This is something I'm working on, though I'm not sure where to take it from here. The first draft was set in a confessional booth and had more dialogue. For this version I focused on the setting more and the result surprised me.
Tommy crossed the street. A neon sign was blinking the word Landomat, the letters u and r unlit. The linoleum squares inside reflected a double row of long florescent bulbs. The man behind the counter rested his head in his palm, watching a small television set. A theme song played, starting a new show. Tommy sat on a bench on the left side next to a woman folding clothes over a basket.
Tommy looked through the porthole of a machine. Inside was a storm of swirling colors, drowning in water and foam. He dragged his fingernails across the stubble on his jaw line, turning his face to the side. His eyes fell on the crisp stack of shirts on the bench. The woman stopped folding to scoop up the shirts and throw them in the basket. She moved everything down to the next bench and continued to fold.
Tommy slouched forward and loosened his tie. He hadn’t had time to iron his suit when he got up that day. He had lain awake for hours, the alarm sounding every 9 minutes, watching the light move across the ceiling above his bed.
The TV show audience laughed.
Simon walked down the street. He came near an electric buzz. The lights beside two closed stores stood out, a bug zapper in the night. He looked through the window. A black figure was crumpled up on a bench inside.
Most of the machines were being used. The dryers in the middle were making a jet engine roar. Two voices from the TV on the counter began to yell at each other. The audience responded with a collective “Ooo”.
“I’ve been looking for you,” said Simon.
The woman on the next bench scooted her basket further back.
“We should get back to the reception,” said Simon.
Tommy watched the water drain out of the spinning drum. The clothes whirled around the porthole, becoming the pupil of a rolling eye.
Simon’s head was starting to hurt. The smell of detergent and bleach was strong. A few more dryers began to thunder.
“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.” Simon raised his voice above the noise.
Tommy looked up. “Did dad say anything before it happened?”
Simon looked at the creases in his brother’s suit. Tommy was the first one to tell him that their dog had died. Tommy was nine, he was seven. Tommy bought him an ice cream sandwich. Simon could only eat half of it.
“He said—“
“Excuse me,” the woman said behind him.
Simon jumped away from the machines and sat on the bench. The woman opened one of the doors and pulled out wet clothes that flopped down into the basket below.
Simon put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. Some dryers slowed down to a hum. Simon looked at Tommy, speaking at a normal volume. “He was proud of both of us. I could see it in his eyes”
The man behind the counter erupted in laughter along with the TV. The audience started to applaud. The end credits rolled.
Tommy stood up. “Why was your assistant there?”
“She was at the office.” Simon slipped on some powdered detergent, holding Tommy for support. Simon straightened his jacket. “She was with me when dad collapsed.”
Tommy looked back at the washers. Many were done spinning. The clothes waited for the next step. They would be dried, folded, and, one day, worn.
Simon watched the woman pull out more clothes over her whites. He was reminded of dead fish dumped over ice at the supermarket.
The TV began a different show.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Friday, November 6, 2009
A Name
The plot arc was loosely modeled after James Joyce's short story "Eveline".
Nora’s finger stopped on a name. The M pages of her address book were filled. When she skimmed through the middle of the first page, she laid the pencil she was twirling on the couch. The gray lines of the entry were scuffed, particles of graphite spreading out sideways like a shadow.
The address was for a tiny studio apartment on the ground level of a building that no longer existed. They pinned a sheet over the window so that people across the alley couldn’t look into the corner by the bed.
The name was written the summer Nora became obsessed with cursive. She had used the same loops and lines to fill out the forms for her marriage license, before the clerk asked her to fill them out again in print.
Nora looked up at the picture frames above the fireplace of her parents and college friends. Her fingers tightened around the cover of her book as though they were holding the binding together.
Taped on the studio wall was a string of photo booth pictures. Her hand trembled in the air. She placed them in a book to bring home. They must have slipped out on the bus.
Nora put the book down. She picked up the napkin where a friend had scribbled his number. After dinner they had walked around. They passed an empty lot.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
“Fine” she said. She looked down at the sidewalk for a block.
At her door, she tiptoed to kiss him, stretching more than she needed. She opened her eyes and found herself above his eye level. She lowered her heels to the ground.
She picked up the book from her lap, pressing the napkin to the page with her thumb. She picked up the pencil, turned it upside down, and scratched it side to side across the page.
Nora’s finger stopped on a name. The M pages of her address book were filled. When she skimmed through the middle of the first page, she laid the pencil she was twirling on the couch. The gray lines of the entry were scuffed, particles of graphite spreading out sideways like a shadow.
The address was for a tiny studio apartment on the ground level of a building that no longer existed. They pinned a sheet over the window so that people across the alley couldn’t look into the corner by the bed.
The name was written the summer Nora became obsessed with cursive. She had used the same loops and lines to fill out the forms for her marriage license, before the clerk asked her to fill them out again in print.
Nora looked up at the picture frames above the fireplace of her parents and college friends. Her fingers tightened around the cover of her book as though they were holding the binding together.
Taped on the studio wall was a string of photo booth pictures. Her hand trembled in the air. She placed them in a book to bring home. They must have slipped out on the bus.
Nora put the book down. She picked up the napkin where a friend had scribbled his number. After dinner they had walked around. They passed an empty lot.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
“Fine” she said. She looked down at the sidewalk for a block.
At her door, she tiptoed to kiss him, stretching more than she needed. She opened her eyes and found herself above his eye level. She lowered her heels to the ground.
She picked up the book from her lap, pressing the napkin to the page with her thumb. She picked up the pencil, turned it upside down, and scratched it side to side across the page.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
The Angel Restored
Here's my attempt at an Edgar Allan Poe style story. The plot comes from a vampire folktale the Poe story I used as a model is “Ligeia”
Happy Halloween!
In the years since, I have yet to quit my mourning for the woeful events that lead me to my current situation –which, though rooted in tragedy, awarded me some semblance of contentment after unbearable horrors. The source of these fears was not always so –I still remember his face as it was –with beloved association – his angelic image, a ghost from long ago. His eyes –the emeralds I treasured above any precious stone, his hair curled –and I could imagine a crown of laurel upon him –the very likeness of Apollo –reminiscent of classical portraits familiar to me. This adoration that signified our love was not maintained respectively after the malicious rejection of the disapproval of my family. My love transcended a state of melancholy into pure hopelessness which was such in its power as to drive him from life itself. He did the deed upon a rotten tree that had long ago, after being struck by lightning, begun to waste away its insides –barely strong enough to withstand the weight of the village children in their games –and yet it held him. Oh! Wish I that it had demolished into a thousand pieces under such pressure as I had done. My love! My angel! He is gone –though I regret now desiring him restored to me.
Amid my grief I would often recall his image to my mind –I began to receive a notion that my sorrow had borne about some manifestation, for his face, looking at me through my mind, began to appear more and more tangible. One night as I lay in the darkness of the bed in my room –after my nightly prayers –and, once again, called forth the memory of my love, I felt the eerie caress of a whiff of cool air upon my cheek that seemed to have no source. I expected shadows to grow across the illuminated patch of moonlight –nothing stirred –no apparition appeared. On the next night there was the same occurrence only this time a shadow formed at the foot of my bed –I trembled with the fears of hell – then the figure stepped around the bed frame and into the recognition of the light –there stood my lost angel, no longer lost and no longer angelic –returned with a darker disposition, but with no weakening of our love. He returned every night, yet I would always receive him without joy –it was fear which prevented any celebration of his restoration –he was no longer my love, but some creature –a vampire as I had heard them named.
There was a wise old woman that lived in one of the oldest houses in the village –its foundation was crooked and sagged with age –the aged lady was known for her mystical knowledge and was the authority on all things otherworldly. I pleaded for her advice and she acquiesced to my desperation. She quoted to me these lines which I was to commit to memory:
You who live in fear
Of vampire visit every night
What you must do is rather clear
To rid this creature from your sight
Follow him to where he goes
Before the dawning of the light
Pin a string upon his clothes
Then follow when the sky is bright
If he asks you where you went
Do not divulge a word
Despite the threats he may have sent
Do not tell him what occurred
If he kills you after this
Though this may seem absurd
Through door or window is amiss
Then in the forest is preferred
So that night, when my vampire lover made ready to leave, I pierced his coat with a needle –which was connected to a ball of thread. I held the ball loosely tangled in my shaking fingers as it rolled around in pail palms. Then suddenly it stopped –my heart paused in response –and I summoned up all courageous intelligence left in me to stand and follow. The thread guided me –I conjured up an image of the Fates with their thread of life –if the thread in my hand should be cut then perhaps I would collapse into the waiting arms of death. The thread at last lead me to the churchyard, where I could just make out –by the dim morning light –the thread disappeared into the earth. The next night he visited me he asked me where I was the day before –I replied, “Nowhere”. “If you don’t tell me where you were,” he threatened, “your father’s life shall be forfeit”. I became distressed, but if I tell him he would plague my family further. I became consumed with guilt and sorrow two day later –my father had passed. When next he visited me –which was not for some time after his first interrogation –he confronted me again about the night I followed the thread. “Tell me! Or your mother will perish this time” his words imposed upon my very soul –still I refused him. Two days passed and I became an orphan of my own actions. The next night he visited me was his last –this time he threatened my own life –I gladly allowed this consequence and made my wishes known to my diminished family. When I died, a hole was made in the wall and I was carried out through neither window nor door –then buried not in the churchyard, but in the forest.
It so happened that a flower which had grown out of my grave, caught the eye of the emperor’s son and coveted it so that he had it dug out and brought home. My mind did not stay with my grave –I soon discovered –instead I haunted this beautiful plant as though it were my own body. I felt the emperor’s son’s admiration grow into a peculiar sort of love –it empowered me –and soon I was able to achieve the form of my living self during the night. By moonlight my love for him, in turn, began to grow, as I grew more corporeal each night I spent beside my sleeping love –until, finally, I could restrain myself no longer as I observed him affectionately –his breathing the rhythm of my heart. I kissed him –he stirred in surprise and viewed me with pleasant astonishment –I could see the recognition in his eyes –he saw the flower in me. Soon after we were married, but the occasion was tainted by a shadow of fear –my paranoia often turned to the vampire that still haunted my new existence –it compelled me to lock myself inside –never setting foot outdoors.
On one occasion, however, my husband convinced me to accompany him to church, so I tentatively stepped into the carriage followed by my fears. And Lo! There he was –the vampire waiting to ensnare me. We raced to the church –he was on my heels –my heart was so erratic –I felt it should leap from my chest and rupture with such disturbance. At the church I could do nothing but hide behind the portrait of an angel for protection, but he found me there. He reached out for me –fortune seemed to smile upon me then as the portrait unbalanced in space and fell upon the vampire –crushing him –destroying his sinful soul. At last! I was free from him –left only with memories that had threatened to rip me apart.
Happy Halloween!
In the years since, I have yet to quit my mourning for the woeful events that lead me to my current situation –which, though rooted in tragedy, awarded me some semblance of contentment after unbearable horrors. The source of these fears was not always so –I still remember his face as it was –with beloved association – his angelic image, a ghost from long ago. His eyes –the emeralds I treasured above any precious stone, his hair curled –and I could imagine a crown of laurel upon him –the very likeness of Apollo –reminiscent of classical portraits familiar to me. This adoration that signified our love was not maintained respectively after the malicious rejection of the disapproval of my family. My love transcended a state of melancholy into pure hopelessness which was such in its power as to drive him from life itself. He did the deed upon a rotten tree that had long ago, after being struck by lightning, begun to waste away its insides –barely strong enough to withstand the weight of the village children in their games –and yet it held him. Oh! Wish I that it had demolished into a thousand pieces under such pressure as I had done. My love! My angel! He is gone –though I regret now desiring him restored to me.
Amid my grief I would often recall his image to my mind –I began to receive a notion that my sorrow had borne about some manifestation, for his face, looking at me through my mind, began to appear more and more tangible. One night as I lay in the darkness of the bed in my room –after my nightly prayers –and, once again, called forth the memory of my love, I felt the eerie caress of a whiff of cool air upon my cheek that seemed to have no source. I expected shadows to grow across the illuminated patch of moonlight –nothing stirred –no apparition appeared. On the next night there was the same occurrence only this time a shadow formed at the foot of my bed –I trembled with the fears of hell – then the figure stepped around the bed frame and into the recognition of the light –there stood my lost angel, no longer lost and no longer angelic –returned with a darker disposition, but with no weakening of our love. He returned every night, yet I would always receive him without joy –it was fear which prevented any celebration of his restoration –he was no longer my love, but some creature –a vampire as I had heard them named.
There was a wise old woman that lived in one of the oldest houses in the village –its foundation was crooked and sagged with age –the aged lady was known for her mystical knowledge and was the authority on all things otherworldly. I pleaded for her advice and she acquiesced to my desperation. She quoted to me these lines which I was to commit to memory:
You who live in fear
Of vampire visit every night
What you must do is rather clear
To rid this creature from your sight
Follow him to where he goes
Before the dawning of the light
Pin a string upon his clothes
Then follow when the sky is bright
If he asks you where you went
Do not divulge a word
Despite the threats he may have sent
Do not tell him what occurred
If he kills you after this
Though this may seem absurd
Through door or window is amiss
Then in the forest is preferred
So that night, when my vampire lover made ready to leave, I pierced his coat with a needle –which was connected to a ball of thread. I held the ball loosely tangled in my shaking fingers as it rolled around in pail palms. Then suddenly it stopped –my heart paused in response –and I summoned up all courageous intelligence left in me to stand and follow. The thread guided me –I conjured up an image of the Fates with their thread of life –if the thread in my hand should be cut then perhaps I would collapse into the waiting arms of death. The thread at last lead me to the churchyard, where I could just make out –by the dim morning light –the thread disappeared into the earth. The next night he visited me he asked me where I was the day before –I replied, “Nowhere”. “If you don’t tell me where you were,” he threatened, “your father’s life shall be forfeit”. I became distressed, but if I tell him he would plague my family further. I became consumed with guilt and sorrow two day later –my father had passed. When next he visited me –which was not for some time after his first interrogation –he confronted me again about the night I followed the thread. “Tell me! Or your mother will perish this time” his words imposed upon my very soul –still I refused him. Two days passed and I became an orphan of my own actions. The next night he visited me was his last –this time he threatened my own life –I gladly allowed this consequence and made my wishes known to my diminished family. When I died, a hole was made in the wall and I was carried out through neither window nor door –then buried not in the churchyard, but in the forest.
It so happened that a flower which had grown out of my grave, caught the eye of the emperor’s son and coveted it so that he had it dug out and brought home. My mind did not stay with my grave –I soon discovered –instead I haunted this beautiful plant as though it were my own body. I felt the emperor’s son’s admiration grow into a peculiar sort of love –it empowered me –and soon I was able to achieve the form of my living self during the night. By moonlight my love for him, in turn, began to grow, as I grew more corporeal each night I spent beside my sleeping love –until, finally, I could restrain myself no longer as I observed him affectionately –his breathing the rhythm of my heart. I kissed him –he stirred in surprise and viewed me with pleasant astonishment –I could see the recognition in his eyes –he saw the flower in me. Soon after we were married, but the occasion was tainted by a shadow of fear –my paranoia often turned to the vampire that still haunted my new existence –it compelled me to lock myself inside –never setting foot outdoors.
On one occasion, however, my husband convinced me to accompany him to church, so I tentatively stepped into the carriage followed by my fears. And Lo! There he was –the vampire waiting to ensnare me. We raced to the church –he was on my heels –my heart was so erratic –I felt it should leap from my chest and rupture with such disturbance. At the church I could do nothing but hide behind the portrait of an angel for protection, but he found me there. He reached out for me –fortune seemed to smile upon me then as the portrait unbalanced in space and fell upon the vampire –crushing him –destroying his sinful soul. At last! I was free from him –left only with memories that had threatened to rip me apart.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Sad Songs
Another painful creative writing assignment, but longer.
Lila watched from the couch. Her legs were crossed, one over the other. Her bare foot was swinging in the air like a metronome. The windows of the apartment were open. Hundreds of little lights outside were on in hundreds of different houses. Raymond’s apartment was only lit by one. The standing lamp in the corner was yellow.
Lila watched from the couch. Her legs were crossed, one over the other. Her bare foot was swinging in the air like a metronome. The windows of the apartment were open. Hundreds of little lights outside were on in hundreds of different houses. Raymond’s apartment was only lit by one. The standing lamp in the corner was yellow.
The piano keys were tinted yellow from the lamp. Raymond looked up from the table the keyboard was resting on when he had finished holding the last note of the nocturne. The hem of Lila’s white dress bounced back the lamp light a brighter yellow. She switched legs, letting the other foot dangle over the floor. Her face was just beyond the circle of light.
“Which one was that?” she asked. She put out her cigarette in the ashtray on the windowsill. The corners of her mouth lifted. Her lips stayed together.
“Chopin,” he said. He played part of the first bar again.
“It was beautiful. I think I like that better than the last one. What was the last one, again?”
“That was Beethoven”
She hooked her arm around the armrest and looked at the circles she was drawing with her fingers in the suede.
“Yeah, Chopin’s was better. It was sad. I love sad songs. They have more feeling”
Raymond turned back to the keyboard. He pressed his fingers lightly to the keys. He stared out across the room. His fingers hovered over the keys and twitched. The air from the window formed a cool spot on his back. He looked down. He began to play the opening bar.
“Yesterday,” he sang, “all my troubles seem so far away.” He turned his head over his left shoulder.
Lila leaned forward, her chin in her palm, her elbow on her thigh. Her foot bobbed up and down. Her face caught the light of the lamp.
Raymond turned back to his fingers.
“Now it looks as though they’re here to stay. Oh, I believe in yesterday” He smiled to one side. His movements warmed the spot on his back. “Why, she, had to—“
“Suddenly,” Lila belted, “I’m not half the man I used to be.”
Raymond rearranged his hands, first hitting the wrong note then finding the next one in time. He straitened his back and shook in a shiver.
“There’s a shadow hanging over me” She pressed each word down like a stamp on paper.
Raymond scrambled to adjust the tempo. He stretched his back and rolled his neck around.
“Oh, yesterday came suddenly.” Her voice was sharp and clear. It bounced off the walls and seemed to come from everywhere. She stared at the floor.
Raymond looked at her, at her moving lips, at her eyes, then at the spot on the floor that held her attention.
“Why, she, had to go. I don’t know, she wouldn’t say.” She looked up at him. Her smile showed her teeth as she sang. “I said something wrong. Now I long for yesterday” She shifted through the notes smoothly like a bow gliding across strings.
Raymond’s hands were hanging over the back of his chair, turned sideways. The keyboard was silent.
“Yesterday, love was such an easy game to play” she folded her arms in her lap, holding her elbows. “Now I need a place to hide away. Oh, I believe in yesterday” She paused in between some words for instrumental notes, but the pauses were in silence.
“MmmmmMM” she hummed. She leaned back, her face sliding beyond the light.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Cheaters
Creative writing assignment that gave me hell. I had to come under 300 words. My first draft was 500. I had to be ruthless. I felt like I was hacking my words up like an axe murderer, only letting the good kids survive. It needed to be done.
That morning, Cheryl came home to a hole in the wall and ice trays in a puddle on the kitchen floor. On the counter was a note from her roommate.
“Darren isn’t allowed back in the house. Don’t pick up if Cynthia calls. Your boyfriend called”
She went into her room to change then left to catch the bus to the gym.
“Have fun going out with the team?”
Cheryl looked up from the water to see Josh standing over her.
“I lost my phone,” she said. She pulled herself up and set her elbows on the edge of the pool.
“Yeah, I tried calling you last night.” He sat down on the floor, beyond the puddle formed by her arms.
Cheryl put down her arms and held on to the edge of the pool with her fingertips. She looked up at him, but made no sound.
“I know you cheated,” he finally said, “I’m surprised they haven’t caught you yet.”
“What?” Cheryl asked.
“I saw you push off from the block just before the start,” he explained, “You got lucky, especially since you only won by an inch.”
“It was an accident. I’ve never cheated before,” she said, “Well, except at Heads Up, Seven Up as a kid.” She would peek between her arms, watching kids’ shoes scurry around until she felt a tap on her thumb. She never got caught.
“Josh,” she said.
“Yeah?” he waited.
“I cheated”
“I know,” he put his hands on hers, “don’t get caught”
He helped her out of the water.
“What time did you get home last night?” he asked, holding out her towel.
“Around one,” she replied.
At one, a streetlamp was showing through a bedroom window, illuminating her phone on the floor next to her dress.
That morning, Cheryl came home to a hole in the wall and ice trays in a puddle on the kitchen floor. On the counter was a note from her roommate.
“Darren isn’t allowed back in the house. Don’t pick up if Cynthia calls. Your boyfriend called”
She went into her room to change then left to catch the bus to the gym.
“Have fun going out with the team?”
Cheryl looked up from the water to see Josh standing over her.
“I lost my phone,” she said. She pulled herself up and set her elbows on the edge of the pool.
“Yeah, I tried calling you last night.” He sat down on the floor, beyond the puddle formed by her arms.
Cheryl put down her arms and held on to the edge of the pool with her fingertips. She looked up at him, but made no sound.
“I know you cheated,” he finally said, “I’m surprised they haven’t caught you yet.”
“What?” Cheryl asked.
“I saw you push off from the block just before the start,” he explained, “You got lucky, especially since you only won by an inch.”
“It was an accident. I’ve never cheated before,” she said, “Well, except at Heads Up, Seven Up as a kid.” She would peek between her arms, watching kids’ shoes scurry around until she felt a tap on her thumb. She never got caught.
“Josh,” she said.
“Yeah?” he waited.
“I cheated”
“I know,” he put his hands on hers, “don’t get caught”
He helped her out of the water.
“What time did you get home last night?” he asked, holding out her towel.
“Around one,” she replied.
At one, a streetlamp was showing through a bedroom window, illuminating her phone on the floor next to her dress.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Keys in a Storm
I wrote this in class today, waiting for my teacher. Usually when I can't think of anything to write right away I start with an expletive. For some reason that helps.
"Damn!" Peter heard a splashing sound as it slipped through the bars. He pictured his keys washing out to sea, drowning in the rapids formed by the rain. Peter succumbed to a violent fit of self loathing that was punching its way through the lower part of his stomach. The keys, on the other hand, made themselves comfortable, settling in for the several decades they would spend, submerged in water, lying on the concrete floor below the storm grate.
"Damn!" Peter heard a splashing sound as it slipped through the bars. He pictured his keys washing out to sea, drowning in the rapids formed by the rain. Peter succumbed to a violent fit of self loathing that was punching its way through the lower part of his stomach. The keys, on the other hand, made themselves comfortable, settling in for the several decades they would spend, submerged in water, lying on the concrete floor below the storm grate.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Flash Fiction
I wrote these two for a class assignment. It was hard to get under the word limit. The first had to be exactly 100 and the second had to be under 55 to qualify as nanofiction.
Wasted 100
I dive behind the counter. There was just one man left. I hear him step closer.
Four of them had surprised me. They knocked down my door upstairs. The fight spilled into the hall. I got one guy in the chest. I ran down the stairs, spiraling round. No one was in the lobby. I took two down from behind the bar doors. One left.
I look down at my gun from behind the bar counter. One last bullet. I had wasted so many. I jump up and aim. We see each other at the same time.
Bang.
“You’re dead.”
------------------------
Mud and Blood
“How did you get so muddy?” his mother said, “It hasn’t rained in weeks”
He remembered walking to school. He came upon some boys he never liked and who never liked him. The sprinklers were on and he was outnumbered.
“How did you get that nosebleed?” the teacher asked. He pointed to the muddy boy.
Wasted 100
I dive behind the counter. There was just one man left. I hear him step closer.
Four of them had surprised me. They knocked down my door upstairs. The fight spilled into the hall. I got one guy in the chest. I ran down the stairs, spiraling round. No one was in the lobby. I took two down from behind the bar doors. One left.
I look down at my gun from behind the bar counter. One last bullet. I had wasted so many. I jump up and aim. We see each other at the same time.
Bang.
“You’re dead.”
------------------------
Mud and Blood
“How did you get so muddy?” his mother said, “It hasn’t rained in weeks”
He remembered walking to school. He came upon some boys he never liked and who never liked him. The sprinklers were on and he was outnumbered.
“How did you get that nosebleed?” the teacher asked. He pointed to the muddy boy.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Grandfather Shoes
I was inspired to write this story when I used my dads shoes to help my mom bring in the groceries. Being too big for my feet, they were a lot easier to slip into in a hurry. Then I thought of the phrase "filling my father's shoes". I didn't actually get to the part about the shoes and I even ended mid-sentence, but this was the best draft I could find.
The shuttle looked empty, especially in the dark of the evening, but when the urban lights streaked by in a dim, yellow illumination, the outline of a single passenger could be made out in the very back seat. She sat, still and quiet, looking out the window without focus. The side of her head rested on the polyester cushion, her suitcase in the seat beside her. She had not spoken at all throughout the long journey home, partly because there was no one to speak to and nothing to say and also because what energy left to her from sitting all day was all used in attentive contemplation.
From the street, Rachel could see gray blue light dancing through her apartment window. She opened her door on the 5th floor and locked it behind her, rolling her suitcase along like a lost dog on wheels. She waited to hear the forced enthusiasm of voices from the infomercials her insomniac ex-husband usually resorted to in the late night. But the only sounds were the metal keys, the plastic wheels rolling on the wood, and the clicks of her heels. She took her shoes off and tip-toed toward the living room and the light. The television was on mute with the subtitles on and asleep on the couch was her son, David.
Rachel felt a tap on her shoulder. That’s what Guy used to do when they were married to get her attention. It took her a whole year not to jump every time he lightly tapped her in a way that was not supposed to startle. She remembered how much it drove her crazy as she turned to face him.
“I didn’t want to wake him. He’s been having trouble sleeping,” he whispered.
They both moved to the kitchen, Guy sat down at the table, while Rachel turned on a small light that was just bright enough to show one side of his face. Then she walked past the counter to get a bottle of water from the refrigerator.
“Thank you for doing this,” she said, her voice horse and crackled. The light from the fridge lit up her face, which he still couldn’t see, as she scanned the shelves.
“No problem. I’m just sad you had to go all the way to Missouri on your own,” he said. He had made such a fuss when she called him to ask if he could watch David for a few days. He offered to buy the tickets for her, but she couldn’t stop picturing the stupid grin he made whenever he would snatch the check away from her in a restaurant.
“I didn’t want David there,” she shifted her head toward him, still holding the door open, “ Even if I had enough for two tickets, I wouldn’t want him to see that.”
“He was his grandfather,” the statement came out like an accusation, “Don’t you think he wanted to say goodbye?”
“He did, at the funeral, but I don’t think he could have handled the burial.” Rachel shut the refrigerator door absent-mindedly as she remembered the box that held her father being lowered into the ground next to her mother. The headstone had been there for years, only now there was a date on it. Rachel felt her knees begin to weaken so she spun around and grabbed the counter to remind herself not to kneel down, curl up into a little ball on the floor, and cry as loud as she wanted. This was not an empty hotel room and she was no longer alone.
Guy looked on in concern, but did not get up from his seat. Rachel shut her eyes and folded her arms tightly to her chest. For a moment she forgot Guy and listened to her own breathing.
“I got an earlier flight for my conference,” Guy said uncomfortably, “it leaves at 6”
Rachel looked up, “Did you want to wake David before you go?”
“No. I think it’s best just to let him sleep,” he stood, “It’s late. Since David’s got the couch I’ll take his room.”
“No I’ll take it. You go ahead and keep my room,” Rachel lifted her weight off the counter top and went to stand by the kitchen table, “There’s no sense kicking you in the middle of the night.”
“You sure?” he took a backwards step toward the hall.
“Then you can pack without waking anybody,” she stepped back into a chair.
“Alright. Goodnight,” he walked down the hall and went into the room.
“Night,” Rachel said before he closed the door, though he was too far to hear. Then she sighed and rose from her chair. She picked up her bag and rolled it to the bedroom further down the hall, the wheels muffled by carpet.
David’s room was painted blue; it had a greenish tint in the lamplight. It contained a brown wooden desk, a black bookcase filled with
The shuttle looked empty, especially in the dark of the evening, but when the urban lights streaked by in a dim, yellow illumination, the outline of a single passenger could be made out in the very back seat. She sat, still and quiet, looking out the window without focus. The side of her head rested on the polyester cushion, her suitcase in the seat beside her. She had not spoken at all throughout the long journey home, partly because there was no one to speak to and nothing to say and also because what energy left to her from sitting all day was all used in attentive contemplation.
From the street, Rachel could see gray blue light dancing through her apartment window. She opened her door on the 5th floor and locked it behind her, rolling her suitcase along like a lost dog on wheels. She waited to hear the forced enthusiasm of voices from the infomercials her insomniac ex-husband usually resorted to in the late night. But the only sounds were the metal keys, the plastic wheels rolling on the wood, and the clicks of her heels. She took her shoes off and tip-toed toward the living room and the light. The television was on mute with the subtitles on and asleep on the couch was her son, David.
Rachel felt a tap on her shoulder. That’s what Guy used to do when they were married to get her attention. It took her a whole year not to jump every time he lightly tapped her in a way that was not supposed to startle. She remembered how much it drove her crazy as she turned to face him.
“I didn’t want to wake him. He’s been having trouble sleeping,” he whispered.
They both moved to the kitchen, Guy sat down at the table, while Rachel turned on a small light that was just bright enough to show one side of his face. Then she walked past the counter to get a bottle of water from the refrigerator.
“Thank you for doing this,” she said, her voice horse and crackled. The light from the fridge lit up her face, which he still couldn’t see, as she scanned the shelves.
“No problem. I’m just sad you had to go all the way to Missouri on your own,” he said. He had made such a fuss when she called him to ask if he could watch David for a few days. He offered to buy the tickets for her, but she couldn’t stop picturing the stupid grin he made whenever he would snatch the check away from her in a restaurant.
“I didn’t want David there,” she shifted her head toward him, still holding the door open, “ Even if I had enough for two tickets, I wouldn’t want him to see that.”
“He was his grandfather,” the statement came out like an accusation, “Don’t you think he wanted to say goodbye?”
“He did, at the funeral, but I don’t think he could have handled the burial.” Rachel shut the refrigerator door absent-mindedly as she remembered the box that held her father being lowered into the ground next to her mother. The headstone had been there for years, only now there was a date on it. Rachel felt her knees begin to weaken so she spun around and grabbed the counter to remind herself not to kneel down, curl up into a little ball on the floor, and cry as loud as she wanted. This was not an empty hotel room and she was no longer alone.
Guy looked on in concern, but did not get up from his seat. Rachel shut her eyes and folded her arms tightly to her chest. For a moment she forgot Guy and listened to her own breathing.
“I got an earlier flight for my conference,” Guy said uncomfortably, “it leaves at 6”
Rachel looked up, “Did you want to wake David before you go?”
“No. I think it’s best just to let him sleep,” he stood, “It’s late. Since David’s got the couch I’ll take his room.”
“No I’ll take it. You go ahead and keep my room,” Rachel lifted her weight off the counter top and went to stand by the kitchen table, “There’s no sense kicking you in the middle of the night.”
“You sure?” he took a backwards step toward the hall.
“Then you can pack without waking anybody,” she stepped back into a chair.
“Alright. Goodnight,” he walked down the hall and went into the room.
“Night,” Rachel said before he closed the door, though he was too far to hear. Then she sighed and rose from her chair. She picked up her bag and rolled it to the bedroom further down the hall, the wheels muffled by carpet.
David’s room was painted blue; it had a greenish tint in the lamplight. It contained a brown wooden desk, a black bookcase filled with
Introduction: Welcome to my literary limbo
I was looking through some old notebooks and I kept on coming across things I had written before classes, waiting for my professor to start lecturing. Many of these were nonsensical, rambling free-writes, but a few of them were story ideas I intended to develop later. I realized that my computer was filled with word documents containing much of the same. In fact, I don't think I have ever really finished a polished piece that I didn't have to turn for a class and I have been writing since the third grade. So I decided to start a blog dedicated to my life's work, a mountain of unfinished writing experiments. I hope you enjoy reading through my attempts at a wide variety of genres and author emulations. I go through phases depending on what's influencing me at the time, so all my pieces together is a bit of an odd mix.
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