55 Word Story: Dinner

For this story, it's probably better to read the rest of my notes after reading the story. Done that? Great. The intent here was to have two possible ways to read this, possibly depending on how much of an optimist you are. The first version is just a nice date night, kind of bland but sweet. The second was to have "lengthening shadows" imply that she is waiting for a long time, and that things are not as sweet as they seem; perhaps he is not coming home. I will let the reader decide which option they like better.

          Everything was prepared perfectly: their best tablecloth, draped evenly; the gold-rimmed plates, clean and shining; cutlery arranged just so, the way her mother taught her. Freshly baked chicken filled the house with a mouth-watering aroma. Convinced that everything was as it should be, she waited, as the shadows slowly lengthened, for him to come home.

A Twitching Dance

Not much commentary on this, just something I wrote while waiting in the car for a friend. I am mostly a fan of the last four lines of this poem.

A twitching dance,
performed in chains.
Each move directed,
and neatly arranged.
He knows no freedom,
was born a slave
to his master's will;
he'll dance to his grave.
He can never be free,
and with perfect devotion
the marionette dances;
his purpose in motion. 

Untitled

This piece was written almost eight years ago and was inspired by a piece written by a friend in lit class. I think I like the overall feel of the piece more so than the content itself, so this is one that may get reposted later after some editing and changes.

When you reach the end you realize that
maybe you made the wrong choices after all,
and that your parents were right when they said
that two wrongs don't make a right, and that
you have to fight for what you believe in.
But you didn't want to listen back then.
And your lover, when she stared at you with those
big brown eyes, was really trying to tell you
that she didn't want it to end
even though that's what she said.
And you shouldn't have let her go,
but the thought of her staying scared you more.
And when you think back to the days
of bare feet and lemonade,
making shapes out of clouds, you wonder if
maybe you knew then how it would all turn out,
but you didn't know what the feeling meant.
But maybe it's better that way.
Now you've become the old man, leering at young women
thinking you're much younger than you are,
even though you feel much older.
And the waiter keeps filling your glass
so it's always full and you don't think that
you've had anything to drink.
And every night you think that maybe you've made a difference,
that maybe something that you said
had changed someone's day for the better.
Like the day your mother died and your
father told you stories of how she'd climbed mountains,
just to be closer to the sun,
and how she always wanted to take the train
to make the journey last.
And you'd smiled because she'd always complained
how you took too long to get up in the mornings
just trying to make the sleep last.

9 to 5

This is one of two pieces that came out of a discussion of a coworker today, and it was jotted down in a Tim Hortons later that evening. I like snippets of it so I thought I would post it (then I can finally have some recent work up here!), but it is by no means a finished piece.

You put in the hours,
stayed late,
took on extra work
for something you despised
because facing your fears
and finding something you loved
might take a while.
And you just didn't have the time.
So you filled your life with the 9 to 5,
with the things you had to do,
but not the things you wanted.
You spent your weekends looking at things you'd never have
because you'd never reach for them.
You built a family,
filled a home.
The American dream.
And you told yourself that's what you wanted.
And you endured.
You put on a brave smile for your kids,
but they saw through.
They learned that life can let you down
and never thought to reach for their dreams.
You put in the hours,
put in the years,
and when you made it through,
you thought you'd finally get to enjoy this life.
But then you had to watch your children
put in the hours,
stay late,
take on extra work,
for something they despised.
You taught them to struggle,
to fight through the pain.
But you never told them they shouldn't have to.

Short Story: True Love

I have to give some credit for this to a friend who suggested an editing change when he read this recently (thanks BK!). This was my first (and, so far, only) attempt at a second person narrative, written almost seven years ago now. It's still working on fixing a few parts today, but I like the concept. 

            Can you see him? Over there, in the first floor apartment. Building number 510 - that one, beside the cafe. That's him. Malcolm Cormer, do you remember? We met two summers ago at some small-town diner, Freddy's I think. He tripped and spilled his drink all over my new skirt, then made it up to me by treating me to dinner. Not the most romantic of introductions, I'll admit, but I fell in love with him right then and there.

            Yes, I know you want to meet him, but not right now. He's probably sleeping. He'll be up soon, though. His work starts in an hour. He was a night shift at the hospital. Yes, he's a doctor, and he's so smart. Graduated top of his class, he told me. You wouldn't believe

            I have a picture of him right here. See, he is cute, isn't he? He has the most wonderful eyes. I look at them and I just melt. Chocolate brown, almond shaped eyes. I never could tell eye shapes, but I looked it up once. Wide-set, almond eyes. I swear I could go on for hours, just about his eyes.

            Engaged? Well, no, and I don't think he's planning on popping the question any time soon. Well of course I'd say yes! If he asked me, that is. It's complicated, you know? He works days, I work nights. We'd need to sort things out before anything could happen.

            There he is, see, he's just woken up! Wait, though, we won't go in yet. I know you want to meet him, but we can't just barge in while he's getting ready! I don't think he'd want visitors while he's changing, do you? Look, let's just wait until he's got his clothes on.

            There, he's coming back. That wasn't too bad, was it? Yes, we can go meet him now. What's that? Nervous? Do I seem nervous? Well, yeah, I guess I am a bit. It's just that he hasn't seen me in a while. You know, I work days, he works nights...

            Where did he go? He must be on his way out. Probably heading out to work early, maybe for an emergency? We'll see him when he gets down. It shouldn't take him too long.

            See, there he is, and he's coming right over. I hope he didn't catch us watching him - wouldn't that be embarrassing? Yeah, he does look a bit angry, doesn't he? Don't worry, I'll deal with it. Malcolm! Over here! Why are you yelling, aren't you happy to see me? No, I'm not going to go, we have a date tonight, I called you three times about it! Please, slow down and stop yelling, we just wanted to see you... Fine, Malcolm, we will leave, but you can't keep putting this off!

            Come with me, let's get out of here, ok? There's a park not far from here where we can go sit. We can talk when we get there. I guess I should explain.

            See, our last date ended... badly, to say the least. We, well, we had a fight and he said some things that he didn't mean, and he - well, he tried to end things, ok? That was nearly eight months, three days, and six hours ago. But I know he didn't mean it. I've been practically counting the minutes until we get back together. See, it was all just a mistake. I'm waiting for him to realize that it was a misunderstanding; he of all people should be able to see that we were meant to be together. We're soul mates, and I can't just let a silly argument get in the way of that, can I? I've barely let him out of my sight since be broke up with me, and you know what? He hasn't been with anyone since. I think that's a good sign, don't you?

Remnants

This was written in grade 12 writer's craft class, and was inspired by the poem Ozymandias by Percey Bysshe Shelley (if you haven't read it I greatly recommend it). For information on what exactly a villanelle is, I will direct you to Wikipedia (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Villanelle).

Long time ago, they ruled this land

Fierce warriors all, brave and true

Now all that remains are stories and sand

Their kingdom, once small, was quick to expand

it's reach, clutching at cities less fortunate, and it grew,

Long time ago, they ruled this land

With a crushing grip, a fierce command

Many they enslaved and many they slew.

Now all that remains are stories and sand.

Stories of cities, rich and grand

Of rulers defeated and vows renewed.

Long time ago, they ruled this land

Passing their legends from hand to hand,

Old tales rewritten and told anew.

Now all that remains are stories and sand.

Where their people flourished, only desert stands.

Their kingdom, once mighty, has faded from view.

Long time ago, they ruled this land.

Now all that remains are stories and sand.

The Man in the Moon

Have you ever wondered

if the man in the moon gets lonely sometimes

and conjures up imaginary friends

from the stars?

Or if he, dressed in his best suit,

goes out to lunch with

Saturn and Neptune?

Maybe there's a woman on the far side of the moon

who keeps him company

and keeps him warm

(It can get very cold in space)

Did it hurt,

when probes crash landed on his face

and when astronauts

plonked their feet into his forehead?
Those scars won't go away

There's nothing he can take

to ease the pain

of those footprints,

those crash landings,

those flag poles poking into his skin.

He can't scream if it hurts

But maybe the wolves,

when they howl,

are doing it for him.

Fragment: Loss

This was written some time after the death of someone I knew, and also I think after reading a novel that didn't use quotation marks for dialogue, and wanted to try out that style.

It's always been this way with us. Longtime friends with too much history to make any changes. I guess it was all for the best; our friendship relied on forgotten truths and thinly-veiled excuses. Anything else could ruin us.

            Sitting across from me, Kel closed her book with a snap.

            Well? She asked, her dark eyes narrowed, accusing.

            Well, I said. Not an answer, at least not quite; it was the only thing left to say.

            She sighed and pushed herself out of the ratty armchair, sliding the book back into its spot. She always remembered where they went, even when the books squeezed together to hide the gap.

            That's it, then. Her voice was flat, any trace of emotion carefully concealed. I couldn't guess what she meant. Just more words in a long line of meaningless quarrels. The words meant nothing; we only spoke to fight.

            When she turned to face me, she was crying. She held a photograph in her hand- the photograph, the only one that mattered. Slipped between the pages of a book to be forgotten.

            Remember, she said, pleading. Tell me you remember.

            I remember, Kel.

            Let's not fight.

            Ok.

            Jenna -

            I know.

            Turning, she put the photograph back.

            We never talked about it. Even after it happened, when the pain was still raw. It opened holes in our hearts that we filled with meaningless words then smothered with silence.

Fragments: X Marks the Spot

This was a bit of an experiment with style, written about four or five years ago, either after reading The Catcher in the Rye or A Complicated Kindness, I can't remember which. The aim was to get a juvenile, rushed writing style to suit a younger more immature narrator. These could possibly work as part of a cohesive story, but for now they are just three fragments that are loosely connected and all (hopefully) written in the same style. 

**Note that these were all supposed to be snippets from a larger story, but I ran with the parts that came to me right away. If I decide to run with this piece, I will be filling them in and making the whole thing more cohesive and easier to understand. 

            If you made a map of my life, there would be a big X where I was 14 years old. X marks the spot where I almost gave a shit. I'd never really thought about it until then, but my life kind of blows. It was kind of like the time I found out there was no Santa Clause. Maybe some parents played it nice (like there's a nice way to tell your kid you've been lying to them for the first seven years of their life), but my dad didn't go for that bullshit. He came into my room at 5am on a Christmas morning in a Santa suit and told me I'd been naughty and then started taking all my stuff. I screamed bloody murder when he touched my power rangers. But then he took off the costume and laughed and told me I should be relieved because Santa wasn't real and of course I could have my stuff back and hey, did I want to come down and open presents?

            So that's how I felt. About my life sucking, I mean. I'd thought it was ok before so was it a relief to finally know the truth and since there were still some good parts was it like getting presents when you know they were 'Made in China' and not the North Pole?

            Things started to go downhill from there. Not that I'm complaining. Sometimes going downhill can be fun, like when you're skiing or rolling down a hill. One time, my cousin Jon sprained his ankle because his toboggan was on ice and it wouldn't stop and he tried to get off but he did it wrong. I remember watching from the bottom of the hill and knowing that something bad would happen when he hit the ice but watching in awe anyway.

            I'm not sure what kind of downhill I'm on. Maybe my life is picking up momentum or maybe it's just slowly getting worse. I don't care anymore

            I thought things would get better after my sister died. That's something I can't tell my guidance counselor. She would give me that look where she pulls her glasses down her nose, like she's on some low-budget episode of CSI. Then she'd ship me off to the looney bin to go hang with my mom, or worse, call my dad. Then he'd show up and we'd talk about what a hard time I'm going through and he'd cry and we'd all hug and boo hoo. But then we'd get home and he'd send me to my room and tell me how much he was paying for therapy and why couldn't I just try and why couldn't I be more like -

            It's strange to be the only one still alive . I once asked my dad if he had the chance to choose who got to live, would I still be standing here? He said Andrew... and I think he meant to say more but then he turned around and left.

            I don't know why people are so afraid of dying alone. When you die alone, you don't have to see the looks on their faces when they stand by your bedside. I don't know what would be worse - the hopelessness, or the hope.

            Dylan and Chloe had it different ways. Dylan died quickly. Hit and run. Chloe wasted away in front of all of us, watching the hope fade slowly from our faces.

           

            Chloe was a tidal wave. Before she yelled, she'd always suck her breath in, exaggerate it, give us fair warning to plug our ears.

            She liked sunrises, but not sunsets. She wasn't a morning person, so she always missed the sunrises.

            She was born at 12:05 on March 1st on a leap year. She always liked to hear this story then say, Phew! Close call! I might have only been 3 years old today!

            She always opened her eyes underwater, even if we were in a swimming pool and it made her eyes sting for an hour after.

            She would only eat blue and green smarties, but had to eat each colour individually. When she got sick, she joked that the red ones would have cured her.

            She didn't laugh at jokes; she slapped her knee and her shoulders shook, but she barely made a sound. Sometimes, I add sound to my memory, like dubbing a movie, but it feels wrong.

            Dylan was none of those things. He was six years older than me, barely in the house by the time of the Christmas incident. He wasn't into drugs, wasn't into gangs or partying or alcohol. He just wasn't into families.

            I never knew where he disappeared to. The park? The library? Those seemed too tame. Dylan was quiet but never boring.

            He played trumpet all through middle school and high school. He liked to practice but he didn't like to perform. He would stay up until midnight practicing, but he failed every playing test he ever took because he refused to play.

            He put up a screen in our room for privacy. When he was old enough to have his own room he put up the screen in front of his door so you couldn't see him at first when you walked in.

Lady of the Lake

In this poem I was experimenting with line breaks to affect the pace of the reading. I wanted most of the lines to feel like they were flowing or somewhat fluid, and on the line 'catch' I wanted the reader to have to pause and experience that catch in their head.

the lady of the lake
                                 drifts
slowly with the current
soft features
                melting
                          away
soft skin grows pale
weeds
           catch
in hair; she pays them no mind
thin fingers swell with water
faint smell of
                        decay

55 Word Story

"You are perfect" he whispered, slipping off her dress, the hint of a smile playing on his lips as she moaned softly. He had waited so long for this night, had planned every detail. Nothing could go wrong tonight. When he finished, tired and satisfied, he peeled the duct tape off her cold, red lips.

Swing Set Narrative

This first piece was written about four years ago in a writer's craft class, and I'm still relatively happy with it. The only prompt that I can remember was a picture of a swing set, and I think we had free reign from there. Here it goes:

            Anna stood at the edge of the park, watching the swings as a soft breeze nudged them into action, their chains squeaking softly. She liked to imagine that there were children sitting on them, swirling patterns in the sand with their toes. A year ago, she would have come to the park during regular hours to watch the neighbourhood children play, but their parents had long since become suspicious of her. They would usher their children away whenever she came too close. It was better to come at sunrise, to leave their carefree giggles and shy smiles to the imagination. Anna always woke early, and preferred the peaceful silence of the park to the stifling silence at home. She could fill the morning with sounds as she imagined the coming and going of children in the park. Children never left space for silence.

            That had been Beatrice: always laughing, always chatting, always scurrying somewhere. She had filled Anna and Jon's lives with so many new sounds, they could hardly imagine that there had been any before she came along. Now those sounds were gone. Beatrice had pressed the mute button on their lives when she left. At first they tried to fill the silence, but they had smothered themselves in the pauses between their words. Anna didn't mind so much anymore. There was nothing left to say.

            Sometimes Anna wondered whether children were worth all of the pain. After losing Beatrice, Anna's pain had seeped into her memories, had tainted them. Did the love overcome the pain? To her, they were the same thing.

            She shook her head to clear it of those thoughts and leaned back against a tree, watching a dozen Beatrices zig zag across the playground, replaying every moment, every echoing laugh. After a while, children began to filter into the park. Anna blinked, surprised. It must be Saturday then. She stepped behind the tree, avoiding the eyes of parents as they marched in, weighed down with toys. The swish of brown braids caught her attention, and Anna looked up, hopeful, but the face was not the same. it was worse than imagining. In her mind, everything about Beatrice was real. But when she realized that it was not Beatrice, that the smiling face belonged to someone else...

            It was better to be alone. Anna let out a slow breath and straightened her shoulders, giving the park a final glance. For a moment, she saw all of them for who they were, but then the illusion settled, and there was Beatrice, laughing as she pushed herself down the slide, sitting in a circle playing duck duck goose in the cool shade of the play structure, fighting for space on the swing set. A dozen Beatrices swinging on and on.

            Satisfied, Anna turned away. Beatrice's giggles faded behind her as she walked back into the silence.

Hello World

This blog is for my writing, both past work and things that I am writing now, with the hope of helping me get over the fear of having my writing out in the open. I can't promise that everything will be finished or polished, or even coherent all of the time, but I want to post things that make me feel something, and I hope they make you feel something too.

Happy reading.