrinkles.
My face in the picture was glistening with sweat, and there was a fresh scratch on my visible left arm that was hugging the winning soccer ball. By any day's standards, I wasn't pretty, but the huge grin on my face made me a beautiful picture of radiance. I was perfectly happy.
Squeezed in between Melissa and I was Peter. My first true love. He had his left arm securely around my waist, pulling me into him, and his left arm was haphazardly draped across Melissa's shoulders in a friendly gesture. His head was slightly tilted towards mine, and I can faintly recall him kissing me right after this photo was taken. Peter's hair laid on his head in a menacing way, but his smile and mysterious dark brown eyes shown nothing but warmth and love.
The tears start to flow down my face quicker now, because they too know that I haven't seen that smile and those eyes in over twelve years, and I never will again.
Dear Peter passed away in 2068, and poor Melissa stayed here with Lee and I for over two years after the funeral while she mourned before going back to Italy.
My delicate lungs can't take my heaving anymore, so I place the picture aside. To the left of the trunk is the same soccer ball that I was holding on to in the photo. All of my friends had signed it, and I found my signature written under the tiny air hole. Melissa's was diagonal from mine, girlishly decorated with doodles of hearts, while Peter's was preceding mine on the left. The ball started to depress me, so I put that aside, too.
Also in this trunk is ten photo albums, though only pictures of me are in the first eight. Melissa put together a scrapbook for every year of school, gradually getting more artistic as the years went by. I slowly leafed through the first eight, putting aside the last two for later.
The rest of the trunk was lined thickly with letters. A majority of them are love letters and notes that were sent nightly between Peter and I, even though we saw each other every day. The rest are from Melissa, Pheobe, Andrew, family members, and other friends from school that have either died or I've lost contact with.
I'm beginning to read the first letter Peter ever sent to me when the fire alarm starts blaring. By the time I re-lock the trunk, place the key back in it's rightful place, pick my aching body up off the floor and make it down stairs, the alarm has already ceased.
In the kitchen I find Lee throwing jaggedly diced onions into a salad, the only thing he knows how to make. "Hey, honey. Sorry 'bout your mushrooms, I know how much you like 'em."
I smile at him because we both know that I can't stand stuffed mushrooms, and I only make them because they're his favorite.
"Oh, that's alright. I'll fix some new ones up for tomorrow night. Let me find something to put together quickly." "I already took care of dinner. Pizza will be here in less that 20 minutes or it's free."
His eyebrows scrunch together as he studies my reddened face.
"What's wrong, sugar? Have you been crying?"
I wipe at my face and chuckle. "Yeah, I guess I have been. Your mushrooms burned because I had that urge to go through my old Baldwin trunks. It got to me this time. You know, seeing all that stuff from Peter."
He takes my papery hands in his and leads me to the couch.
"You know, I can't help but still feel jealous of him. He was your first love, and there's a piece of your heart that will always be his."
We've had this conversation many times before, but it never changes.
"You know full and well you have no competition, old man. Anyways, who would like an old bag like me?"
He kisses my cheek and laughs. "You're even more beautiful than the first day I laid eyes on you 70 years ago." The door bell rings and he gives me a little push to help me up. I shuffle to the door and open it. My great-grandson, Nick, stands there holding the pizza, his face beaming at the sight of his great-grandparents standing side by side.
"Come in, hun, and help us with this pizza. You know we can't eat this thing on our own."
Nick steps inside and places the pizza on the counter.
"Sorry, Grandma Bryant, can't. I have a couple more pizzas to deliver before my shifts over. But I'll swing by tomorrow with some expired cheese sticks."
He plants a kiss on my cheek and gives his grandpa a firm handshake, like a real man does. Nick swaggers outside in his 16 year old fashion, and climbs into the pizza joint's car.
"Put your seat belt on!" I holler, knowing that he can't hear me over the hum of the engine.
Lee goes back into the kitchen and puts our pizza and salad onto two plates. I make my way back upstairs and grab the last two photo albums I have yet to go through. We spend the rest of the night reminiscing and telling each other stories we have heard 100 times before.
Even though I loved Peter once, and still do, I know that this is my place, and I have never before doubted otherwise.

It's a lovely story. Sad too, because of the death of Peter and that an old woman is crying(I hate when old people cry because I begin to cry too X3). You described things pretty well, though try to describe the characters too, when they are older. The younger descriptions were done well! Very well done, keep up the great work! :3

Thanks Quetseli You really boosted my confidence right there. I'm going to post more of my stories now.

Here as requested! Sorry it took so long, dear. Feel free to bug me about it next time I forget.

Surprisingly, it hasn't yellowed much at all since it was first taken 71 years ago, when the three smiling faces looking back at me where 16.

"Much at all" is repetitive and unnecessary. You can cut down unneeded words and make this:

Surprisingly, it hasn't yellowed much since it...

Also, "where" needs to be "were". That's the kind of thing spell-check can't fix, but you can if you proofread.

Also: numbers! You need to write them out. "16" should be "sixteen", "71" should be "seventy-one", etc. If you can spell out a number with only two words (four thousand, ninety-six, four, and such) go ahead and write the word.

L to R, Melissa Baldwin, Peter Paternoster, Melanie Thompson.

Spell out "Left to right:". It makes the story more polished. No need to take shortcuts in writing.


Okay!

This is well-written, Tori! ^_^ I wasn't entirely sure what to expect, never having read anything of yours before, but it was a nice little story. As you mentioned, since this is more of a spin-off, character-study type thing than anything else, it doesn't have much of a plot, which I think would've made it stronger. As a stand-alone short story, it doesn't read amazingly well, just because we don't know these characters. Things like that scar you mentioned were left unexplained. Most of this is recollections-- and it's nice. It doesn't have a ton of substance or meaning to someone who doesn't know these characters, but it's short and sweet.

The main thing that bothered me was the age of this woman. At the beginning, I kept thinking that somehow she was immortal, having to watch all her mortal friends die and such. You could avoid this misconception by elaborating more of the effect age has on her daily actions. She's about eighty-seven; that takes its toll on the body. Have her reflect a bit on the wrinkles on her hands, or the sound of her shallow breath after trudging up to the trunk. She's old, and old people generally complain about what their age does to them. Show some of that.

All in all, a good read. I think that if you can find a good story to write, that can stand alone with a little plot and theme, it'll be good. PM me if you need anything else!

~Evi