writing adventure 9- An Artform

     Defeat had finally found her as she slumped against the fence. Bleeding out before the stranger that had sealed her fate, the woman did not remember a lost love, or a fallen country, or a cause. She did remember one sentence her mentor taught her though, the day after she had told him of her past and the multiple changes of her name.
     "Dying is a form of art," Joe had told her, a man with more than one name himself, "and you have perfected it even before you shed one drop of blood."

     That was really all she had been good for after all, she realized. Dying was the only thing she could ever do. Her family needed to move on, and so they left her to die in their burning house. And die she did. She left her name and her soul down in the ash, and became someone else. The only man she ever loved escaped from his responsibilities, and so she let those thoughts die, like waves on the shore. Her boss needed information, and so she killed to get it, which not only meant death for those who met her, but death to her conscience as well.
     So much art in her life, and so little to show for it as Duena forgets the name of her mentor and how to breathe all at once. The sky was a gray blue, the earth a faded brown, and the face of her killer a pale, soft green.

     Green? Why green? she thinks, in her foggy and tired mind. And then she sees a familiar face beside her. The mentor, the one who told her the only thing she will never forget. By now, he has obviously told the killer he beat the wrong woman. That, for once, Duena had come for peace.
     But it's too late, and she doesn't really mind. This is something she's good at, she thinks. This is her grace, this is her salvation. The blood that soaks the ground is enough now. She's done with blood.
    
     The mentor kneels at her side, assessing damage and speaking with the killer. She wants to say he is innocent, and that she's killed much better people than he has, but the paint has dried on her masterpiece and there are no names in her language that can undo this.
     And she dies.

writing adventure 8- Pasts and Papers

     As I got out of my car holding my papers in one hand, I thought about what I should say to the love of my life.  Or what used to be the love of my life; I couldn't really tell anymore.  I walked through the doors and immediately recognized her, although her face wasn't facing me.  I had known her forever, and now, in the small, simple diner it all started in, I would be leaving her.

  "You look nice," I chuckled, and it felt wrong in my chest.

  "Thanks," April mumbled.  "And thanks for meeting me here, Sam. I just need the divorce papers and then I'll be out of your hair.  We'll never have to see each other again."

  I shrugged. "Maybe we could talk awhile.  You know, like old times? I mean there has to be a reason you picked--"

  "The place where we got engaged?" she interjected.  Now she shrugged.  "I don't know.  I've always liked this place.  I went here a lot before our relationship got serious and you started taking me.  I don't think I even realized that this is where you proposed when I decided on this place."  The waiter walked up briskly, unaware of my unhappiness.

  "Would you like something to drink?" he asked us.

  "Yes, but just water," she said.  She smiled at the waiter.  I hoped at the back of my mind it was a fake smile.

  "I'm fine," I stated.  He left us and she started talking again.

  "So how's the university?" she questioned.

  "It's great.  I guess when you're living in Alabama, the buzz of a college like Alabama State really gets to you," I said.  I laughed a little but she just played with her napkin, twirling the ends.  "So listen," I carefully started, "Why don't we just talk, you know? We've been friends since middle school.  I think we're grown up enough now to just be friends again."

  "Sure," she sighed.  She wasn't making this easy.

  I waited a little longer and then asked the big question.  "I have to ask, why'd you serve me with these papers?" I questioned, holding the now signed divorce papers in my hand.

  She looked into my eyes for the first time this year it seemed.  "Everything was one big joke to you.  Even in middle school!  Our life, our marriage, everything was just something to laugh about.  You think things can be helped by a joke.  Sometimes, they just can't.  I need something serious."

  "Your job as a veterinarian isn't serious enough?" I questioned back, maybe a little too harshly.

  "My job wasn't the problem, and, before you say it, neither was yours.  Sometimes it's just about the people in the relationship."  She looked down again, and then I realized what she was accusing. 

  "You think that our failed marriage was my fault, even though you're the one that wanted to be separated? Unbelievable.  Really unbelievable.  You didn't have to say yes to me you know.  If you didn't love me you should have said no and saved us both some pain."  I could see the waiter out of the corner of my eye, hesitating to come up with April's water because of the volume of our voices.

  "I loved you once, Samson," she whispered, now aware of the scene we were causing.  "Can you say the same?  Could you ever say the same?"

  "Oh, I loved you once," I mimicked.  "I just can't remember why."  I got up and left her behind, along with my whole life, and those papers.

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This was a story I wrote for my English class, which had to be almost completely driven by dialogue.

writing adventure 7- Cigarettes

     He would be damned if he couldn't quit smoking. He didn't even like cigarettes, and wasn't completely sure he was even calmed by them anymore. After a good deal of drowning in student loans and jumping from girl to girl and bar to bar, Nathan couldn't be calmed by anything anymore. The cigarettes had to go.
     Something had to change.
     After five months of trying to quit, Nathan started to lose focus. He would be damned if he couldn't quit smoking, but jitters and headaches felt a lot like damnation. His mother's incessant calls weren't helping the flares of anger that he could get completely out of the blue. And his best friend calling him a girl about his determination to do this cold turkey wasn't helping the sleepless nights. 'Five months of this bullshit?' Nathan thought, pacing his tiny apartment in the pitch black.
     Something had to change, soon.
     Nathan had been able to deal with last minute essays, stuffy teachers, 1:00 AM wake up calls, a dorm room the size of a closet, and a cheating girlfriend for four years. But a small orange and white stick would be the death of him. At least, that's what it felt like with an unopened pack of his favorites in one hand and the other resting in his pocket. His breath fogged up the large window as he rested his forehead on it, looking down to the sidewalk twenty stories below. For so high up, he was in such a terrible place. The kitchen seemed to be a scaled down model, and its dirty white tile made Nathan uneasy when he stepped foot on it without shoes on. His bedroom was not much bigger, and the fact that  the previous resident had painted it a dark blue made it seem like he was sleeping in a grand walk in closet. The place was depressing, and the air was contaminated with so much smoke by now that he figured all his friends would soon contract lung cancer, just from stepping foot in the space. He turned away from the window, shutting away his thoughts, and instead walked towards the door that led out to the hallway. It was only four in the afternoon, and he could find Tammy, his ex, waitressing in the diner a couple blocks away.
     Tammy, like always, smiled at Nathan as he came in. Like always, it never reached her eyes. Nathan knew what she was doing; she was reliving their last moments as a couple, right after he found her in bed with some guy he had never seen before, and right before he had called her a slut. She was seeing that face– that look of disgust and betrayal and shock– instead of his tiny smile that she used to compare to his dorm room. She came over anyway, always the amicable and easy-going friend, and plopped herself down in the chair across from the one he was sitting in.
     "Hey, Nate! Haven't seen you in a while. You actually have perfect timing, I just got off work," she giggled out, while he sat silently assessing her.
     After a small, somewhat uncomfortable silence, he spoke. "Hey, Tammy. I've been trying to quit smoking."
     She looked somewhat shocked, then grinned. "That's great! How's it been going so far?"
     "Shitty."
     Tammy frowned. "No it hasn't!" she yelled at him, seemingly hurt by his answer.
     Nathan was taken aback, and chuckled at her statement. The first real laugh in five months, the first laugh with her in a year. "How would you know? We haven't seen each other in six, seven months. I've been trying to quit for five. I think I can safely assume it's been going terrible."
     Tammy mimicked his small smile from before; maybe she had been watching the present instead of the past. "Now, that's not true. All this time, you've been holding those little cancer sticks in your hand, and none of them are even lit!" Tammy beamed at him again, her mind checking off a victory.
     "Oh," he said, and looked down at the pack. He hadn't even realized they had been there at all after he had made up his mind to see her. He had just walked out of his apartment, into the elevator, and down to this hole in the wall without thinking of anything, really. He hadn't noticed a single person, or a single puff of smoke.
     When he looked up, and beamed back at her, he realized help wasn't so bad, and that he needed to buy some of those damn patches.
     And, also, something had finally changed.

writing adventure 6- All We Can Do

     "So that's it?" she asked, her hand resting on the sign that had once told her this was the end to Oregon. "We just leave everything the way it is, and run as fast as we can to freedom?" Tears were welling up in her eyes, not because she had anything good back at what was once home, but because she couldn't see anything good anywhere else, either.
     "That's it," he sighed, relieved. He couldn't hear the tone in her voice, the cracks at the ends of sentences, the cracks in her heart. He could hear nothing but the wind on the open road. She could hear nothing but tires bearing down on them.
     There was so much at stake here, between state lines. As soon as they left, there would be an entire gang looking for them. They could never go back to this town, even this state. But leaving was just as difficult. There was nowhere to go, no money to take with them. If they didn't find a charitable person within two or three days, they were dead. If they turned around, they were dead.
     And she knew, standing with one foot on freedom. She knew in her broken heart that they were dead.
     Unless.
     "Victor?" she called, her voice stronger now, her resolve hardening. "Victor, you have to run. And then you have to come back for me."
     His mind barely registered her words. As he turned towards the red-head, his smile faded, and his brown eyes held such confusion. He spiraled downward inside himself. "What do you mean? We've been planning this for weeks, we know what we're doing. Why can't you come with me? Why can't we run?"
     "It's not that simple, Vic. What about your father? What do you think they'll do to him once they realize you're not joining their crew?"
     "What do you think they'll do to you, Leah!" he yelled at her, closing the gap between them in a second, grabbing her around the waist and pulling her as close to him as possible. "What do you think they'll do to you?" he whispered.
     "They don't know me. They're only after you. If you go to Georgia and find someone else who survived, maybe we can save this whole town. I can keep an eye on your dad, we don't have to leave him to die. We can do this together, but only if you go alone." Her voice was muffled by his chest and her tears, but he heard her clearly. And he knew, standing with one foot on freedom. He knew in his broken heart they were dead.
     Unless.

writing adventure 5- Fear

I saw Fear clearly in the cold winter night.

His eyes were worn by nervousness,

He shivered at the shadows forming on the walls.

Crouching, he gripped a flashlight,

And could be heard whispering for help.

I saw Fear clearly in the summer night.

His pale skin reflected in brightness of the moon,

His blue hair shimmered shakily in the light,

And his eyes were still round and large and black.

He seemed smaller when he crawled into the light,

Desperate to be away from the ever present night.

I saw Fear clearly in the mirror.

My reflection staring back at me,

Wanting to run towards the light,

Whispering at itself to pull together.

Fear is alone.

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     I wrote this about 4 years ago for a class, and stumbled upon it again tonight. Figured I would share it with. . . someone?

writing adventure 4- short story idea

I recently woke up with the idea of a story in mind. I don't have everything worked out yet, but I wanted to start it here and get it out there. That way when I (most likely) never finish it, I can look back in even more shame. Haha. Kind of.

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     I would like to begin by saying this is not my story. My life was, and always will be, just a canvas for Charlie. This is Charlie's story, if you couldn't already tell. My name is Annette, and just because I'm blind doesn't mean I'm the plucky heroine of this tale. I'm the side-kick, the assistant, to my best friend in all of West Virginia, and all of the world. His name is Charlie, and he's dead now. I use the present tense because I can still hear him, walking two steps in front of me, yelling at me that my legs work just fine, and I should be able to keep up perfectly.
     When I met him I was just a thirteen year old girl living in one of the richest towns in the South. I came from one of the richest families, the Rittbey's, and life was made up of one part ignorance and one part denial. Charles Gregor was a fourteen year old black boy living in one of the poorest towns in the South. Funny how that works out; the rich set up shop right next to those working class citizens, and then stare out their windows in disgust at them. Maybe it was all just a game to those adults, back there in the racist 1940s, to build up towns where they don't want them, just to have something to complain about with the neighbors.
     Anyway, I was rich, and he was poor, but we were close together. My town of Harrison, West Virginia and his town of Kell shared a border, and most of Charlie's neighbors worked for mine. His father worked for my father as a gardener. I almost literally ran into Charlie as he was helping his father, digging around the roses, and that was how we met, all those years ago.

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Well, if anyone's out there, tell me what you think.

writing adventure 3- The Sun

The Sun

It wasn't dark yet. Not where he was, anyway. Not in the bustling city, that was like all the other bustling cities in the world.

He was not a man in the sense of other men. He was a child inside, one that had aged four hundred years to look just over thirty. One that hadn't left the large warehouse of his captivity while the sun was out since the day he became the not-man he was. That was so very long ago, back in a time where the world was just as complicated, and the cities just as bustling.

Afternoon optimism taunted him from the small window in his cage of a room.  There was an entire beam of light splitting the cold place in half, trapping him to one side, the side with the ever padlocked door, until the golden orb sailed below the earth, and he was free to go where he pleased, which was usually just to the window.

But it wasn't dark yet. He had waited for the courage to say this to himself. "It's not dark yet," the not-man whispered in a voice that was gravelly with disuse, but soft with fear, "and I want to go outside."

That was all it took. The padlock was dust in mere seconds, and the door opened quickly and forcefully. No time for regrets, no time for remembering past instances where he got as far as the handle and then wept with shame. 

No time.

There was a hallway now, and more windows. Like small warnings, the soft rays of light blistered his skin. He slowed and finally stopped halfway down the long corridor, reaching barely into the blaze with the tips of his fingers. They promptly sizzled and turned a dark gray before falling as ash to the floor. There was no time to be horrified, so instead he was comforted. He had felt fire now, something so much more intense than the ice that occupied his soul, or lack of one. He was now addicted to this pain that brought him relief.

A few more steps brought him to the final door, and now there really was no time. He turned back around and leaned against the frame, feeling the metal against his shoulders. He brought his gaze to the ceiling, and wasn't sure where the wall ended and it began. There were no windows farther up the wall than his eye level, and darkness completely enveloped the corners of the hall. There were no endings here, no life and no death. Only vague shadows of what once was, and he so desperately wanted to see an end, something that proved he had even been there at all. Nothing proves that a man, even a not-man, lived better than their death. He closed his eyes and whispered a goodbye to the cage before quickly opening them again and turning towards the door. It wasn't dark yet, and there would be no darkness anymore. He would see the blue sky as it cremated him. There was no time for fear, so he simply opened the door.

The flames kissed his face and he felt the sun, felt the warmth of its power hold him close and forever. He would die in this sun, he thought. He would die in this sun and he would feel so hopelessly alive as he was doing it.

writing adventure 2- adventure

     Adventure is such a loose term. It conjures up all these images of daring escapes, stolen kisses, the moonlight guiding your way as you run for your life or something just as precious. Adventure is the unknown, the thrilling feeling at the deepest corner of the cave. Adventure is elusive; it can't be found sitting on a couch. Adventure finds you, out in the middle of nowhere, with your pants down.
     I've never had such an adventure. My adventures are silent, lonely, a single spark in an otherwise dark world. Adventure, for me, is meeting someone else's gaze. It's footsteps outside your door as you furiously turn off the lights and shush the person on the other end of the phone. Adventure is holding hands, or the first breath after a first kiss.
     But adventure is such a loose term, and nowhere in its various definitions does it ever point out that adventure is happy. Adventure can be the act of letting go, or being let go. It can be the tears that you try and cry silently while still begging someone can hear you. Adventure is the courage to look up at the sky and ask a question you'll never really hear the answer to.
     Adventure finds you. Life finds you. In your darkest or brightest moments, with a smile or with a sob. We are always living, and it is always an adventure. Maybe that's why it's such a loose term.

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Alright, that's it for right now! I hope you enjoy (if there's anyone out there, anyway).

writing adventure 1: where i talk about writing

Dear Pen,
     You hold my dreams in your felt tip. It's very frightening, to see you sitting atop my desk, over a blank sheet of paper, and know that every hope, every part of my soul, lies within your ink.  Holding you has surpassed breathing, eating, sleeping, and that can't be very healthy. But still, here I am, in the middle of the night, staring at you holding my dreams.
     I don't write with you to prove something; what would I prove with a few lines here, a poem there? I don't write with you to be famous, or rich. I write with you, Pen, because your black ink is who I am, who I was, and who I will be. There is no truth you haven't written down, no lie you haven't perfected. Good and evil war between your cursive and print.
     You hold my dreams, and I'm alright with that.

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OK! There's the first writing adventure. I realize that no one will ever read this but myself, but sometimes it's nice to pretend there's someone rooting for you =) so thanks for reading, post a comment if you'd like! I'm going to try and write at least this much (since this is super short) every single day. My posts are going to be quite random in time and in subject matter, as this is just an exercise and not about any one thing.