10.31.2013: AAAAH LAST DAY!!!! 541

Well here we go. One more day. I can’t wait. I can’t wait to feel excited and thrilled and passionate about something again. I can’t wait for the moment of despair that will inevitably come. And I can’t wait for the moment when I will push past it, and write on, and on and on. I can’t wait for the rush of words pouring in a steady wave from my head and my heart all the way into my fingers and onto a page of pure madness that only I can understand.

I just can’t wait.

And lucky for me, I don’t have to. Because in less than an hour, it will be here.

Okay, well here is a quick little blurb of a story to go with this because I’m actually not going to stay up until midnight (I know, bad Laura!) I need to rest up so the rest of the month can be spent in glorious writing bliss.

~*~

Snow falls softly as I stare out the window into the white glow of radiant winter wonderland. I sigh, remembering. The way he smiled comes back and hits me like a blast of that icy air. And I feel my throat tighten in spite of my resolve. Christmas is different this year.

“You want some hot chocolate?” Mom calls from her post at the cupboard. Eyes roving, she spies what she wants and pounces like the red fox going after a mouse. I nod. It’s almost dark out, now that the days end before five o’clock. It is an eerie symptom of winter in the Northwest, and I’ll never really grow used to it, no matter how long I live here. But the tree’s magical glow softens the gloom a bit, even though every ornament is a reminder. Mom hands me my steaming cup of cocoa, its delectable aroma slipping through my nose and into my mouth.

“Thanks.” I say quietly. She says nothing.

We say nothing together and are content just to stare out into the cold and the growing darkness and remember when things were different.

A barrage of barking breaks the silence as my three Corgis yipe excitedly. Their noise startles me and a sizzling splash of creamy chocolate falls like snow on my lap. My dad is home. He says nothing too as he comes in and shakes the winter frosting from his shoes. His every movement is draped with heaviness.

Things used to be different. I miss my daddy’s smiles.

Before someone would have been sure to say, “Well who’s excited for Christmas tomorrow?” or “What are we having with the ham?” or “When will Aunt Lily and Uncle Jake get here?” But now we say nothing. No one wants to remember that tomorrow is Christmas and no one has any appetite for the ham, and we all know that Aunt Lily and Uncle Jake aren’t coming this year. They sent polite excuses. But we know. They are afraid because things used to be different.

We are too busy with our thoughts. And no one tries to be cheerful. We’re not exactly dreary or downtrodden, but being cheerful just isn’t important this year. This year is different.

Because this year there is no Ricky. 

800ish

K well I free wrote like crazy. But I am crazy, so if you read it you might end up crazy too, therefore not posting it on my blog. Yep. It was like a thousand words or something altogether. Yay for me. But help. I can't write this essay and it sucks and arrrgghhhhhh why won't things just go the way they're supposed to for once? So. Freaking. Annoyed. Btw, learn to shut up for five seconds people. K bye.

Shadows

“Who are you?” She whispered to the dark that dove throughout the room.

“A ghost of the dreams you thought you had forgotten.” Came a silky smooth reply. She smiled in the silver sweetness of the moonlight that slipped in through a slit in the curtains.

“And why do you come to me now? To what purpose, if the memories are already lost?” The voice was cultured and dulcet, hinting at a sweetness now embittered by mistrust.

The silence thickened as phantom footsteps ceased to rove about.

“To give you what you seek.”

“And what do I seek?” She asked, the question dripping with cynical decorum. His reply was suddenly fearsomely close to her ear, though the darkness showed nothing there.

“To no longer be alone.”

The mask of coy skepticism fell, and she whirled to catch the shadow of a nameless thief. He was already gone. 

10.29.2013: 217

How long to wait upon the edge of this calling trilogy?

Until darkness spreads, takes hold and all valor withers with the sun

Ask in the echoes of the diamond calling

The voice that lingers is not mine

No hope or no adversity

A state of meandering death

It spits and spins and snakes around them

Those hands of black fire clinging on

Is there no man left to take up the call of honor?

The old of heart and spirit ache

And the young in body have fled from noble aims

No reverberation left to call them back

No voice in beauty remaining, to beckon home the ones to whom the world might 
Turn

In darkness lost the ways of hope uniting

In shadow fall the memories of a future now slipping away

The arms of the rich reach ever inward

And those of the needy stretch out for her own claims

A man’s heart is his own, consumed with his growing self

The sun fades to a star, and the stars grow to universes of cold light

They burn themselves into oblivion

And all Shattered excellence falls into the realm of memory

No more to fall in day’s last dawn

The trees are dead

And words of splendor lie forgotten under Autumn’s ghosts of red

Okay. Well here goes take two :)

I don't want to do this. I think, flanneling along the lines of infamy that spin through my head. I don't want to do this. But I do.

The door in my basement is white wood, engraved with a hundred names that bleed down its grainy rings in swirls of black ink. Of course, it isn't real. It doesn't exist. My struggling mind tries to convince itself that reality has abandoned me. I don't want  to know what's on the other side, don't want to open the door and curse the consequences. I don't. But I do.
I have to know. Something about it compels me.
So I grip the latch. There is a moment of indecision that toys with my head as I ponder what might linger behind those tainted boards, and then I give in to the the wave of curiosity that breaks over me, stealing any reason left inside. I open the door. The black names hit me like a wall, but I'm pulled through, looking onward at the sudden sea of faces which engulfs me.

They stare at me, their eyes locking on, as if sensing a predator, one who does not belong. Panicking, my left brain shouts at me. It isn't real. You're not here. You're back in the basement and the only door is the one that leads back up the stairs.The dull quarters of my unimagination try to convince me that none of what I perceive truly exists. But it does; somehow I know this.They are real. Wafting ghosts of human forms, their eyes spheres of midnight onyx. They drill into me.
 Each has a name pasted on his forehead. Each has a word written on his wrist. And each has a symbol engraved upon his heart.

And together they chant with one voice: "You're the one. You're the one. You're the one." Those accusing words echo on and on both in whispers soft and in screams and wails.
Fear so deep and so real slithers through every vein in my body and I gasp, unable to form words of apology. I recognize them now. They are the scars that I've inflicted. The hurts that I have unleashed on every single person who has walked through my life.
A thousand I'm sorrys would not fix it.
Tens of thousands of remedies could not heal that empty vacuum of emotion.
And no door shall ever open for me, the chance to make amends.

First Draft 803

Yikes. The basement is even more revolting than I expected, but hey, I’m getting paid, so I shouldn’t mind a little nastiness. Singing along with my ipod as I work, I stack boxes and shovel up old magazines. Mom told me to be done by dinner. She and Aunt Marieta went out together to talk about Nana. It’s odd, since they’ve met up weekly for years and have spent every moment trying not to talk about Nana. Now that she’s dead, I guess they figure they’re pretty safe: neither one can suggest going to talk to her. The whole thing makes me sad. I never really knew Nana. She had a falling out of massive proportions with my mom and my aunt when I was about two. No one ever mentions it, and for years I never even thought about Nana. Now that she’s passed and I’m in her basement, though, things are different. I see old photographs of my mom, and pictures of Pop and his fishing boat, and vintage nineteen thirties dresses that half my friends would kill for. It all makes me wonder what kind of woman she was. Finally, I see a black and white photo of Nana herself, wearing a string of pearls. And then I see a door.

Unexpectedly glaring out at me from behind a pile of old hunting jackets, a red wood door stands brazenly, old, rigid, and intricately beautiful. The door is a piece of the past, and was, even when Nana moved here in 1931. Its dusty details speak of centuries gone by. So what’s it doing in a mid nineteen thirties, stoic, outlandishly dated little farmhouse?

My curiosity officially peaked, I grip the handle. As soon as I do, the sights and sounds of Nana’s basement fade. The music from my ipod spirals lower and lower. Intuitively, my wrist spins and I pull. The room beyond the door is dejectedly black, empty and also so completely silent. I feel as if I had been deaf a thousand years after only a few seconds within it. I fumble for a light, but find not even a wall. Somehow no light from the rest of the basement penetrates into this room, though the door is still wide open. I step in, feeling that I should speak, but somehow knowing I cannot and should not. The quiet seeps into my soul. I walk deeper into the darkness, and gradually I feel warmth, like I am walking closer to an oven or a heater. Then----a light flickers like the beginning of an old movie projected onto a wall. In front of me a small black and white room drifts into existence. In it, a girl near my age stares out the window, smiling, her lips moving in a silent song. The film speeds along and I see her looking older, wearing a full red skirt that seems charcoal in this black and white world. For an instant, I glance down at my palms and see that they too are white, stained with the old-timey appearance of Mayberry, North Carolina. Deep down inside I know I should be freaking out, but I don’t. It is like in a dream when you know that you’re dreaming, and yet ignore the fact and continue acting as if everything is real. I feel the world of olden days creep into my skin. The girl in the room in front of me is laughing now, talking with a woman. Their lipstick smiles are sweet. But in a moment, the woman is gone and the girl cries alone. She grows older and older, and smiles again, but her freckled grin is tinged with sadness. By and by I see her rocking a baby, then holding the little girl’s hand as she plays with her in the old room. Another baby girl slips into the picture. The young woman grows thinner, her hair gets shorter, and the little girls spring taller. The room stays the same. I begin to recognize the woman as my Nana. The second little girl is my mother. Then the time comes when the woman rocks another little baby in her arms, while her daughters speak angrily from the corner. My mom takes the baby back in her arms, that baby who is me, and leaves, forever it would seem. At last the woman sits across from me on the creaky ivory framed bed, an old woman with white hair and tired blue eyes. Somehow I know they are blue. Like mine. She looks out the window and smiles.

Just like that, the room flickers into darkness again, and I’m left standing in the echoes of the past. The door calls me, and I walk quietly out into the light of my Nana’s basement. Behind, I hear as the door closes firmly. But when I turn, there is only the flowered paper of the basement wall and a pile of old hunting jackets. 

Taylor Everling: 603

Okay, well I’m doing this thing. I like to call it, “dispassionating.” Basically, a few weeks before I begin a huge massive story project like the one I’m about to embark upon, I write about nothing interesting. My characters have no zing. My plots have no sympathetic qualities, and any storyline that does hold promise is cut off before I can get sucked into it. That way I have no passion for writing anything. Until…

I allow my writing brain to wrap its little self around the character whose mind, heart and soul, I shall inhabit for the next thirty-one days. That probably sounds a bit creepy. It is a bit creepy. But I like to step into my character’s shoes and walk around for a few days before I begin to sculpt her destiny. Therefore my next few blog posts should be fairly random and hopeless. Don’t get attached to the characters because they’ll probably all die. Or I may be super random and post all my college application essays on here just for fun. Essentially, my brain is dead, I have no motivation, my lack of social life gives me zero inspiration, and I have no clue how my poor novel is even going to pan out. That being said… wait, did I just use the cliché “pan out” expression? What am I becoming? Oh dear me…. K well as I was saying. This novel is off to an even worse start than my last one, if that’s possible, and what’s worse I am bound the confines of it being my semester project for civics. Which means that I can’t do an emergency evacuation of this plot (again, like last time) if I need to. Which means I’ll actually have to commit to something for once. Which means November is probably going to be an even tougher month. Oh joy. I just love senior year. Oh wait, no I don’t.

Sigh. Thank goodness for writing. Someday I’m gonna write a bestseller, make a million dollars, and buy my daddy a boat and a house on Lake Martin.

Just keep telling yourself that, Laura. Just keep telling yourself that.

So here we go. Her name is Taylor Everling. She’s nineteen years old, has freckles, hazel eyes and redish brown hair, and she’s about to become my life for the next month. Let’s make this good, Taylor. You and me. We got this.

Time to write ourselves a novel, or in your case, an existence. You ready to live? I’m just going to take a moment here and apologize for what I’m about to do to you. You’re going to have to make some really bad choices, feel regret, learn to cope, make another huge enormous decision and then get on with the rest of your life.

So let’s go. Let’s write. I’m not by any means close to being half-way ready, but I’ll have to be. And I’m excited. It is a chance to escape being me for a month and be you instead.

Being Taylor Everling might just be a lot more interesting than being Laura Stewart. After all, you have a million problems that someone might want to read about. All I have is the intrinsic typicality of a high school senior who does what is expected of her and never has any adventures for the books. You’re my ticket, Taylor. And together we’re going to make a story that might just change someone’s mind someday. Even if it is just one person, one reader, one mind, one life that is touched through our endeavors, it will be worth it.

322

“Are you kidding me?” He shouted, his voice careening off the walls at Soupe du Jour. “Thirteen dollars for a freakin’ cup of soup?”

“Grandpa, calm down, it’s my treat.” Isa stammered hurriedly. The waitress’ face was Christmas red, her lips pulled together in a shriveled line.

“No, no, no! This is stealing. No one should pay that much for soup!” He slammed his wallet down on the table, shaking his finger at her. “I used to be able to take my wife out to get dinner, see a movie, and go somewhere for coffee afterwards all for seven eighty-five. This is criminal.” His blue eyes flashed.

“Well sir, you’ll have to take it up with my manager. I don’t make the prices.” The waitress said stormily, her dark eyes flashing back at him.

“Well just you go and get him.” Came the demanding reply. Isa pulled at her earring and grimaced.

“Grandpa, its fine. You don’t need to make a big deal out of it, okay? I want to have a nice lunch with you, not have a confrontation with some manager.” She frowned.

“No. They’re going to hear my complaint. Nobody should have to pay thirteen dollars for soup.” He crossed his arms stubbornly. Isa sighed.

“There’s some old crank out there who wants to talk to you about our prices.” Abigail knocked at Mr. Beal’s open office door. “Do you want me to ask him to leave?”

Her boss sighed. “No, I’ll go talk to him. After all, our generation owes his that much respect.” Mr. Beal walked calmly out into the restaurant, smiling weakly. “Hello sir, how can I help you?” He said to Isa’s grandfather. Just then a masked man entered the restaurant and threw grenades at everything and the entire place went up in flames, making this entire story irrelevant.

Aka, I’m very tired and I just want to go to sleep for a thousand years. 

Words. 

Tales of a Songbird

I smile.

I smile from the window seat as he plays, his fingers dancing across the keys as snowflakes waltz through a storm. He doesn’t see me smile, but he feels it, deep down within, and he plays even more gently, strongly, laughingly, beautifully, painfully, for feeling it. At this moment he is unaware of my very existence, and that of every other person in the world. So I smile, wishing to feel that sweet oblivion. The baby grand glistens in the white light of an autumn sky that pours past my back and through the window. It is a very different instrument from the one he learned on, less homey perhaps, but that doesn’t matter to him as it might to some. It is not the piano itself that he loves, this I know. The song is one I have never heard before, but somehow it escapes being unfamiliar. He says that is because I am one of Silent Musicians; which means that although I cannot play, sing, or even whistle the simplest tune, I can feel, and so I am able to hear as well as the one who makes music. The song ends, and drifts into another. He doesn’t want to stop playing. His eyes rest sleepily closed for a moment, then flutter open again. He looks out into the gray day, but he does not see me, or anything else that floats lingeringly out in that world of city. He is staring at emotion.

He is staring at love, hope and despair.

The music fades into sweet sorrow and my eyes mist over with excess admiration. It is a tragic melody, but still I smile. I smile because I know that I could sit here and listen forever, if only life would grant me my first best wish. And I smile because I know that if nothing ever came to interrupt, not hunger nor age, nor sleep, nor death, he would play for me forever, and never regret the years lost.  

10.23.2013: 500

Inhaling heavily, I took another long sip, the bitter liquid tumbling down my throat like a bath of numbing peace. I stumbled forward, head reeling and eyes sagging, as I heard the pitter patter of precious little toes behind me, their stickiness clinging to the wooden kitchen floor. I shoved the bottle into the cupboard and turned around. Amelia’s eyes were red with sleepiness and her mouth puckered worriedly. I clutched at the counter top in order to keep my balance.

“What are you doing up, honey?”

“Daddy, I’m too tired to sleep. It’s boring.” She murmured in that adorable way that made my dead heart flutter with a spark of life. She was the only one left to make me feel that electric pulse. Her eyes darted back and forth from me to the window and to the tv and back to me, hunting for entertainment. “Read me that one story.”  She demanded.

“Which one is that, sweetheart?” I slurred, trying to string my words together in a way that made sense to a four year old. I squeezed my eyes closed, ridding my head of its fogginess. “I think it would be better if you just went back to bed. You know, if you just stay there with your eyeses closer for long enough you will fall asleep eventurally.” I stopped, hearing myself and reddening.

“Daddy you’re talking weird.” She accused. I swallowed numbly.

“Go to bed, Amelia.”

She looked up at me and I could feel a hand gripping my heart and squeezing it into dust. For the first time in her short, innocent little life, my child stared up at me with fear in her eyes. I was no longer her father, her hero or her ideal. I’d fallen. I guess I’d hoped it would be when she was fifteen, not four.

“I want my mommy,” She said softly.

“She’s not here.” I snapped, regretting the harsh words and my bitter tone. The phrase tasted sour as it came out of my mouth, tinged with bile, anger, and regret.

The tears came, filling her eyes with the salty sting of betrayal. I wished I could cry too. I wished I could shed tears and feel the relief that came with them. I had no peace. Only anger. And grief.

“When will she come home?” My little girl’s fat ruby lips whimpered helplessly. Exhausted and tipsy, I sank down into my easy chair and motioned for her to come over to me. She walked slowly, mistrustfully.

“She’s not coming home Amelia. Mommy died, remember?” She shook her head.

“But I want her to come back.” Climbing up onto my lap, she kissed my cheek, wrinkling her nose at the strong smell of beer on my shirt. The phrase so easily summed everything up.

“I want her to come back too.” I said. I tucked Amelia in and read her “that one story.” Then I poured out the liquid that was killing me.

As it had killed her. 

Obtuse: 650 words

I don't know what to do. 

 I'm lost beyond words. I'm out of ideas. I have nothing. There doesn't seem to be any hope left. Deep down I know that's not true. There's always hope, even when the whole world is starving and lusting and growing more and more depraved, murderous and apathetic and the national debt ceiling continues to tip-toe higher into the lives of the next generation. Even with all that, there is still hope. It is fact.
And yet... fact and feeling sit on opposite poles. 

I don't want to go back tomorrow, or the next day or the next or ever again.I admit that freely. I don't want to go sit in that room and watch as their mouths clickety-clack and their eyes rove the surroundings. I can see my words travel in through one ear and out the other. Not that I say much that is mind-blowing. I don't have great lessons to teach or tremendous inspiration to offer. I'm simple, tired and lost. 
Because they don't care. 
And now after all these months, it is wearing on me, and I begin not to care too. 

Apathy. It is the worst enemy of all. Apathy. It is worse than death, because in a way it is a living suicide. I don't want to throw away my ambition, but I see it slipping away before my eyes. 

On Monday my English teacher assigned a word in class for me and my classmates to write about: The word is "Obtuse." 

I'll be honest, when he said it, the meaning escaped my memory and all I could see was the brazen figure of a triangle etched into my mind after 180 days of geometry. It took a dictionary definition to remind me, and after reading the phrase that followed "obtuse" I felt the cold grip of conviction on my shoulder. 

I am obtuse. 
I am apathy. 
I am pretending not to see, for the fear of what will come.
I am conquered.
I am allowing something unimportant to become everything.

I am insecurity. 


In many ways it all goes back to eleven years old and the brown-haired boy who said, "You're not good enough. Pretty enough. Smart enough. Thin enough. Godly enough." And thus began my ever upward climb for perfection, and the pattern that developed: strive, fail, become defeated. I would work hard, but not hard enough, and spiral deep into depression whenever I did not succeed. I want to be loved. Liked. Thought well of. So I keep my mouth shut. I stay seated. And I stay safe.

I am obtuse. I know what I should say, but I don't say it. I know when I should rise to the defense of the defenseless, but I keep my eyes down and pretend not to see. I am obtuse. 

But obtuse is not me. 

I will fail, not once but many times. Probably daily. But the only way to truly fail, is to give up trying altogether. I will not let myself give up. I will cease to be obtuse. 

Instead I will be acute. What better way to be? 

So this goes out to You. If you're reading this: I'm sorry. I'm sorry because I've failed you by not speaking up. And You, I'm sorry because I've failed You by failing to listen. And You, I'm sorry because I've failed You by failing to defend myself against the stones you throw. And You, to You I say I'm sorry because You've given me everything I need and I do not heed Your advice. 

And to You: I am sorry for not giving back, after everything You have given to help me succeed. 

Lastly, to You. Because I have not remembered Your words, those special words You sent me on the night I needed them most.

"You are the light of the World. A city on a hill cannot be hidden." ~Matthew 5:14

So no more hiding in the winepress. 
I will no longer be obtuse. 
And obtuse will not be me. 

Poem: 209

Ordinary hero

Where can you be?

Oh ordinary hero

Why don’t you come to save me?

Could it be I’m waiting

In a room full of lies?

There’s fifteen pennies in a wishing well

But no one even tries

I’m waiting here still watching

And I’m always keeping faith

I might be alone

But your legend gives me strength

Oh ordinary hero

Don’t keep me waiting long

I don’t want to wait forever

But I will if I belong

You know I’m still staring

Into that midnight sky

And I’ll always be here hoping

Even if I’m hoping in a lie

Maybe no one else remembers you

But they haven’t got me forgetting yet          

So ordinary hero

Don’t you dare forget

I’m waiting for the moment

 When you’ll fly into my life

I’m hoping for that magic dust

To lift me up into the sky

Ordinary hero

Sometimes I do have doubts

There’s ordinary villains

And thick black walls of clouds

I’m counting on you for sunshine

And I’m casting all into my faith

God wouldn’t leave me here alone

Without one more to pray with

So ordinary hero

I’ll wait for you a thousand days

And if you never come to me

Then I’ll stay waiting here always

279

I close my eyes and wait, the smell of smoke filling my nose, my head, my soul. My heart beats faster, and then grows slow again in its rhythmic venture. The screaming has stopped, its guiding presence leaving me dimly aware of my surroundings. Without that voice, there is no reason to continue fighting the impossible. I’m left alone in a red world.

 I think of the outside, of the greens and blues that shine on in some corners of the countryside. I think of everything I’ve had and everything I’ve lost. I remember faces, eyes in particular. Some I remember, smiling. Others cause my own to tear, or at least I believe it is the sentiment and not just the ash. All around me the flames rise. I sink to the floor, my back against an as yet un-charred pillar. One pair of eyes stands out among all the rest. I try not to see them. I try not to imagine the way they’ll look when someone mentions my name.

I breathe deeply, the mask wearing itself thin. Resigned, I pull it off and drop it beside me, feeling the fire of heat fill my lungs in that terrible, familiar, lustrous way that keeps one’s senses begging always for one last gasp of fresh winter air. I hear shouting through a wooden muffler, cries of hard-working men that will fight this monster with every last drop of will that they possess, all for me. All for me.

But it doesn’t matter anymore. So I blink once more, and my eyes see into hers. After that I close them and wait, as the red monster reaches out for me. 

10.21.2013: 800 and something words.

Wrote for fifteen minutes and got to 800 and something. But regardless, bring on the marathon. 

50,000.....

Vivid Setting Story

     The church was big then. It isn't so big now, all these years later, but back when slides were mountains and kiddy pools were oceans, it felt big. 
     It was a Sunday morning and I was overwrought. Katelyn had been too much for me with her angry accusations and frowning face. I could no longer exist through the remaining hour in the black prison of Sunday school. All I wanted was my mommy, and feeling safe again. Slipping out when Miss Wanda's back was turned, I hurried quickly, stealthily out of sight, down the long, long, empty halls of the Church. They were eerily quiet, with all the strange void of a loud place that has suddenly been robbed of its occupants. Shapes and structures that had always seemed ordinary suddenly became ghostly as I made my way, alone, through the passageways. A lone man appeared around a corner, coffee in hand. Petrified, I crumpled into a puddle of timidity, cowering behind a table until he passed. 
     Safe again, I hurried up to the looming doors of Big Church, where a hundred thousand strange faces lingered, tall, solemn and old. The grown-ups were all sitting there listening to the faceless man on the stage who was too far away for me to see clearly. There was only one face that mattered to me. I pushed my way into the room, and the limp echo of the man's voice became a loud hearty tone. Where was she? I peered frantically about, feeling lost and alone in the vast world of the big people. 
     "Are you lost, sweet heart?" A man whispered, tapping my shoulder. Quaking, I shook my head violently and hurried on. Where was she? Where was she? 
      The sudden horrible thought came that maybe my mommy wasn't in the Church at all! But no sooner had I thought it than her familiar face was next to mine. For a few moments everything was perfect. 
     And then I got a big lecture and learned that mommys are only comforting when little girls are obedient. 

10.20.2013: 543

For a moment all I could do was stammer. That image of the dumpster flashed through my mind, stilling my tongue and zinging into my heart like a pacemaker set on too high of a speed.

“You know, Mom, I’ve actually got to go. Someone’s here.”

“Who?” She asked immediately, her voice tinting with suspicion.

“Mary,” I said, half-truthfully. “I’ll talk to you later this week.”

“Who’s Mary?” I heard, but my thumb saved me as it clicked end call before I was obligated to answer. The fridge was practically empty, typical as it belonged to a young working guy who ate out every night and couldn’t cook anything besides baked beans and tomato soup from a can. I checked the freezer, which surrendered some of mom’s frozen lasagna, a better prospect than a jar of mayonnaise and the remainder of a half-eaten foot long from Subway. I heated up two platefuls in the microwave.

“Did you call the police?” A worried, but more human, voice said from the doorway. I looked up to see a less ghostly version of the girl I’d brought home, although a little silly looking in the baggy sweats and t-shirt I’d lent her. Her clean hair was blonde and her eyes were the blue-gray of a December sky, and she looked altogether more like a person and less like a wet sewer rat.  “I heard you on the phone.” She added.

“No, I was just calling, ah, a friend.” I concluded lamely. Moms can be friends, right? “But no need to worry, I didn’t say anything about you. Or any of this.” The panicked film left her face. “You want something to eat?” I added quickly.

Mary eyed the lasagna warily and shook her head. “Do you have anything a little less rich?”

I shrugged. “Not really. I can run down to the gas station if you want. It’s only across the street.” She nodded.

When I got back with some soda crackers and an apple she was slouched forward on my saucer chair with her head napping forlornly in her hands. Awkwardly, I knocked on the wall, afraid she might have been crying, but she wasn’t.

“So, you’re probably curious.” She said, half-smiling doggedly.

“Actually, the great thing about me is that I can usually get through life on a minimum information basis. So you know, you don’t have to tell me anything.” I replied hurriedly. I was curious, but at the same time I didn’t really want to know. I just wanted my life to go back to being normal, and it still kind of freaked me out that all this could happen to me. Most of all, I wanted to forget what I had seen.

“Well I don’t mind telling you a little. After all, you did rescue me and you didn’t call the cops. So, for starters, my name’s Mary and I’m twenty-six. What’s your name, hero?”

“You’re twenty-six?” I exclaimed. She looked like a teenager and as it turned out she was older than me. “Gosh, what moisturizer do you use?”

She laughed. I brightened up a bit, suddenly glad that I could cheer her up. I even managed a little half-smile of my own. “And don’t thank me. I’m no hero.” 

Quote

  "Life had changed as I knew it. And now it's changed again, luv. See, I don't worry about you remembering me.....it's that girl on the road you keep forgetting.
"My business is to create. It doesn't even matter what you do. "
You told me that, remember. P.S....
So go home. Go find it. Find that thing that makes you like nobody else."


  I love this quote because it reminds me that the what and the when and the how isn't always as important as the actual do. I love this quote because it is said in an Irish accent. I love this quote because it is full of hope for the future. I love this quote because it means that even when life throws those unexpected twists into your path, as long as you remember who you are and what you're meant for, everything will somehow be okay. 

   I love this quote because it is everything I want to be.

10.19.2013: 493

Hey cool news. I won this contest. Yay for me! K, moving on. 

In my apartment I graciously fixed her up with a hot shower and one of my dog’s bath towels (Hey, I paid a lot of money for my towels. I don’t want all that garbage gunk and blood all over them) and then proceeded to panic outside in my living room. I felt sick. Barto stared up at me through, pitying, brown doggy eyes as he wagged his tail nervously. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Like her head. All the way home in the car it had just kept on like that: back and forth back and forth back and forth.

“Stop that.” I said, irrationally irritated by him. Barto looked hurt. He melted guiltily into a puddle of golden fur, staring mournfully at the ground. I sighed. “Sorry. But I’m freaking out, dude. And now I’m talking to a dog.” The shower drops beat against the wall, and the phone called temptingly. She was out of her mind. It was the only explanation. And what was I supposed to do to help her? The cops would know what to do.

 I was calling the police. I decided firmly on the idea, snatched up the phone and then set it back down. She had looked so serious when she told me not to call them.

I’m doing this for you. She had said.

It’s better for us both if you leave me here.

Fear getting the best of me, I closed my curtains and turned on the tv. And turned it off. Again, I picked up the phone and put it down. And picked it up.

I dialed.

“Hello?”

“Hey mom.”

“Oh hi, sweetie!”

Okay. Now what had happened to calling the cops? That elusive three digit number had escaped me yet again and instead I was talking to my mommy. A grown man called his mommy. That’s right.

Mentally kicking myself, I asked, “How are you?”

My mom belted into her montage of mundane stories, leaving me free to space out and wonder what I was going to do next. The shower stopped and the thought occurred to me that someone who had been locked in a dumpster for several days might need some food.

“That’s nice,” I murmured into the phone as I rummaged through the refrigerator.

“Honey, are you okay? You seem a little preoccupied.” Her voice held the age-old concern felt by mothers everywhere. This was probably the first time in my completely average, boring, completely risk-voided life that her concern was justified.

“Oh,” I hesitated. “I’m fine. Just, kinda tired you know.”

Then came the questions.

“What did you do today?”

“Saw a movie after work.”

“Sounds like fun! Who with?”

“Aaron and Amy and this guy they know.”

“What did you see?”

“The new Star Trek.”

“What did you do afterwards?” That was the big one. The one I’d been avoiding yet waiting for all along.

Yeah. What did I do afterwards? Well…

539

I could never have expected what came out.

“Don’t call the police.”

She said it with quiet calm, her head still rocking back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, its dizzying, steady beat unnerving me even further. I couldn’t tell in the darkness, but she looked about nineteen, a few years younger than me, but not a kid anymore. Her hair, when clean, would have been blonde, and her eyes… nope. Still couldn’t bear to look into her eyes. 

Dumfounded by this sudden incredulous command, I gasped, “Why the freaking heck not? Holy crap, look at you!” My face flamed with red, and I felt the sudden, unmistakably anti-heroic feeling rising in my stomach that my dinner did not want to stay nicely settled in my intestine. I laughed, disbelieving, and said aloud, “Twenty minutes ago I was sitting in a movie theater laughing with friends and eating an ice cream cone.” Now suddenly I found myself rescuing a mangled, beaten and filthy rat of a girl out of a dumpster in a dark alley. And she didn’t want me to call the police. “Well, what do you want me to do then? Come on, you need to get to a hospital or something.”

“No, please don’t. I’m doing this for you. Take me anywhere but a hospital.”

To my horror I felt the sudden need to cry. I choked and sputtered, fumbling with my phone and trying to figure out the quickest route to a mental hospital. No service. Well thanks a lot, Google, you’re no help.

“Okay. Where do you live?”

“In California.”

“What?!” Another bomb dropped. “Well where do you want me to take you then, if your house is a plane ride away, and you won’t go to a hospital or to the cops?”

She said nothing, still shaking her head back and forth, back and forth. Her eyes darted wildly around scanning the streets.

“Look, it’s better for us both if you just leave me here. Thanks. I mean, thanks for getting me out of there, but I’m okay here.”

Okay. Now, I’m no hero. If I hadn’t realized this before that moment, I would have certainly realized it then. My knees were knocking, my hands shaking, and I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I had absolutely given up trying to keep my mind from thinking about what was in that dumpster. Every thought and action had been about as cowardly as possible, but this was something else entirely. To abandon that forlorn looking little creature in that dark place, barely breathing and without first hearing her story? Impossible.

“I’m not leaving you here.” I said flatly. “What’s your name?”

“It’s better if you don’t know that too.”

Exasperated, I said, “Well then make one up.”

“Mary.”

“Okay, come on Mary, we’re going back to my place. The car’s around the corner.” Meekly, she followed me down the still deserted street, though I suspect it was only because she didn’t have the energy to protest anymore. I couldn’t believe her attitude. I told myself firmly that her experience had surely clouded her judgment considerably. At the time that was the only explanation that made any sense.  

Continuation: 415

“Oh---oh okay.” I jabbered nervously to myself as I covered my mouth and nose with the corner of my elbow, blocking the sweet, putrid odor that blasted out of the blue dumpster. “You okay?” I quaked, a ridiculous question, considering. The girl was a skeleton, a limp ragdoll the color of month old milk, covered in dried-brown splotches. She shook her head mutely, back and forth, back and forth back and forth, like a metronome keeping time. I swallowed convulsively. Things like this didn’t happen to guys like me. This was a policeman’s job.

Police. That’s a good idea. What’s that emergency number again? Oh come on, you learn it when you’re three years old! Why can’t I remember?!

My mind raced frantically. Wading through a pool of knee-deep denial, I reached my hands into the dumpster, trying not to notice what else was in there. Gripping her shoulders, I pulled her up. She was cold, limp flesh, as if the soul had been sucked out and there was only a shell remaining. I tried not to look into her eyes. Something told me I would see raw misery if I did, and as I said, things like this weren’t supposed to happen to guys like me. “Oooookay. There we go.” The syllable stretched onward as I tried desperately to still my shaking hands. She wrapped her arms around herself, the threadbare cotton t-shirt hanging raggedly on her thin frame. “You all good now?” I felt as if I was watching a movie still, only the hero wasn’t being heroic. Instead he was acting like an idiot, asking questions which had painfully obvious answers. “K, so I’m just going to go ahead and call the police. You wouldn’t happen to ah,” I swallowed, choking on the words as I took in the obscene state of her hair. “Ahh, know the number for the cops, would you?” My phone trembled in my left hand. Gingerly, I kept my right on her elbow, supporting her. We shuffled slowly along towards the streetlights of the main road. “Don’t you worry now, I’m going to call the cops and, and um, they’re going to be right here in just a few seconds so you don’t worry or do anything, okay, you okay? You look a little bit…well never mind.” I babbled on and on, cringing at myself but too terrified to care.

 At last she opened her mouth to speak. 

A Poem for You---- 248

Those unexpected twists

Life can throw some curves

Faster than the knife

Sticking out of your back

And I’m still waiting on the day

When my heart won’t have to feel this way

Don’t give up on me

He whispers soft and sweet

But isn’t it too late?

I’m still hoping against hope

This little tip top show

Won’t end in tears again

No, not tonight

Don’t read into everything

I won’t give up my anything

Don’t give anything away

There’s still room for you to stay

Please stay

Sweetheart this road is long

And I won’t be coming along

So don’t cry for me

Your days are always full

And tomorrow you’ll be still

There for me

I want to see you again

But I’m waiting on this heart of mine to waken

Don’t hope against

Everything that’s going

Still going

I’m still going

Still going

Going down that long, long road

And let the words roll over

Let the evening lights gather

I’ll wait upon my wishing star

And light a fire inside this eerie heart

Of mine

A moth is strong and beautiful

A butterfly won’t last              

With every strife and strike and stride

I’ll pray upon my past 

He hears me when I'm broken

He fills me when I'm full

He's the reason that I'm praying

Still alive and here, still standing tall

I'm ready for the ocean

To press on through the waves

And tomorrow there will be 

My own sweet better days