The End of The Bucket List

Write a story about a character who finds out that he or she is dying and has been knocking things off his/her bucket list and has finally reached the last item.

Post your response (500 words or fewer) in the comments below.

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315 thoughts on “The End of The Bucket List

  1. RobinY

    It’s intriguing and the words flow nicely, but after reading it twice, I can’t figure out who the man in the suit opposite the narrator is. It seems there are two people in the story but that’s not clear. Maybe I’m just a little dense? Is the other person “death”? I think if it’s clarified at the end who that is, it would be a powerful story.

    1. RobinY

      Sorry. The previous comment was meant to attach to “Write Time Wrong Place.” The way this website is set up can be a little confusing! It would help if there were some brief instructions on how we are to post a story and how to post a reply to someone else’s story.

  2. WriteTimeWrongPlace

    Never done anything like this before and so would appreciate any feedback!

    It was a pointless conversation really. Meaningless. Everything surrounding him blurred out of focus save for the frame of the tall man in his elegant suit sat opposite. This much he could see even if the words being spoken seemed to be fighting their way through the viscous air to reach his ears as incomprehensible mumbles. It hadn’t started this way of course but that was before the realisation.

    A quick glance down to the weathered scrap of paper in his lap a few seconds earlier had confirmed his unconscious thought. Bottom of the list. Last item achieved, all it was lacking was the sense of accomplishment that should come with victory regardless of size or importance. The doctor had recommended he write out a list of all the things that he had never found enough time to experience earlier because, as he had very clinically put it “there may not be another time”. It’s almost pitiable to see a stranger tell another that he can’t carry on his life because of the words on the strangers clipboard that hold no meaning or comfort for the effected.

    The following few months had been committed to composing and completing these ‘milestones’ as people often referred, some more extravagant than others which to most people wouldn’t even be worth the investment of time. All leading up to this moment right now.

    All the large and small triumphs of his recent life summarised in a tired piece of paper, it seemed almost appropriate considering the image of the hollow form who once might have laughed at such an irony now clutching it’s edges in his withered fingers. Everybody had told him how to spend his time in order to keep him occupied before the inevitable, however nobody had prepared his mind for what would happen if he’d made it to the end. Everything he wanted to do had been done there was nothing else to keep busy with, there was only waiting.

    It happens in an instant or less, the content fades and the realisation claws it’s way forward. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that look. Sometimes I wish I didn’t know when it would happen, or that I could somehow tell them as though it would in one way or another be comforting. Sometimes I think he sees me, when I see his face flush with fear and acceptance and hope all at once but it soon fades and we both return to waiting for each other without him even knowing. I wish that I could tell his family that I’ll be there to greet him soon, that one day they can find him again and that he’ll be okay once the final curtain falls and we go backstage.

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