Showing posts with label Teen Writer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Teen Writer. Show all posts
Teen Writer: Haley Nak (Blogger Writer :))
Labels: writing, tips, books, reading
Email,
Teen Writer,
Writing
·
Haley has done just that and I would like to present her first chapter of her short story, 17. There are links to the rest of the chapters. Thanks again Haley for emailing me, guys she has an awesome blog with her writing and it is truly amazing check it out! http://17hnak.blogspot.ca/
Prolouge (I love this)
If you could be anyone in the world, who would you be? Better yet, what kind of person would you be? I'd been many different people throughout the years. Seventeen, in fact. I had seventeen chances to live, love and make my mark on the world. If you knew for certain that you would live again after you die, would you live your life any less? Confused yet? You have no idea....Chapter 1
Ugh, I thought. I really should have just gotten a ride home with Taylor. I was never really one for the party scene, but she had been begging me to go to Connor's party for days. To be honest, I didn't have that much fun, but since she was my best friend, I figured I'd humour her. Taylor hadn't drank that much at the party, but my parents would skin me alive if they found out that I'd gotten a ride home with someone who'd been drinking. As for me, I drank Coke. Sounds lame, right? But my coach would be riled if I showed up to my volleyball tournament tomorrow with a hangover.
My little town isn't a very sketchy place. That is, until you're walking up a street with one lone streetlight, by yourself, at two o'clock in the morning. That tends to make things a little creepy. It's safe to say that I was a little anxious to get home. I was so tired, that I knew I'd have no trouble whatsoever falling asleep.
Lost in a daydream about my comfy bed and warm blankets, I didn't hear him come up behind me. Not until it was too late. I felt strong arms snake around my middle and constrict like a cobra. I let out a frightened gasp and prepared to let loose one of my blood-curdling screams when he started laughing. His body shook with it and the laughter came out as loud guffaws. I pushed him away from me, annoyed, but shaken.
"That was so not funny Tanner!" I said and I crossed my arms over my chest.
"Sorry Heather, but I'm going to have to disagree with you. You didn't see your face when I grabbed you." But he must have seen how shaken I was because he tried his very best to compose his face. He put his arm around my shoulders and we started walking, this time together.
"Hey," he began, after walking for a few minutes. He stopped walking and pulled me to a stop as well. He looked me in the eyes, and all of the joking was gone. "I really am sorry. I shouldn't have snuck up on you like that. But next time, wait for me so I can walk you home. You shouldn't be walking alone." Heck, I couldn't stay mad at him. He looked like a lost puppy that had been yelled at by its owner.
"No, you shouldn't have. But yeah I guess you're right. But it's all good. I couple more seconds of thinking you were trying to kidnap me and I was going to go all Ms. Congeniality on your ass." I said and he laughed.
"Ms. Congeniality, eh?" he said.
"Yeah, you know, S-I-N-G and such." and I joined in his laughter.
Now we were almost at my house. Both of our houses actually, as we'd been next door neighbours for our entire lives. After meeting each other officially in Preschool, our next door neighbour status quickly upgraded to best friends. Only this past year did our friendship develop into something more. As of February, Tanner Nelson had officially become my boyfriend. I'd worried that dating Tanner would be awkward because we were friends, but it wasn't at all. We went together like peanut butter and chocolate.
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| Picture from Here |
My little town isn't a very sketchy place. That is, until you're walking up a street with one lone streetlight, by yourself, at two o'clock in the morning. That tends to make things a little creepy. It's safe to say that I was a little anxious to get home. I was so tired, that I knew I'd have no trouble whatsoever falling asleep.
Lost in a daydream about my comfy bed and warm blankets, I didn't hear him come up behind me. Not until it was too late. I felt strong arms snake around my middle and constrict like a cobra. I let out a frightened gasp and prepared to let loose one of my blood-curdling screams when he started laughing. His body shook with it and the laughter came out as loud guffaws. I pushed him away from me, annoyed, but shaken.
"That was so not funny Tanner!" I said and I crossed my arms over my chest.
"Sorry Heather, but I'm going to have to disagree with you. You didn't see your face when I grabbed you." But he must have seen how shaken I was because he tried his very best to compose his face. He put his arm around my shoulders and we started walking, this time together.
"Hey," he began, after walking for a few minutes. He stopped walking and pulled me to a stop as well. He looked me in the eyes, and all of the joking was gone. "I really am sorry. I shouldn't have snuck up on you like that. But next time, wait for me so I can walk you home. You shouldn't be walking alone." Heck, I couldn't stay mad at him. He looked like a lost puppy that had been yelled at by its owner.
"No, you shouldn't have. But yeah I guess you're right. But it's all good. I couple more seconds of thinking you were trying to kidnap me and I was going to go all Ms. Congeniality on your ass." I said and he laughed.
"Ms. Congeniality, eh?" he said.
"Yeah, you know, S-I-N-G and such." and I joined in his laughter.
Now we were almost at my house. Both of our houses actually, as we'd been next door neighbours for our entire lives. After meeting each other officially in Preschool, our next door neighbour status quickly upgraded to best friends. Only this past year did our friendship develop into something more. As of February, Tanner Nelson had officially become my boyfriend. I'd worried that dating Tanner would be awkward because we were friends, but it wasn't at all. We went together like peanut butter and chocolate.
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| Pcture from Here |
“You going to the beach party Friday night?” he asked me, pulling me out of my daydream. Man, I loved summer! No worrying about tests, homework, or anything. Just sleeping when tired, eating when hungry, and partying when you felt like it.
“Yeah, I think so. What about you?”
“Are you kidding? That’s the best party of the summer! Of course I’m going. Do you want a ride?” That was another plus to knowing Tanner. He didn’t drink at parties. He didn’t need to. He was such a good time at parties when he was sober, that he didn't need to drink to be "cool". So needless to say, I never had to worry about finding a D.D. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I was getting drunk out of my mind at every party I went to. I wasn’t much of a partier anyways. But seeing as that summer was the last time I’d see many of my friends and classmates, I made an effort to socialize.
“Yeah, sounds good. I probably won’t be drinking anyways though. I could take my own car if you need the space” I admitted.
“Nah, you’re my girl now, you ride with me.” He said with a grin. I grinned back at him. Tanner knew how to make people smile.
We had reached the driveway that our two houses shared. No lights were on in either houses except for one.
“Why’s Bones up so late?” Tanner asked. Bones was my brother, and no, his name wasn’t actually Bones. It was Michael, but everyone started calling him Bones because he was so tall and skinny. Finally at 19 he had filled out a lot, but the nickname stuck. He’d always be Bones to me.
“Dunno. He’s probably Skyping with Summer again.” I said and we exchanged smirks. Bones had gone to university in Minneapolis that year and met Summer Hathaway, his new girlfriend. He had never dated in high school, and so let’s just say he was happy to have a girlfriend. Even if it was a long distance relationship. They Skyped every day for at least an hour. And with him being my big brother, I was entitled to give him a little grief about that.
“Well at least he’s not getting high every night in his room and sneaking out like my dear little sister.” Tanner leaned against the side of his house and sighed. All of the joking had vanished with that one sentence.
Britney was only in grade ten. You could say she was going through a bit of a rebellious phase in life. She started hanging out with the wrong crowd and was now officially classified at school as one of the druggies. Even just one year previous, Britney had been a model child. No one really knows what happened...why she got into drugs. She used to have long, shiny blond hair, big milk chocolate eyes, and a personality like her brother’s that you couldn’t help loving. She used to be a little chubby, especially around the middle. Now her hair had been sheared off and it hung dull and lifeless against her head. Her eyes were still pretty if you got past the black bags that circled them and the cold looks they expressed. She had become rail-thin, and her clothes hung over her frame too loose. She had also become moody and quick to snap at people. Her parents had to have noticed the drastic changes, but they never said anything. I guess they didn’t want to face the truth.
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
“What can I do? I’ve tried telling my parents. They don’t care. I don’t think they’d do anything even if I found her stash and waved it in front of their faces. They just don't know what you do with a daughter who has a drug problem. But who does?” Whenever Tanner talked about Britney, a hopelessness cast a shadow over his facial features. He knew how bad the situation was and that she needed help. Because she was hurting herself, it was hurting him. I didn't like it when Tanner looked like that.
"I should go. I'm already an hour past my curfew. Hopefully my parents are asleep." I said.
"You better hope so Heather." He said with a smirk. He kissed me quickly and then he was gone.
So chapter 6 is the latest chapter so far, if you guys loved it FOLLOW HER at http://17hnak.blogspot.ca/!!! I just adore your story Haley it provides a great messege and affects readers in a lot of ways, good luck with the book and your Blog! :)
If some of you guys are interested also and would like to know more about the Teen Writer series, simply go to the 'Email me your Writing' tab from this blog. Hugs and candy :)
Teen Writer: Jude Henderson
Labels: writing, tips, books, reading
Story,
Teen Writer,
Writing,
you
·
Jude has done just that and I would like to present her first chapter of her short story, As Long as it Lasts. There are links to the rest of the chapters. Enjoy! :)
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| Picture from Here |
Chapter One: Six Feet Under
“I'll drop a line, Fall in the grave I've been digging myself, But there's room for two, Six feet under the stars”
-All Time Low, “Six Feet Under The Stars”
I hate it. I thought, It’s just so. . .so. . . I hate it. Or maybe I didn’t, it’s just that it was. . . horrible. Really Horrible. Completely hideous and yellow, a whole field of flowers. Yellow, hideous flowers: Buttercups. I officially decided I hated buttercups. I wondered who would want to take a picture of a whole buttercup field. Their meaning: ingratitude and childishness. So who on earth thought about putting it in a whole wall? Or maybe it wasn’t hideous, maybe it was just me and my necessity to hate, to blame, something to point at and say ‘Hey, I don’t like you, because you’re horrible!’
But since I could not go around the world doing that- blaming others instead of myself- I would hate the wall instead. Ugly Buttercups.
I took a glance at my left, then at my right, and it was all the same. A big mass of black moving across the room, lurking shadows, dancing with one another. It had all been this way for weeks now. I had been wearing this exact same dress every single day, the black tights, the uncomfortable shoes, all of it. Black. Just black.
“Evan,” the familiar voice of my mother called from behind me, I turned to face her. “It’s time.”
We made our way outside. The wind felt cold against my skin, so strong, I felt like someone had slapped me. Dark clouds hovered, humidity palpable, the grief everywhere, like a blanket over your shoulders that you just can’t seem to shake off and you so desperately want to, like a rope around your neck, getting tighter and tighter, yet not killing you, and you can’t make up your mind on what you want more, for it to loosen up or do the opposite and finish you. You just want it to stop.
We reached the graveyard. I glanced at the faces surrounding me, the ones that had been here day after day, we all carried the same weight, a cold and bitter winter inside our hearts, not knowing when would it go, or if it ever would. We were all here for the same reason, to watch the people we most loved be buried six feet under. And today it was my turn. One would think that when a tragedy like this falls upon a whole town it would bring us closer; sharing such a deep pain making us stand side by side. But it did just the opposite. Maybe, when there is such an incredible amount of sadness, all it can do is draw apart. It’s knowing things won’t ever –can’t ever be the same. And so we became strangers. After all, how many times can things break before they finally shatter? I looked up at the sky, the furious clouds now completely covering the cementer. A promise of rain and lighting.
As I got closer to the casket, I could start to make out his features. Now soft, peaceful, lifeless. . . my father. The world began to slow down. I started to feel this pressure in my chest, like someone was squeezing my ribs and I couldn’t breathe. Like a piece of hard bread was being shoved down my throat and I couldn’t swallow it. I could feel the panic begin to rise inside of me, deep breaths, I told myself, it’s the last one. And even though tomorrow I would be far away from here, from all of this, I knew it would last. This would accompany me wherever I went, deep under my skin, forever tattooed in me, a haunting ghost that would never fade away. I was gasping, the lump had grown bigger, I needed to breathe and as much as I tried I simply couldn’t. My world was coming to a stop.
We were even closer. My mind was racing and I started to see flashbacks of the different scenes that had been playing in this same scenario. The same caskets, different people in them, all of them just gone. Yesterday, Em, Clary and Mel where being buried here, in three identical caskets, together, It’s what they would have wanted, everyone said. They were best friends, it’s how it was supposed to be. They forgot someone was missing, we were four best friend’s, four, and three were now gone. They left me alone, how was I supposed to face this? We had been together all of our lives, they were my life. I didn’t know how to live without them, who was I supposed to be now? The world they left behind was becoming impossible to bear: Clary’s mother falling to her knees in a desperate cry for her child, Em’s stood silent, unmoving, tears flowing down her cheeks like a never ending river, broken. Mel’s mom wasn’t there, she was still in the hospital. The doctors said it was most likely she wouldn’t make it. And as horrible as it sounds, I was terrified that she would. Who would tell her that her only child was gone? That. Her. Daughter. Was. Dead. They left me to deal with everything on my own. I should have been there with them. And the day before, the one’s being buried had been my neighbor and his wife, his pregnant wife.
And so on and on, a big part of the community now lay here, everyone that had been in that bus. Bus number 2. Crashed. No survivors. They were all stuck here in this infinite sleep. I should have been with them when it happened, I shouldn’t be here, I should be with my dad, with my friends. . . I should. . . I should.
We took a seat in the chair’s that had been arranged under a tent to cover us from the weather. Someone was at the front, a man I couldn’t recognize, though I believed he worked with my dad. He was talking about what a great man he had been, what an amazing father he used to be, what an excellent friend he was, how brave he was. . .was, how, had, was, was, was. . . he will never be again. I looked at my father again, at his face. He would never open his eyes too look at me, to give me that secret look that meant I could go to the party, but that I shouldn’t tell mom or we would both get in trouble. His eyes would never show any emotion, the purse of his lips when he was upset, the turn of his brow, the beginning of a smile. That face would never move its lips to whisper, I love you. That was not my father. My father had a beating heart, a beaming soul. That was just a corpse. No one and nothing was going to bring him back. My world stopped.
My mother, who was sitting next to me, patted my back “Let’s go,” she said, motioning for me to go up front and say a few kind words. I stood up mechanically, my legs moving without my authorization. But as I got closer I started to regain control over me, the lump in my throat reappearing, this time completely impossible to swallow. What was I supposed to say? Whatever nice words inside of me, whatever feelings I had left. . . It did not matter. Not anymore. He. Was. Gone. He was never coming back. What was the point in saying thing’s people already know? Thing’s that should have been said while he was alive and at his face, when his heart was still beating in his chest. Not now that it was too late for him to hear. I stopped walking. My mother noticed and turned to look at me “What’s wrong?” she asked.
Wrong question. What wasn’t wrong?
“No,” I whispered, my throat raw. I took step back “No.” the word came out louder this time, clearer. I couldn’t take it anymore. I ran.
“EVAN!” my mother yelled after me.
“NO!” I shouted. To whom, I was not sure. My mom. My dad. Everyone. The World. I ran even faster, leaving my shoes somewhere along the way.
The house wasn’t so far away, so I just keep moving. Never gazing back, never stopping, just like time, it only goes and goes. Time. Time that left my dad behind.
While I ran, I felt as if I could escape everything, leave it all behind, like a bad dream that could be easily brushed off in the morning, like a sweater I could take off when summer came, like a memory I could bury deep inside me. . . but those always came back.
I was running out of breath, but as soon as the house was in sight I commanded my legs to keep moving. I held on to the illusion that my dad was inside, waiting for me, his chest rising with every breath he took, with a beating heart. It began to pour, the rain letting itself fall with all its force, trying to stop me. I couldn’t let her. I ran faster.
“Dad!” I yelled, as I hurried up inside, “Dad!?” I was completely soaked, dripping and shaking badly, shivering, I didn’t know if it was because of the weather or the blender of emotions rattling inside of me “Dad. . .?” It came out as a whisper, my strength drained. I went up to my room, stopping in the center of it, not knowing what to do. The realization that no one would answer me, not now, not ever, hit me. Suddenly my own weight was too much, and my legs gave in. I fell to my knees. There was nothing else to do. I just curled myself into a small ball and allowed myself to fall into unconsciousness, the last thing I heard was the rain furiously falling against the house, making sure I could hear every single drop of water, banging on the rooftop, deep down to my core.
***
I opened my eyes and saw that I was in my bed, the covers thrown over me. I got up and noticed I still had the black dress on. I headed over to my closet and pulled out some pants and an oversized sweater. Once I changed I didn’t even bother to glance at myself in the mirror as I made my way down to the kitchen where I found my grandmother sitting at the island with a cup of coffee in her hands. She looked at me the moment she heard me coming towards her.
“Hello sweetie,” she said, giving me a small smile.
“Hi Gram,” I said, I went to take a seat on the high chairs opposite her. We sat there for a moment in awkward silence. I took a deep breath and began, “I’m so sorry-“
“Sh. . .” she said, placing one of her long fingers over my mouth “hush now, it’s fine, everything’s ok, nobody will judge or ask, I promise.” She gave me a reassuring smile.
“Thank you.” Was all I could say, infinitely grateful.
Silence fell over us again, after a moment Gram readjusted herself in her seat and cleared her throat “You do know we leave tomorrow, right?” she asked.
Another deep breath “Yeah,”
“Have you packed yet?”
“No. . . do you know what mom’s going to do with dad’s stuff?”
“No, but I do know that everything is still in his room and that you can take with you whatever you want, you just have to get it before we go.”
“Okay.” I stepped away from the island and went back to my bedroom. The walls were painted a faded light purple, the color I chose when I was eleven years old. I had a lot of pictures all over the place, memories, adventures, moments, my life. . . or what it used to be. My gaze traveled across every inch of it. I felt lost, what the hell was I supposed to pack? Nothing seemed worth keeping anymore. Would I bring the shattered pieces of my heart? Those didn’t need boxes. Would I bring the pictures on the wall, the memories, the light purple walls? That wasn’t real anymore, none of it was. How was I supposed to keep the memories alive? Prove that it was all real when there was no one around me to give me reassurance? It hurt too much to even think about it. And I was too old to keep light purple walls.
I made my way to my parent’s bedroom and opened my dad’s side off the closet. I took out his favorite jacket and placed it over me. It was a deep brown leather jacket. It seemed black, but when you looked closely, you could see that it was dark brown. It was the reason it was my dad’s favorite.
“Knowing the true color of things is an art, kiddo. One we should all practice more often,” he would say when I asked why he liked it so much. “That and the fact that it makes me look younger.” and then a wink.
I breathed in the scent of it. It smelled like that cheap French perfume with the weird name I could not read, much less pronounce. There was a box with twenty-five more in the basement, apparently in the seventies it was the perfume, so dad thought it would be cool to buy a hundred of them. To make sure it lasted for the rest of his life, he would say.
“Dad, that thing is way old. I bet they don’t even make it anymore.” I would argue.
“That’s why it’s so special,” he would say “It’s. . . how do you kids call it this days, retro? Vintage?” and I would laugh at my dad’s attempt to sound cool.
“Never mind dad, you’re just a vintage man.” and then he would laugh.
It smells so much like him. It was unfair, I just lost him, and I would be moving away, leaving all his stuff behind, things that were once a part of him. It felt like I was being forced to forget about him, to leave him behind. What if I forgot? What would happened when I couldn’t tell if all of this had actually happened?. . . My chest ached, and I realized that I would be bringing this pain, this hurt, all the way, until the very end.
Great Job Jude! I love your story, very vivid and it's like I could feel the characters feelings. You have a great writing strength that I admire. For Jude's blog Click Here. Thanks again Jude for sending me your writing!“I'll drop a line, Fall in the grave I've been digging myself, But there's room for two, Six feet under the stars”
-All Time Low, “Six Feet Under The Stars”
I hate it. I thought, It’s just so. . .so. . . I hate it. Or maybe I didn’t, it’s just that it was. . . horrible. Really Horrible. Completely hideous and yellow, a whole field of flowers. Yellow, hideous flowers: Buttercups. I officially decided I hated buttercups. I wondered who would want to take a picture of a whole buttercup field. Their meaning: ingratitude and childishness. So who on earth thought about putting it in a whole wall? Or maybe it wasn’t hideous, maybe it was just me and my necessity to hate, to blame, something to point at and say ‘Hey, I don’t like you, because you’re horrible!’
But since I could not go around the world doing that- blaming others instead of myself- I would hate the wall instead. Ugly Buttercups.
I took a glance at my left, then at my right, and it was all the same. A big mass of black moving across the room, lurking shadows, dancing with one another. It had all been this way for weeks now. I had been wearing this exact same dress every single day, the black tights, the uncomfortable shoes, all of it. Black. Just black.
“Evan,” the familiar voice of my mother called from behind me, I turned to face her. “It’s time.”
We made our way outside. The wind felt cold against my skin, so strong, I felt like someone had slapped me. Dark clouds hovered, humidity palpable, the grief everywhere, like a blanket over your shoulders that you just can’t seem to shake off and you so desperately want to, like a rope around your neck, getting tighter and tighter, yet not killing you, and you can’t make up your mind on what you want more, for it to loosen up or do the opposite and finish you. You just want it to stop.
We reached the graveyard. I glanced at the faces surrounding me, the ones that had been here day after day, we all carried the same weight, a cold and bitter winter inside our hearts, not knowing when would it go, or if it ever would. We were all here for the same reason, to watch the people we most loved be buried six feet under. And today it was my turn. One would think that when a tragedy like this falls upon a whole town it would bring us closer; sharing such a deep pain making us stand side by side. But it did just the opposite. Maybe, when there is such an incredible amount of sadness, all it can do is draw apart. It’s knowing things won’t ever –can’t ever be the same. And so we became strangers. After all, how many times can things break before they finally shatter? I looked up at the sky, the furious clouds now completely covering the cementer. A promise of rain and lighting.
As I got closer to the casket, I could start to make out his features. Now soft, peaceful, lifeless. . . my father. The world began to slow down. I started to feel this pressure in my chest, like someone was squeezing my ribs and I couldn’t breathe. Like a piece of hard bread was being shoved down my throat and I couldn’t swallow it. I could feel the panic begin to rise inside of me, deep breaths, I told myself, it’s the last one. And even though tomorrow I would be far away from here, from all of this, I knew it would last. This would accompany me wherever I went, deep under my skin, forever tattooed in me, a haunting ghost that would never fade away. I was gasping, the lump had grown bigger, I needed to breathe and as much as I tried I simply couldn’t. My world was coming to a stop.
We were even closer. My mind was racing and I started to see flashbacks of the different scenes that had been playing in this same scenario. The same caskets, different people in them, all of them just gone. Yesterday, Em, Clary and Mel where being buried here, in three identical caskets, together, It’s what they would have wanted, everyone said. They were best friends, it’s how it was supposed to be. They forgot someone was missing, we were four best friend’s, four, and three were now gone. They left me alone, how was I supposed to face this? We had been together all of our lives, they were my life. I didn’t know how to live without them, who was I supposed to be now? The world they left behind was becoming impossible to bear: Clary’s mother falling to her knees in a desperate cry for her child, Em’s stood silent, unmoving, tears flowing down her cheeks like a never ending river, broken. Mel’s mom wasn’t there, she was still in the hospital. The doctors said it was most likely she wouldn’t make it. And as horrible as it sounds, I was terrified that she would. Who would tell her that her only child was gone? That. Her. Daughter. Was. Dead. They left me to deal with everything on my own. I should have been there with them. And the day before, the one’s being buried had been my neighbor and his wife, his pregnant wife.
And so on and on, a big part of the community now lay here, everyone that had been in that bus. Bus number 2. Crashed. No survivors. They were all stuck here in this infinite sleep. I should have been with them when it happened, I shouldn’t be here, I should be with my dad, with my friends. . . I should. . . I should.
We took a seat in the chair’s that had been arranged under a tent to cover us from the weather. Someone was at the front, a man I couldn’t recognize, though I believed he worked with my dad. He was talking about what a great man he had been, what an amazing father he used to be, what an excellent friend he was, how brave he was. . .was, how, had, was, was, was. . . he will never be again. I looked at my father again, at his face. He would never open his eyes too look at me, to give me that secret look that meant I could go to the party, but that I shouldn’t tell mom or we would both get in trouble. His eyes would never show any emotion, the purse of his lips when he was upset, the turn of his brow, the beginning of a smile. That face would never move its lips to whisper, I love you. That was not my father. My father had a beating heart, a beaming soul. That was just a corpse. No one and nothing was going to bring him back. My world stopped.
My mother, who was sitting next to me, patted my back “Let’s go,” she said, motioning for me to go up front and say a few kind words. I stood up mechanically, my legs moving without my authorization. But as I got closer I started to regain control over me, the lump in my throat reappearing, this time completely impossible to swallow. What was I supposed to say? Whatever nice words inside of me, whatever feelings I had left. . . It did not matter. Not anymore. He. Was. Gone. He was never coming back. What was the point in saying thing’s people already know? Thing’s that should have been said while he was alive and at his face, when his heart was still beating in his chest. Not now that it was too late for him to hear. I stopped walking. My mother noticed and turned to look at me “What’s wrong?” she asked.
Wrong question. What wasn’t wrong?
“No,” I whispered, my throat raw. I took step back “No.” the word came out louder this time, clearer. I couldn’t take it anymore. I ran.
“EVAN!” my mother yelled after me.
“NO!” I shouted. To whom, I was not sure. My mom. My dad. Everyone. The World. I ran even faster, leaving my shoes somewhere along the way.
The house wasn’t so far away, so I just keep moving. Never gazing back, never stopping, just like time, it only goes and goes. Time. Time that left my dad behind.
While I ran, I felt as if I could escape everything, leave it all behind, like a bad dream that could be easily brushed off in the morning, like a sweater I could take off when summer came, like a memory I could bury deep inside me. . . but those always came back.
I was running out of breath, but as soon as the house was in sight I commanded my legs to keep moving. I held on to the illusion that my dad was inside, waiting for me, his chest rising with every breath he took, with a beating heart. It began to pour, the rain letting itself fall with all its force, trying to stop me. I couldn’t let her. I ran faster.
“Dad!” I yelled, as I hurried up inside, “Dad!?” I was completely soaked, dripping and shaking badly, shivering, I didn’t know if it was because of the weather or the blender of emotions rattling inside of me “Dad. . .?” It came out as a whisper, my strength drained. I went up to my room, stopping in the center of it, not knowing what to do. The realization that no one would answer me, not now, not ever, hit me. Suddenly my own weight was too much, and my legs gave in. I fell to my knees. There was nothing else to do. I just curled myself into a small ball and allowed myself to fall into unconsciousness, the last thing I heard was the rain furiously falling against the house, making sure I could hear every single drop of water, banging on the rooftop, deep down to my core.
***
I opened my eyes and saw that I was in my bed, the covers thrown over me. I got up and noticed I still had the black dress on. I headed over to my closet and pulled out some pants and an oversized sweater. Once I changed I didn’t even bother to glance at myself in the mirror as I made my way down to the kitchen where I found my grandmother sitting at the island with a cup of coffee in her hands. She looked at me the moment she heard me coming towards her.
“Hello sweetie,” she said, giving me a small smile.
“Hi Gram,” I said, I went to take a seat on the high chairs opposite her. We sat there for a moment in awkward silence. I took a deep breath and began, “I’m so sorry-“
“Sh. . .” she said, placing one of her long fingers over my mouth “hush now, it’s fine, everything’s ok, nobody will judge or ask, I promise.” She gave me a reassuring smile.
“Thank you.” Was all I could say, infinitely grateful.
Silence fell over us again, after a moment Gram readjusted herself in her seat and cleared her throat “You do know we leave tomorrow, right?” she asked.
Another deep breath “Yeah,”
“Have you packed yet?”
“No. . . do you know what mom’s going to do with dad’s stuff?”
“No, but I do know that everything is still in his room and that you can take with you whatever you want, you just have to get it before we go.”
“Okay.” I stepped away from the island and went back to my bedroom. The walls were painted a faded light purple, the color I chose when I was eleven years old. I had a lot of pictures all over the place, memories, adventures, moments, my life. . . or what it used to be. My gaze traveled across every inch of it. I felt lost, what the hell was I supposed to pack? Nothing seemed worth keeping anymore. Would I bring the shattered pieces of my heart? Those didn’t need boxes. Would I bring the pictures on the wall, the memories, the light purple walls? That wasn’t real anymore, none of it was. How was I supposed to keep the memories alive? Prove that it was all real when there was no one around me to give me reassurance? It hurt too much to even think about it. And I was too old to keep light purple walls.
I made my way to my parent’s bedroom and opened my dad’s side off the closet. I took out his favorite jacket and placed it over me. It was a deep brown leather jacket. It seemed black, but when you looked closely, you could see that it was dark brown. It was the reason it was my dad’s favorite.
“Knowing the true color of things is an art, kiddo. One we should all practice more often,” he would say when I asked why he liked it so much. “That and the fact that it makes me look younger.” and then a wink.
I breathed in the scent of it. It smelled like that cheap French perfume with the weird name I could not read, much less pronounce. There was a box with twenty-five more in the basement, apparently in the seventies it was the perfume, so dad thought it would be cool to buy a hundred of them. To make sure it lasted for the rest of his life, he would say.
“Dad, that thing is way old. I bet they don’t even make it anymore.” I would argue.
“That’s why it’s so special,” he would say “It’s. . . how do you kids call it this days, retro? Vintage?” and I would laugh at my dad’s attempt to sound cool.
“Never mind dad, you’re just a vintage man.” and then he would laugh.
It smells so much like him. It was unfair, I just lost him, and I would be moving away, leaving all his stuff behind, things that were once a part of him. It felt like I was being forced to forget about him, to leave him behind. What if I forgot? What would happened when I couldn’t tell if all of this had actually happened?. . . My chest ached, and I realized that I would be bringing this pain, this hurt, all the way, until the very end.
If some of you guys are interested also and would like to know more about the Teen Writer series, simply go to the 'Email me your Writing' tab from this blog. Hugs and candy :)
Teen Writer Series
Labels: writing, tips, books, reading
Email,
Teen Writer
·
So I'm starting a series for Teen Writers who emailed their work to me and they showed exemplary and exceptional skills in their writing and have conquered their fears to write down what their mind wants.
I have a couple of people in line already and their work will be posted later this week or next week. If some of you guys are interested also and would like to know more, simply go to the 'Email me your Writing' tab from this blog. Hugs and candy :)
Prayers for my dead fish, and the one who is still living, Baby Joe! :)
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