Hemmingway Mock story

A short story I wrote for my Hemingway class.


A Strong Summer Wind

With patient hands he nailed the two pages of loose-leaf paper onto his wall. He stepped back and watched the loose ends of the pages flutter. The bottoms of them looked like struggling bird wings. He went to his desk in the right corner of the room and moved his chair to the middle of the room. When he sat, the back of the chair creaked underneath his weight. He looked up at the letters on his wall. For three years she had written him once a week. The letters were always two pages long. The two pages weighed about 1.5 ounces, just enough to be covered by a 60-cent international stamp. One hundred and fifty-six weeks later, his walls were filled. The first of the letters was hung in the top left corner of the wall adjacent to his door. He stood up, carrying the chair with him, and crossed the room. He placed the chair underneath the first letters. He walked back across the room to his desk, where he kept his glass and a bottle of whisky. He poured some into the glass and walked back to his chair. When he sat down the legs of the chair shifted. He made a mental note to tighten them later that evening. He studied her faded handwriting against the aged ivory page.

Peter,
It’s odd not speaking to you, but you’ve left me here without many options. Couldn’t you have chosen somewhere closer? Rinaldi and Nick claim that Wyomingt is just as much of a wilderness as your African plains.
My father always told me to make the most of what I have.
At least this is an opportunity to practice my penmanship.
Today I must go to the market and pick up some things. I’ll either go directly after sealing this or later in the evening. I dread the grocery when it’s busy on Sundays, so I’ll probably go later. Until then, I’ll settle for The Times’ crossword.
My apologies if this letter is atrociously boring.
I suppose I’ll get better with practice, as with everything.
Be patient with me Peter, you’ve left me with a rather large adjustment.
Yours,
Norma
He laughed and took a drink. He stood to pour another, pausing to read the letter above the desk. There was a small pink note that stood out from the rest. It was the only letter in two years that was shorter than two pages.
Peter,
New York is really very glorious in the summer. You’re a fool for leaving it behind. Yours, Norma
His calloused hand reached into his linen shirt pocket. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it with his Zippo. She had sent it to him for Christmas the year prior. The engraving on the side said “Don’t keep me waiting forever Peter.”
He put down his drink on the desk and went outside. The fall wind pulsed on his face and he walked into it gladly. It was hotter inside his shack than it was under the sun. Peter liked the yellow grass of the Serengeti. In two weeks he would be back in New York with her. He continued to walk. He had come here to study the wild-life, the Patas Monkeys, Common Genets, and the big five. To hunt, gather, and study the way man should live. Peter noticed that where he was walking the ground was trampled. The foliage around him was eaten down to the branches. Impalas had been nearby, a good-sized herd of them. He kept walking, following their tracks.
A bush moved in the distance and a male impala exited from the shrubbery. He was lean and wise. His flank muscles tensed under his auburn coat, ready to bolt in an instant. Peter loved to watch impalas run. Once he had startled a herd of females, and they had pranced like hundreds of rubber-balls bouncing on the pavement. He wished Norma could have seen that. Maybe then she would understand why he had chosen to come here.
Peter held eye contact with the male Impala. It stood as still as it would have stuffed in a museum. The male was herding the women to keep them in his territory. It was almost May. Mating season was coming soon. This impala would have beautiful offspring.
Peter stared into its marble-black eyes and leaned his right-foot forward. A twig cracked under his hunting boot. The sound was the trigger the impala was waiting for. It bounded off into the Serengeti Plain and left Peter standing. The wind picked up, there would be a storm. It was time to go back.
He thought about Norma. He thought about the way her auburn hair shined in the New York summer sun. He thought about her lipstick on her martini glass. He thought about the way her lips braced her cigarettes. The wind was picking up. Peter could see the on-coming storm in the distance. He picked up his pace. He could never go fast enough.
By the time he reached his house it had already begun raining. He opened his door. The letters were strewn across the floor. He took off his shoes that were now dark brown from the rain, and crossed the room to pick up his desk chair. His curtain waved like a handkerchief in a gloved hand out of a train window. He picked up a letter from the floor and sat down in the chair. His head was very heavy in his hands.