Tear Jerker!

[Randy]

What was the last book that made you cry or tear up?

 

[Nebulous]

No book ever made me cry :fighting:

....A couple movies though

 

[DrLeftover]

I have written a couple of highly charged emotional scenes for several books and stories.

Usually, at the time, while working on them, it doesn't bother me at all.

Then, when I go back and proofread it, they can get to me.

Some people find it difficult to believe that somebody as emotionally aloof as I am can write anything so dramatic and with such a heavy load of emotions as I have.

I explain it by saying that I store all of that sort of thing up, and then, when needed, let it go.

Such as:

Our retreat centers were staffed in two phases. We hired the general manager and the program director first. They had overall responsibility for the center with the program director being second in command to the general manager, but with each having very different responsibilities.
The general manager was in charge of the day to day responsibilities of the center itself. It was their job to make sure the grass got cut and that the heating bill was paid and all the other mundane tasks that had to be done to keep the place operating. They usually had a direct staff of about five full time people with a varying number of part timers and on call people for functions. The program director handled everything to do with scheduling events, arranging the facility to meet the needs of the clients putting together menus and meeting special housing needs as well as providing normal equipment for seminars and conventions.
Between the two jobs, I knew the program director's job was the biggest headache in the world.
After the two senior staff were hired and in place we would get together with them and hire their staff according to our 'model' guidelines. Yes every site was different. Yes every location had different needs and special problems. But there were some things that were the same everywhere, and we could get a good core staff on board and in place when the center opened and then work from there.

One afternoon about a month after the party I was looking through a preliminary list of managers and senior employees in other locations that had expressed some interest in the new center when Alice came into the office to do her cleaning in there.
"What's wrong?" I asked her.
"Carol just said you were looking for a general manager for the center."
"I am." I said not understanding.
"Well. You said your job was to get it built and staffed then you'd move on to another location they're building."
I nodded. "Yes ma'am."
"That means you'll be leaving."

OK. I'm really not as dumb as some friends and family and a few of my supervisors have said I am. Sometimes I pick up on things and occasionally I can figure things out pretty quickly.
This was one of those times.

"You don't want me to leave."
The expression in her eyes spoke one whole hell of a lot more than she said with her mouth. "I was hoping you'd want to stay."

I knew that whatever I said next I would have to live with for the rest of my life. If I told her I had to go, I'd have to go. If I said I would like to stay, I'd have to stay.
With the Good Lord as my Witness, I had no idea what to say to her.
I waited.
The phone didn't ring to bail me out. No delivery guy came in. Mr. Krendel didn't show up with an important decision about the building.
I was going to have to say something.

"Well." I started.

I looked at the stack of resumes, then back up at her.
I saw her the same way I had that first night at the house.
She was nearly as tall as I was with a figure that took my breath away. Her coal black hair was shining in the light coming through the window with an almost blue tinge. Her bright eyes were moist with the tears I could feel her fighting back.
There was no choice at all.

"I would like to stay."
She was staring into my eyes. "With me?" She said, then she corrected herself. "With us."
"Yes."

She dropped the small basket of cleaning stuff and ran across the room and fell into my arms.
I knew I was staying.

Then I had to figure out a way to ask Mr. Salmon if it was OK if I hired myself as general manager.

End Section Two

http://www.themediadesk.com/newfiles3/alabama2.htm

 

[DrLeftover]

Not only that kind of emotion comes out.

Occasionally. It is something else.

...
Then for some reason I will never understand, I took elevator up. Up to the tenth floor.

The floor was silent. Not even the sound of the air conditioners broke the stillness.
The elevator's door closed. It echoed through the place.
I thought I heard whispering from off to one side. I followed it slowly.
Then I paused and held my breath. Actually hoping to hear footsteps, or something that would suggest it was a radio someplace, or maybe the old intercom malfunctioning.
Nothing.
I walked slowly back toward the elevators and then around to the far hallway where the cloak room and vending machine was. I walked into the cloak room and turned the light on, then looked around. It was still and quiet.
The whispering was back.
I walked to the counter and just stood there. Waiting. Listening.
I heard the elevator door open and looked over that way. But both sets of doors were closed.
The whispering was louder. I heard some chairs move and the rattling of glassware.
I had to go look.
The ballroom was silent and still. The sun shone in the windows lighting the stage area in an almost hurtful glare.
I walked to the waitress station. There wasn't even any glassware in the cabinet to rattle. Then I went down the far hall. The side rooms were just as empty and still as the ball room. I knew I was being watched. But I ignored it. I walked back around to the cloak room and looked in it again.
The whispering started up again.
Whispering that I could almost understand. I strained and thought I could hear an actual word once in awhile. But the harder I strained to hear it, the fainter it got.
I heard what sounded like the cover of the piano close and fought down the temptation to go see if it had moved. I turned the light off in the cloak room and stood there again. Listening to the almost discernible voices.
"Sir. Do you have your ticket?"
"WHAT!?!??!?" I screamed and jumped out into the hall and turned around.
I got a glimpse of a young woman standing at the counter, then she was gone.
My heart was pounding like a marching band in my chest, but my blood was frozen. Tears streamed down my face. My hands were shaking so hard I couldn't control them enough to wipe my face. I took several deep breaths. Then swallowed hard. I walked back toward the room slowly.
It was still empty.
"No." I said, amazed my voice would even work. "No, I think I misplaced my ticket."
There was a rustling in the room. Then it changed. Almost imperceptibly, but something was different.
"What did you check?" The voice said.
I looked around, fighting the urge to run down the stairs.
At the counter stood a young woman, a girl really, in clothes that went out of style after World War Two. She was smiling at me with clear bright eyes.
"Sir?" She said to me. But her lip movement was out of synch with the words. I heard her after she mouthed the words, like watching a movie on an old projector with a bad sound loop.
"I thought I had a rain coat, but maybe I left it in the cab." I said the first thing that came to mind.
Her mouth moved. Then "I can check for you sir."
"That's OK. Let me think about it for a minute. Maybe I'll remember what I did with it." I looked at her. Trying to remember every detail of the image.
There was no doubt in my mind that I was seeing a full apparition of somebody that had worked here ages ago.
"What's your name?" I asked her.
"Rosalie." She answered. Then her face changed, got older, and very sad. Then she was gone.
"Rosalie." I echoed. "I'll see you again sometime." I said to the room, then on a whim, I reached into my pocket and took out a couple of coins and laid them on the counter.
I walked to the elevator and pushed the button.
It took a minute for the car to arrive.
"Have a good evening sir." The voice called out to me as I stepped through the door.

http://www.themediadesk.com/files5/woodst2.htm