Saturday, May 19, 2012
Forever - Fiction
In the days of the war, when men and women ran headfirst into barrages
of gunfire, there was not one person unaffected. Soldiers died, and
families submerged in sorrow when the officer knocked on their door. I
was no different. I was the naive, fresh-out-of-high-school girl who
married a reservist, and then paid the price for my innocence.
I remember that hour vividly: the meek face of the officer, the wind nudging the clouds over the sun, down to the small flag waving on my porch. I bit down on my lower lip. This was the moment that had starred in my nightmares for seven months. At any second, I would wake up and be staring at the ugly popcorn ceiling of my bedroom. That relief never came. Zachary Atmos, my husband, was killed trying to protect an injured comrade.
Exactly one week later, in a whirl of color and people talking too fast, I followed my brother-in-law to my seat at the funeral. It was a miserable day. Rain had poured relentlessly for two days. In my self-pity I believed that the angels were crying.
The militaristic funeral service was covered by neon blue tarps; the riflemen seemed unfazed by the cold. In unison, their guns fired three times in salute to my husband. With every ringing shot, I shook.
I wondered what he had heard in his final moments. Was he in pain when he died? Had he thought of me? What if I had joined alongside him and been deployed also? Would things have been different? Now there was no way of knowing.
Like the statues placed around the cemetery, I was similarly stone-faced, but with ribbons of moisture running down my face. I was crying. I and the attendees around me were like a black-clad sculpture garden, conveying solemnity in our midst. I moved only to accept the flag that was laid over my husband’s coffin. Over the sheet-like drone of the rain, a single bugle player performed the lonely tune of Taps – a lullaby for the dead.
Then, as quickly as everything had begun, it was over. I was walking away, my face downcast toward the sidewalk. I wondered if Zack was watching me, if he was feeling okay. My mind was so wrapped in these questions, I wasn’t paying attention. The stiletto heel of my shoe wedged into a crevice, causing the other to slip on the concrete. My leg flew up while the other collapsed under me. I don’t remember much of the initial fall, but I must have yelled, for the ducks nearby retreated to their hidden nests in the reeds.
My dress was wet and my tumble broke my umbrella. My bangs stuck
to my temples, pressing the newly acquired grime to my face. Forcing myself to my knees, I noticed a diluted film of red coating the ground. Only then did the palms of my hands and my right knee begin to sting. For the millionth time that day, tears flew to my eyes and threatened to spill over my lashes.
My marred hand went to my face instinctively, smearing blood on my cheeks and sending mascara around my eyes and brows. I caught my reflection in a puddle, my shoulders falling at my pathetic image.
Great tufts of hair hung matted, soggy, and windblown. My makeup ran in deformed rivers. My black gown was wrinkled and stained with blood. Suddenly, the smallest flash of light caught my eye. Centered neatly in my V-shaped collar hung the necklace I had put on that morning. My gaze was locked on the tiny charm on the delicate chain. Zack had given me it shortly before he was deployed. It depicted the face of a wolf. The flat back of the charm had a single character in Japanese hiragana: Kokoro – the word for “Forever” or “Always.”
I knelt there in the rain and wind, contemplating … always … always … The word sounded so comforting. My fingertips grazed the cool metal at my throat, and I stood. I gathered my purse and my useless umbrella, standing straight and tall. The pendant on my necklace rested comfortably at my heart like unbreakable armor.
A few hours later, I was home, bathed and warm again, hands and knee bandaged with care. Huddled by the fireplace with a book, I looked into the flames, where I swear I saw him smiling his dorky grin at me.
I remember that hour vividly: the meek face of the officer, the wind nudging the clouds over the sun, down to the small flag waving on my porch. I bit down on my lower lip. This was the moment that had starred in my nightmares for seven months. At any second, I would wake up and be staring at the ugly popcorn ceiling of my bedroom. That relief never came. Zachary Atmos, my husband, was killed trying to protect an injured comrade.
Exactly one week later, in a whirl of color and people talking too fast, I followed my brother-in-law to my seat at the funeral. It was a miserable day. Rain had poured relentlessly for two days. In my self-pity I believed that the angels were crying.
The militaristic funeral service was covered by neon blue tarps; the riflemen seemed unfazed by the cold. In unison, their guns fired three times in salute to my husband. With every ringing shot, I shook.
I wondered what he had heard in his final moments. Was he in pain when he died? Had he thought of me? What if I had joined alongside him and been deployed also? Would things have been different? Now there was no way of knowing.
Like the statues placed around the cemetery, I was similarly stone-faced, but with ribbons of moisture running down my face. I was crying. I and the attendees around me were like a black-clad sculpture garden, conveying solemnity in our midst. I moved only to accept the flag that was laid over my husband’s coffin. Over the sheet-like drone of the rain, a single bugle player performed the lonely tune of Taps – a lullaby for the dead.
Then, as quickly as everything had begun, it was over. I was walking away, my face downcast toward the sidewalk. I wondered if Zack was watching me, if he was feeling okay. My mind was so wrapped in these questions, I wasn’t paying attention. The stiletto heel of my shoe wedged into a crevice, causing the other to slip on the concrete. My leg flew up while the other collapsed under me. I don’t remember much of the initial fall, but I must have yelled, for the ducks nearby retreated to their hidden nests in the reeds.
My dress was wet and my tumble broke my umbrella. My bangs stuck
to my temples, pressing the newly acquired grime to my face. Forcing myself to my knees, I noticed a diluted film of red coating the ground. Only then did the palms of my hands and my right knee begin to sting. For the millionth time that day, tears flew to my eyes and threatened to spill over my lashes.
My marred hand went to my face instinctively, smearing blood on my cheeks and sending mascara around my eyes and brows. I caught my reflection in a puddle, my shoulders falling at my pathetic image.
Great tufts of hair hung matted, soggy, and windblown. My makeup ran in deformed rivers. My black gown was wrinkled and stained with blood. Suddenly, the smallest flash of light caught my eye. Centered neatly in my V-shaped collar hung the necklace I had put on that morning. My gaze was locked on the tiny charm on the delicate chain. Zack had given me it shortly before he was deployed. It depicted the face of a wolf. The flat back of the charm had a single character in Japanese hiragana: Kokoro – the word for “Forever” or “Always.”
I knelt there in the rain and wind, contemplating … always … always … The word sounded so comforting. My fingertips grazed the cool metal at my throat, and I stood. I gathered my purse and my useless umbrella, standing straight and tall. The pendant on my necklace rested comfortably at my heart like unbreakable armor.
A few hours later, I was home, bathed and warm again, hands and knee bandaged with care. Huddled by the fireplace with a book, I looked into the flames, where I swear I saw him smiling his dorky grin at me.
Friday, May 11, 2012
Don't Cry Butterfly - Fiction
I didn’t care. Really, and truly, if you had asked if I cared, I might
have said “Do what you want; I’m not your Boy Scout leader. I don’t
care”. And maybe, maybe you would have gently pulled my face up to
yours and read the lie that was plainly written all over my face. And
maybe you would have been able to see the heart wrenching pain in my
eyes; bursting with tears that refused to be shed. And maybe you would
have said “Butterfly, don’t cry I will always be there. I promise.” And
lift me up so I could kiss you, because, of course, I can’t reach all
the way up those basketball legs. The kiss would be brief and sweet,
your way of reassuring me that all would be right in the world. You’ll
see.
Of course, you didn’t do any of those things before you went off to “serve your country” and “be a man” and give everyone “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” But what about my happiness? What about that? Didn’t that matter to you at all? But I suppose that I should try to be fair. You did write a note to me. It has a lot of letters from the alphabet that piece together a message about why you did this. But I don’t care about that part- I care about the part that reads “I love you; you are my angel from heaven above.”
And the part about this that makes me want to hide from my grief and pain, is how I’ll never get to say it back to you.
Of course, you didn’t do any of those things before you went off to “serve your country” and “be a man” and give everyone “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” But what about my happiness? What about that? Didn’t that matter to you at all? But I suppose that I should try to be fair. You did write a note to me. It has a lot of letters from the alphabet that piece together a message about why you did this. But I don’t care about that part- I care about the part that reads “I love you; you are my angel from heaven above.”
And the part about this that makes me want to hide from my grief and pain, is how I’ll never get to say it back to you.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Our First Kiss - True Paragraph
"Close
your eyes" I say to him, he looks wary but he still does it. I lean
forward and place my lips on his. He's not expecting it so he jumps.
"What was that?" he wants to know.
"Your first kiss" I reply, with a smile. I realise pretty quickly that I want another, but instead of suprising him again, I ask. This time he goes for it a little more readily than I, a cheeky bit of tongue and everything. "What was that?" I ask, slightly shocked by his technique.
"A French kiss" he grins.
"Your first kiss" I reply, with a smile. I realise pretty quickly that I want another, but instead of suprising him again, I ask. This time he goes for it a little more readily than I, a cheeky bit of tongue and everything. "What was that?" I ask, slightly shocked by his technique.
"A French kiss" he grins.
Hospital
Apologies for the extreme lack of new material, I seem to have got myself into hospital :{ X
Sunday, May 6, 2012
Thursday, May 3, 2012
Plain, Simple, Brown. - Fiction
I didn't want to like him. He was just so charming.
This might sound like every other love story, and it may be, but it may not. If you don't read on, you'll never know.
My name is Emily Brown, which I've always been quite happy with. I think it makes me sound pleasant but ordinary, and I prefer to blend in. Now, I suppose it's only polite to tell you a bit about myself before I jump into my story. I am five feet, two inches, have brown hair that comes to my shoulders, and I am not talented in any special way. These are the basic facts of me, and I think these are all I ought to tell you.
His name was Andrew Rivers and he was perfectly wonderful in every way. When he first came to my school in twelfth grade, he was a bit eccentric and didn't fit in right away. He was into music and played the drums and the guitar, although he wasn't good at either. What he was good at was singing, and when he did, you wanted to cry and laugh and sing along with him all at once.
My name is Emily Brown and his was Andrew Rivers and I loved him.
About two months into my last year of high school, Andrew asked me out. I was surprised since I had hardly ever talked to him, but I didn't have a boyfriend, and I didn't know how to say no.
It may help you to know that at my school there were couples that were simply together for the name, and some that were together only to have a date for dances and for kissing and other such things. When Andrew asked me out I had no idea what his intentions were, and I didn't like having no idea. I'm by no means a confrontational person, but I was starting to feel offended that after I had said that I would date him, he hadn't said another word to me. So I went up to him and we had a little talk.
Me: “Hey, Andrew.”
Andrew: “Hey.”
Me: “So …”
Andrew: (annoyingly, nothing)
Me: “You asked me out.”
Andrew: (nothing again)
Me: “Why?”
Andrew: “Why'd I ask you out?”
Me: “Right.”
Andrew: “I felt like it.”
Me: (irritated) “You felt like it?”
Andrew: “That's what I said, isn't it?”
Me: (infuriated) “I'm sorry. Actually I'm not. I didn't realize you were such a jerk, and I don't want to go out with you anymore.” (I'd never dumped someone before, okay?)
Andrew: “Are you dumping me?”
Me: “What do you think?”
Andrew: “Why?”
Me: “I feel like it.”
Andrew: (smiling) “Do you like Chinese food?”
Me: “I hate it.”
Andrew: “You've never had it.”
Me: “How do you know?”
Andrew: (laughing) “I'm good at reading people.”
Me: “Well, obviously you suck, because I've had Chinese food a million times and I hated it every time.”
Andrew: “Would you like to go out with me tonight?”
Me: “You're asking me on a date?”
Andrew: “Yes.”
Me: “Read my answer.”
Andrew: “Wonderful! I'll see you tonight. Be ready by six. Ish. Sixish.”
I hated this strange boy who I'd only really talked to twice. He made me infuriated. The only problem was, I couldn't figure out if I liked that or not.
That night at sixish sharp, Andrew showed up at my doorstep. My parents have never been into meeting my boyfriends, but as I was stepping out, he stepped in. He walked right into the living room where my parents sat watching the baseball game.
When he came back out I asked, “What'd you say?”
“I told them I'd have you back by eight.”
“Ish?”
He laughed. “Nope. Just eight.”
We didn't talk much on the car ride. He had a CD playing that sounded kind of like Bob Marley, but I'd never heard the song before. It wasn't until we got there that I realized I didn't know where we were going. A small sign stood in front of the building but the name was too peeled away for me to be able to read it. What I could read was the sign beneath where the name should be, and it said, “The best Chinese cuisine for miles.”
“Chinese, huh?”
He smirked.
We walked inside and it was only then that I realized exactly how small the building was. There were little tables in the center of the room, about five of them, and a couch against one wall for sitting while you waited. As if. There was no waiting; we were the only customers. A sign read “PLEASE SEAT YOURSELF,” but I guess because of the lack of business, a waiter came over to seat us. He tried to show us to a table, but Andrew said, “Oh, no, thank you. We'll be sitting down here.”
He strolled over to the couch and at first I thought he wanted us to sit there, but then he grabbed two pillows and placed them on the ground a little way away from the tables.
I looked at him, baffled.
“Authenticity,” he said, smiling. He was always smiling.
I, personally, couldn't see how sitting on the floor was authentic.
***
There were many other dates, all very unusual. I was used to dances and movies, but with Andrew I got sunsets and local concerts. Once he took me to a bingo night that his aunt was hosting. Oddly enough, that was the night we first kissed.
I remember so clearly the day of graduation, the day I realized that Andrew and I wouldn't always be together. After we threw our hats and got our diplomas, he found me.
“End of high school, huh?” he said.
“Yeah.”
“What do you want to do, Emily?”
“With my life?”
“Sure.”
“Be with you.”
He didn't smile like I wanted him to.
“Don't you want to go to college?”
I sighed. “Want to, or have to?”
Now he smiled. “You choose.”
“I should. Go to college, I mean. I found one that'll accept me.”
There was a long pause before I said, “Andrew, what about you?”
“What about me?”
“What are you gonna do?”
“I dunno. Do what I do best, I guess. Play my music.”
“Oh. Yeah. That's cool. See you later?”
“When would I see you?”
“I see what you mean.”
“Bye, Emily.”
“Bye.”
Thinking back, I wish I had said something better than bye. I wish I had told him that I loved him more than words could describe and that when he sang to me I felt like I was all that mattered in the world. I wanted to tell him that if he had just asked, I wouldn't have gone to college. I would have played his music with him.
I'm sitting at my computer right now, looking at a name on the screen on a website called “peoplefinder.” I want to call him and hear his voice, but I'm afraid. I'm afraid that he won't be my same Andrew.
I get a glass of cold water and sit on my couch. I picture myself having one last conversation with him.
Me: “Hey, Andrew.” (I say it so casually, just like old times.)
Andrew: “Hey, Emily.”
Me: “Why are you wearing a tie?”
Andrew: “Why shouldn't I be?”
Me: “I don't know.”
Andrew: “I have a job.”
Me: “Good.”
Andrew: “I'm a lawyer, Emily.”
Me: “That's great.”
Andrew: “You don't sound like that's great.”
Me: “Don't I?”
Andrew: “I live in an apartment in the city. I talk on the phone with other businesspeople.”
Me: “I'm proud of you.”
Andrew: “I have a diploma hanging up on the wall of my office. My office.”
Me: “Do you play music anymore, Andrew?”
Andrew: “Music.”
He looks at me as if he doesn't remember the word.
Andrew: “No, I don't play my music anymore.”
Me: “Oh.”
Me: “I loved you, Andrew.”
Andrew: “Loved? Past tense?”
Me: “I think so.”
Andrew: “I love you.”
Me: “Why'd you ask me out?”
Andrew: “I thought you were beautiful and smart, and I loved how shiny your dark brown hair was. I liked how you weren't too loud, and you didn't wear low-cut shirts like most other girls.”
Me: “I wish you'd said, ‘Because I felt like it.'”
Andrew: “Sorry.”
Me: “Me too.”
Andrew: “I have to be going.”
Me: “Yeah.”
Me: “Wait!”
Andrew: “Yes?”
Me: “I'd never had Chinese food before.”
This might sound like every other love story, and it may be, but it may not. If you don't read on, you'll never know.
My name is Emily Brown, which I've always been quite happy with. I think it makes me sound pleasant but ordinary, and I prefer to blend in. Now, I suppose it's only polite to tell you a bit about myself before I jump into my story. I am five feet, two inches, have brown hair that comes to my shoulders, and I am not talented in any special way. These are the basic facts of me, and I think these are all I ought to tell you.
His name was Andrew Rivers and he was perfectly wonderful in every way. When he first came to my school in twelfth grade, he was a bit eccentric and didn't fit in right away. He was into music and played the drums and the guitar, although he wasn't good at either. What he was good at was singing, and when he did, you wanted to cry and laugh and sing along with him all at once.
My name is Emily Brown and his was Andrew Rivers and I loved him.
About two months into my last year of high school, Andrew asked me out. I was surprised since I had hardly ever talked to him, but I didn't have a boyfriend, and I didn't know how to say no.
It may help you to know that at my school there were couples that were simply together for the name, and some that were together only to have a date for dances and for kissing and other such things. When Andrew asked me out I had no idea what his intentions were, and I didn't like having no idea. I'm by no means a confrontational person, but I was starting to feel offended that after I had said that I would date him, he hadn't said another word to me. So I went up to him and we had a little talk.
Me: “Hey, Andrew.”
Andrew: “Hey.”
Me: “So …”
Andrew: (annoyingly, nothing)
Me: “You asked me out.”
Andrew: (nothing again)
Me: “Why?”
Andrew: “Why'd I ask you out?”
Me: “Right.”
Andrew: “I felt like it.”
Me: (irritated) “You felt like it?”
Andrew: “That's what I said, isn't it?”
Me: (infuriated) “I'm sorry. Actually I'm not. I didn't realize you were such a jerk, and I don't want to go out with you anymore.” (I'd never dumped someone before, okay?)
Andrew: “Are you dumping me?”
Me: “What do you think?”
Andrew: “Why?”
Me: “I feel like it.”
Andrew: (smiling) “Do you like Chinese food?”
Me: “I hate it.”
Andrew: “You've never had it.”
Me: “How do you know?”
Andrew: (laughing) “I'm good at reading people.”
Me: “Well, obviously you suck, because I've had Chinese food a million times and I hated it every time.”
Andrew: “Would you like to go out with me tonight?”
Me: “You're asking me on a date?”
Andrew: “Yes.”
Me: “Read my answer.”
Andrew: “Wonderful! I'll see you tonight. Be ready by six. Ish. Sixish.”
I hated this strange boy who I'd only really talked to twice. He made me infuriated. The only problem was, I couldn't figure out if I liked that or not.
That night at sixish sharp, Andrew showed up at my doorstep. My parents have never been into meeting my boyfriends, but as I was stepping out, he stepped in. He walked right into the living room where my parents sat watching the baseball game.
When he came back out I asked, “What'd you say?”
“I told them I'd have you back by eight.”
“Ish?”
He laughed. “Nope. Just eight.”
We didn't talk much on the car ride. He had a CD playing that sounded kind of like Bob Marley, but I'd never heard the song before. It wasn't until we got there that I realized I didn't know where we were going. A small sign stood in front of the building but the name was too peeled away for me to be able to read it. What I could read was the sign beneath where the name should be, and it said, “The best Chinese cuisine for miles.”
“Chinese, huh?”
He smirked.
We walked inside and it was only then that I realized exactly how small the building was. There were little tables in the center of the room, about five of them, and a couch against one wall for sitting while you waited. As if. There was no waiting; we were the only customers. A sign read “PLEASE SEAT YOURSELF,” but I guess because of the lack of business, a waiter came over to seat us. He tried to show us to a table, but Andrew said, “Oh, no, thank you. We'll be sitting down here.”
He strolled over to the couch and at first I thought he wanted us to sit there, but then he grabbed two pillows and placed them on the ground a little way away from the tables.
I looked at him, baffled.
“Authenticity,” he said, smiling. He was always smiling.
I, personally, couldn't see how sitting on the floor was authentic.
***
There were many other dates, all very unusual. I was used to dances and movies, but with Andrew I got sunsets and local concerts. Once he took me to a bingo night that his aunt was hosting. Oddly enough, that was the night we first kissed.
I remember so clearly the day of graduation, the day I realized that Andrew and I wouldn't always be together. After we threw our hats and got our diplomas, he found me.
“End of high school, huh?” he said.
“Yeah.”
“What do you want to do, Emily?”
“With my life?”
“Sure.”
“Be with you.”
He didn't smile like I wanted him to.
“Don't you want to go to college?”
I sighed. “Want to, or have to?”
Now he smiled. “You choose.”
“I should. Go to college, I mean. I found one that'll accept me.”
There was a long pause before I said, “Andrew, what about you?”
“What about me?”
“What are you gonna do?”
“I dunno. Do what I do best, I guess. Play my music.”
“Oh. Yeah. That's cool. See you later?”
“When would I see you?”
“I see what you mean.”
“Bye, Emily.”
“Bye.”
Thinking back, I wish I had said something better than bye. I wish I had told him that I loved him more than words could describe and that when he sang to me I felt like I was all that mattered in the world. I wanted to tell him that if he had just asked, I wouldn't have gone to college. I would have played his music with him.
I'm sitting at my computer right now, looking at a name on the screen on a website called “peoplefinder.” I want to call him and hear his voice, but I'm afraid. I'm afraid that he won't be my same Andrew.
I get a glass of cold water and sit on my couch. I picture myself having one last conversation with him.
Me: “Hey, Andrew.” (I say it so casually, just like old times.)
Andrew: “Hey, Emily.”
Me: “Why are you wearing a tie?”
Andrew: “Why shouldn't I be?”
Me: “I don't know.”
Andrew: “I have a job.”
Me: “Good.”
Andrew: “I'm a lawyer, Emily.”
Me: “That's great.”
Andrew: “You don't sound like that's great.”
Me: “Don't I?”
Andrew: “I live in an apartment in the city. I talk on the phone with other businesspeople.”
Me: “I'm proud of you.”
Andrew: “I have a diploma hanging up on the wall of my office. My office.”
Me: “Do you play music anymore, Andrew?”
Andrew: “Music.”
He looks at me as if he doesn't remember the word.
Andrew: “No, I don't play my music anymore.”
Me: “Oh.”
Me: “I loved you, Andrew.”
Andrew: “Loved? Past tense?”
Me: “I think so.”
Andrew: “I love you.”
Me: “Why'd you ask me out?”
Andrew: “I thought you were beautiful and smart, and I loved how shiny your dark brown hair was. I liked how you weren't too loud, and you didn't wear low-cut shirts like most other girls.”
Me: “I wish you'd said, ‘Because I felt like it.'”
Andrew: “Sorry.”
Me: “Me too.”
Andrew: “I have to be going.”
Me: “Yeah.”
Me: “Wait!”
Andrew: “Yes?”
Me: “I'd never had Chinese food before.”
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