Writing is my first love. As a child, I thought that I would certainly grow up to become an author. Unfortunately, I received little support or encouragement and eventually gave it up. Recently, I took up the hobby again, sparked by my attempt in 2012 to write a novel for NaNoWriMo. Though I'm far from "good", I still get a lot of pleasure out of doing it. Mostly, I scribble down quick scenes that don't have a beginning or an end. Since I am never sure whether explaining my work makes it better or worse, I've hidden a few things on this page. If you find them and choose to read them, and it enhances your experience - great!
[ I'm So Bordeaux | Hoping and Expecting | Another Gone By | monster (poem) ]
Note: None of the prose titles have anything to do with the actual stories. I hate titling things.
I'm So Bordeaux
"I'm not gonna make it," she said, clutching onto the side of the park bench.
We were barely sympathetic, mainly due to exhaustion. It was nearly 4:00am, and none of us was used to being out all night. It was an ode to poor teenage decisions that we'd never made as actual teenagers. We were, collectively, far too old to be doing any of this.
"Guys," she said, "I think I --" She stumbled behind the nearest tree before she could finish her thought, but, based on what she did next, I could guess what she was trying to tell us. She had, after all, drunk an entire bottle of wine by herself not an hour beforehand.
He sat down on the bench. "I don't know about you, but I'm waiting here until she's all set," he said.
"She might be little," I said, taking a seat beside him, "but she can hold a surprising amount of vomit in there. This could take awhile."
"I think we could use a break," he said.
We sat in silence for a few minutes. The wind started to blow a little harder, and I buried my hands in my coat pockets for warmth. I found myself edging closer to him. "Do you mind?"
"What? You using my body as a furnace?" he said. "Yeah, I mind." I felt the weight of his arm upon my shoulders just then, as if to secure me in place. I was suddenly very thankful for the darkness. And for the wine.
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Hoping and Expecting
My heart pounded with such fervor that I was certain she could hear it. I absentmindedly pressed one hand against my chest as if to muffle the noise.
"Are you okay?" she said.
"Yeah," I said, dropping my hand. "Yeah, I was just --"
"Is this your house?" she said. "I can never remember..."
"Yeah, this is fine," I said, thankful for the interruption. "Thanks for dropping me off."
"Hey, I wasn't going to let you walk home in the middle of the night," she said. "Someone could snatch you!" It was just like her to worry about my being kidnapped; she thought everyone was in constant danger of being spirited away by The Unknown.
I lingered in the passenger seat for a few seconds, desperately wanting to ask her to stay, at least for a few minutes. I wanted to lean over and kiss her, to hold her face in my hands, to gaze forever into her eyes.
"You sure you're okay?"
"Got a lot on my mind," I said.
"As always," she said, smiling. "See you tomorrow?"
"Yeah. Thanks again."
I stood on the porch as she backed out of my driveway. She paused at the stop sign at the end of my street, rolled down her window, and waved to me before driving out of sight.
I was grappling with my feelings toward someone when I wrote this. I often wondered what I'd do if we were alone in a car; would I be forthcoming, or would I balk? I didn't know how it would end when I started writing it, but I did like how it turned out.
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Another Gone By
"I don't know what I did," she said, "but I'm sorry if I upset you."
You don't know what you did? I thought, the rage bubbling inside of me. While she held the hand of her son, I'd had to put the body of mine in the ground.
Three weeks afterward, she'd asked me why I was still distraught. After all, Steven, his twin, had survived. It was as though Michael didn't matter, as though it was okay that he was dead, because there was someone who looked just like him still alive.
She didn't even remember which of them was sitting right in front of her, in the wheelchair I was pushing.
"The same as he was five years ago," I said.
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“you’ve created a monster”
which left me feeling
bemused and somewhat
because I think that
you have always been
but part of me was
impressed that I could
have created anything
This was actually based on a real life conversation wherein someone accused me of "creating a monster" or bringing out the worst in a person who had historically been very difficult to deal with in the first place. It was happening at a time when I was just coming to grips with the fact that I'd never get to meet my "Ninja", and that I would likely never have any biological children.
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