Like a Bird This Story Flutters Around in My Chest (Worldbuilding Prose)

I have a story inside of me waiting to be written. This is a realization that is all-together exciting and terrifying, but mostly exciting. When I think about this story I am filled with joy, but this story comes out of me not in a torrent but as a leaky faucet. Here is a droplet from that faucet:

The throne room doors swung open just as King Antebar took his fifth leg of turkey. It was not customary for appeals to take place during the king’s dinner, but the man who was being escorted to bow before his ruler had bothered him so much lately that he wanted nothing more than to get rid of him.

“My lord your majesty,” began the man, who was dressed in monk’s robes several sizes too large for him. His face, a rather handsome one, was just visible beneath the shadow of the hood. “I thank you for taking the time to hear my pleas.”

The king, who was a fat, stupid man, grunted and waved a greasy bone at the peasant. “Just get on with it so I may continue my supper in peace.”

The man gave a curt nod as he rose from his prostate position at the king’s feet. “Your majesty, the people of my village have all fallen ill, but with what disease we know not. Our doctors have examined all of their books and have come up with no answer for the symptoms of our illness--”

“Is it fatal?” The king interrupted.

            “Well, no, not so far, but--”
            The king snorted. “Then it is not of any immediate concern to me.” He belched. “You are dismissed.”
            “No, sire, please!” The man protested. “You must help us! Simply issue a royal healer, that is all we require.”
            “I cannot spare any royal healers,” Antebar blared. “I need them all to be here in case I fall ill. The king is, after all, far more important than your little village.”
            The man in the robes grew red. “Your majesty, one healer is all I ask! A quick investigation and issue of a cure could not take more than a few--”
            He was interrupted by the king’s loud slurping as he sucked the marrow out of his turkey bone. Antebar was through paying attention. The man snapped. With surprising agility he leaped onto the king’s table, yanked up his sleeves, and thrust his hands into the king’s face. “Look at my hands!” the man screamed. He jerked back the hood from his face. “Look at my neck! You think this is not of any ‘immediate concern’? Just look at them!”
            Between the man’s abnormally elongated fingers stretched thin membranes like those of a fish tail, and the skin of his hands was scaly and tinted green. Carved into the sides of his neck were three pairs of gashes, which undulated as he breathed. The king shrank away from this freakish apparition in terror, holding his drumstick in front of him in defense.

            “Get away!” He shrieked, his voice high and shrill like that of a young girl. “Guards! Guards! Get this man away from me!”

            Two armor-plated guards closed in on either side of the peasant and unhesitatingly wrenched his arms back behind his back. As they dragged him flailing and red-faced through the doors of the throne room he cried, “You can’t send me away! You must help! Help us—”

            The doors swung shut and his voice could be heard no more. The king’s top advisor, who had observed the entire scene from behind a hidden window, moved swiftly to the king’s side to confer with him. “Majesty,” he said. “The man was from Coeur, at the source of the river. His is not the only case of strange happenings. Villages all along the river have reported sightings of strange beasts and unnatural crop failures even during times of plentiful rain. Something is happening, sire, and we must act fast before whatever it is reaches Sacrelle.”

            The king dropped his arms from his defensive position and sank into thought. “It must be spreading through the river,” he mused. It was an ingenious thought, which was, unfortunately, a rare occurrence for Antebar.

            The advisor snapped his fingers. “A brilliant observation, your majesty! And whatever it is must be coming from somewhere, so—“

            “We must build a wall,” said the king. He had a bad habit of interrupting people. “We must divide the kingdom at the river and stop the stuff from spreading.”

            “But sire, if we—“

            “It is the only way!” Antebar cried. “It is a sacrifice, yes, but if I must give up half of my kingdom in order to protect the other half from this terrible plague, I will do it. So to it that the building is started at once,” he told his advisor. “On the north side of the river. It must be impenetrable. I want it fifty feet tall and ten feet tall, and the seams between the stones must be smooth so it cannot be scaled. Demolish anything that stands in its way.”

            “But sire,” said the advisor. “What about the tributaries to the river from the north? The streams from Coeur must get to the sea somehow.”

            “Then build a canal for them along the wall, like a moat,” said the king. “To also discourage those who might wish to cross.” He abruptly turned addressed a guard, struck with a horrifying realization. “Quickly! The bridges must be cut! We cannot allow anyone from the mainland to infect the city! Go now!”

            The king’s original genius had quickly degraded to foolish desperation, but no one dared oppose him. The advisor and all the guards quickly cleared the room to attend to his commands.

            Within a year, the wall was built. The capital city of Sacrelle was cut off from the rest of the world, and the country soon fell into chaos. In that time any of those found in the south to be changed by the plague—it soon became known as the Plague of Wild Magic—were driven to the north or were killed. Centuries later, this would incite the War, which is where the story will begin.

 Here's the other drop in the bucket of this immense story stored up inside me.

Darkness

I stood outside in the dark for ten minutes at two in the morning. Here's what came of it:

There‘s a certain silence that follows the dark around like a little brother. It wraps itself around your legs and covers your ears as if to say “Guess who.” It stuffs your ears with cotton balls until all you can hear is the rush of two-a-m-travellers on distant roads, the roar of tired pilots landing their planes on the lighted airstrips.

It’s not true dark out there in the open, though. The night has been polluted by artificial lights. It’s said that nocturnal animals are being killed off by it, that the night is no longer dark enough to hunt so they starve, holing up in trees and caves and waiting for blackness that never comes. Darkness does not pollute. It merely fills the space that the light has left behind in its ravenous hunger, eating the scraps of air it can find.

We fear the dark. We fear the uncertainty of twilit shadows, of monsters in the closet, of shades and reapers. We fear what we do not understand. Do we understand why we fear?

I think the darkness is beautiful. It holds a magical insecurity. It is fleeting, frightened. It is just as afraid of us as we are of it. When the lights come on it flees to the corners and hides under furniture, waiting to come out and dance a rain dance, a dark dance, as shadows around the fire.

Even in blindness we cannot accept darkness for what it is. I spent the better part of one day blindfolded, and my brain still fabricated some semblance of light that floated around my eyelids like an oil spill. Do the blind find some light, then, or do they only know darkness? Can they who have not seen know light?
I hope to someday find true dark, in the bowels of the earth where moth nor spark doth corrupt the stillness. When I find it I will sit on the ground and breathe in the damp air and just be, because in the dark you have nothing else to do but be. The clothes on my back, the flaws of my skin, the blindness in my eye; nothing matters in the dark. Nothing matters but the stillness of my breath, the chill on my skin, the noisy thoughts in my dark head.

What about you? Are you afraid of the dark? Or do you embrace it?

Resignation of an Angel

We're working on short stories in Creative Writing. My obsession of late (I go through periods of obsession. For a while it was dragons. Then birds.) is angels, so, naturally, I wrote about angels. 'Course, it didn't start out that way. Initially I thought I was going to write a story about Chinese dragons. Funny how that happens.

But I was lacking in ideas (usually I have a brainful of them), so I decided to go through some old art. Here's what I found:

Angel Pox (Eva). 8.5x11". Graphite on paper. (c) Alexa Ke 2011

Perfect, I thought. Just the right amount of angst to make a good story. So multiple drafts and edits later, here's the story of Eva, a very disgruntled angel.

(As always, this is a working copy, so if you have any edits to make or questions please make them known. :) )

Resignation of an Angel             

            “Today’s my last day!”

            Lucy, absorbed in her work, didn’t hear the announcement until a hand on her shoulder shook her out of her concentration. “Huh?” she said, bewildered, as though she had just been roused from sleep.

            “I said, it’s my last day,” Éva repeated, exasperated. Her robes swished and her wings rustled dryly as she sat across from Lucy. “I finally got the guts to leave. Put in my resignation two weeks ago.”

            “I thought you said you would give it another couple of years,” Lucy said, surprised.

            “I can’t wait that long. This work is driving me up the wall! There’s nothing to do but sort files and run the shredder!”

            Lucy hmmmed. “Well it’s not a prestigious job or anything, but Record work has its perks.”

            “Like what?” snorted Éva.

            Lucy didn’t have anything to say to that, so she hmmmed again. “Have you found a new job yet?”

            Éva’s voice frowned. “I looked around for a while, but with the labor surplus there just aren’t any good jobs anymore. In fact, the only place that’s hiring is Admissions, but they’re even worse than Records! Dealing with all the newly fledged… no. Not for me.”

            “Well, I suppose you could always go into Christmas or Easter Celebration if all else fails,” Lucy said ironically.

            “Yeah. Right. Because you can totally imagine me being a Christmas angel.” The idea was amusing. A chronically apathetic cherub escorting the King of Kings would provide an interesting contrast to the celebrations. “Besides. Joy Larker is head of Celebrations, and that woman is so sweet it gives me a toothache. I’d be out of there before I even got past the doors.”

            Lucy sighed and shuffled some papers. “Well you’ve got to do something, Éva. Maybe you should just stick around here until you’ve got something lined up, otherwise you’ll get Guardianship.” She shuddered. Éva agreed.

            They were silent for a long time; the only sound was the rustling of papers and feathers, clacking typewriters and filing cabinets slamming shut.

            “By the way, your halo’s crooked,” Éva said with a quiet cough to break the silence.

            Lucy blushed. “This darn thing! It won’t stay on straight no matter what I do! And it’s so hard to put on in the dark.” She reached up and adjusted the radiance that floated behind and about her head, but it still tilted off to one side.

            “How do you saints keep those things on, anyway?” Éva asked, trying to carry on the conversation. “My stupid angel’s ring is hard enough to keep straight as it is.”

            Lucy shrugged and the conversation died once again.

            “I just think… There’s got to be something else out there for me,” Éva finally said.

            “Everyone’s got their calling, Éva,” Lucy agreed. “You’ll find yours.”

            Éva’s voice was dark, confused. “No, that’s not what I mean. I mean… maybe I’m not meant to be an angel. I just… I’ve changed. There’s nothing left here for me but menial chores and—mediocrity.”

            Lucy’s voice was thin. “What—what are you saying?” She choked, swallowed. “What do you—”

            Éva touched a finger to the Lucy’s lips and leaned close to her ear. “I’ve decided to go away,” she whispered, her voice tremulous, wary.

            “Yes, you said that before—”

            “No. Away from Heaven.”

            Lucy jumped out of her chair and slapped Éva’s hand away from her, scattering paperwork everywhere. “You’re doing what?” she cried.

            The clattering of the typewriters petered out. One last filing cabinet quietly rolled closed. Papers fluttered to the floor. All were listening intently to the scene.

            Éva muttered something. When asked to repeat herself she was no louder, her voice low.

            “Éva.” Lucy’s voice shook like leaves. “What did you say?”

            Éva was silent except for her quiet breathing, which steadily grew louder until she broke out, “You know what? I’m sick of this! Keeping my feelings secret, living a lie. It’s my last day! I can say whatever I want!” She whipped around and faced the crowd of listening angels. “I hate it here! I hate it! I hate this job, I hate this life, and I hate all you! And especially you,” she spat at a shocked Lucy. “I just hate!”

            She brushed away into an office and slammed the door. Just as suddenly the click-clack of the typewriters struck up again, as though Éva’s tirade had been nothing more than a noisy rest between movements of a symphony.

            Lucy stood with her mouth numbly hanging open. Blindly she gathered the scattered files together and set the mess on her desk, then steeled herself and followed Éva.

            Éva kicked a desk, fuming. Through the dark of the room, Lucy reached out for Éva and put a hesitant hand between her friend’s wings, but flinched away. Éva’s skin was ice cold.

            “Éva, are you well? You’re freezing!”

            Éva laughed through her anger. “You really are blind, aren’t you?” Her voice was poison. “I’m just as well as I’ve always been, Lucy. Nothing’s changed. I’ve just finally got the guts to admit it.”

            Lucy grasped for the chair next to her, sat and clasped her hands in her lap. “You aren’t happy here,” she sighed.

            “I never have been,” Éva replied. “Not from my day of fledging. Not ever.”

            Lucy’s was confused. “But that can’t be. A Merciful God would not suffer you to be somewhere you can’t be happy. It’s one of the fundamental laws of Heaven. He should have found you a job you like—”

            “There isn’t a job I like, Lucy,” Éva muttered. “Employment has stuck me in every opening they could find. I even served a Guardianship for a few years. My boy died in a car accident while I wasn’t watching so Employment pawned me off to someplace I couldn’t screw up. Records was my last chance and now I’ve blown it.

            She paused. When she spoke again her voice was distant. “On my day of fledging, while I waited outside the Gates, I looked out to the side, down that little corridor between Heaven and Hell. It looks like it goes on forever, but it has to end somewhere. It has to, doesn’t it?”

            Suddenly Lucy understood: the depression, the chilled skin, the unhealthy rasping Éva’s feathers made as they rubbed against each other. “You—have the Pox, don’t you.”

            Éva hesitated before solemnly answering, “Sinner’s Pox? Yeah.”

            Lucy sucked in her breath, biting back a cry. “But—for how long?”

            “Since day one. My wings came like that, with little black specks all over them. They weren’t noticeable at first, but as time went on the spots got bigger and darker. I didn’t know what to do about it so I just hid it.”

            “How?”

            “I bleach my feathers.”

Lucy flinched, imagining the pain.

“It hurts, yeah. Every movement sets my skin on fire, and I can’t fly anymore, but I have to… I have to do it. In my weaker moments the stains show through, and when that happens I have to pluck myself. Or if I wait long enough the feathers just fall out by themselves. They die once they’re completely black.”

            “Éva—” Lucy choked. “Why didn’t you tell me? I could have helped you.”

            Éva’s voice was as black as the feathers that stained her back. “There is no helping me,” she said. “There is no hope for a sinner in Heaven.”

            “Why you? You never did anything that bad, did you? Why do you deserve this?” Lucy didn’t understand, couldn’t understand.

            Éva swallowed back the lump in her throat. “When the Admissions officer was weighing my good deeds against my bad, the scales wouldn’t settle between Heaven or Hell. I was nervous and I didn’t want to go to Hell, so I—I begged him to let me in. I promised him I’d be the perfect angel, I’d follow all the rules and make up for my sins. The lines were getting longer and I wasn’t taking no for an answer, so he admitted me, but—I met God on my way in. I couldn’t fool him; He could see every sin like sores on my skin. As punishment for cheating my way in, He gave me this curse to remind me of what got me here, and—I just can’t take it anymore. The pressure. The guilt.”

            “So… you’re leaving?”

            “Yes.”

            Lucy frowned. “But—where will you go?”

            Éva was indifferent. “I don’t know. All I really know is that this Heaven isn’t meant for me. I could go to Hell, or Home, maybe.” Her voice became distant again. “Or maybe… maybe I’ll just toe the line and see where I get. Walk along that corridor for a while, see where it leads. It has to end somewhere. Maybe—I’ll find my Heaven out there, somewhere beyond this, this—black-and-white, Heaven-and-Hell world.”

            She stood, sniffed, brushed off her robes, brushed past a silent Lucy. Hand on the doorknob, Éva turned back to her stunned friend. “I don’t hate you, Lucy. I just… I have to move on, and—saying I hate you makes it easier to leave.” The door creaked open. “I hope the best for you.” Then she was gone.

            “And for you the same,” Lucy whispered, then broke into tearless sobs. Lucy, patron saint of the blind, had no eyes with which to cry.

            A myriad of black-spotted feathers fluttered through the air behind the retreating Éva, who held her head high past the legions of staring eyes. Out the doors, down the steps of the Records Hall, through the gold-paved street; not an eye turned away from the Fallen angel who smiled with freedom.

            Shouldering her way past the bewildered Gatekeepers, Éva hesitated at the Golden Gates. Her once-white wings had been reduced to ashy feathered stubs protruding from her shoulder blades, marking her as a Sinner. But she did not care.

            Slowly she turned to face the awe-struck crowd of angels, a twisted smile gracing her features. Thoughtfully she reached up, grabbed her halo, and shattered it against the pavement.

            With arms held wide open she faced the Gates to embrace Fate, Oblivion, whatever awaited her. They swung open, unleashing a blinding light. Joyfully, Éva stepped through.

            The Gates slammed shut, the light blinked out. Dark fell back to the streets once again like curtains drawn. A single black feather floated to the ground where Éva had stood, spotted with steadily growing white streaks.

EDIT (12/13/11): Updated to a more final draft.

IT'S ALIVE!!!!!

I'm back! Marching band is over, so I finally have a little spare time to blog again. :)

I'm still warming back up to this, so today's poem is something you've seen before, but with a few added stanzas. I can't find anything on this confounded computer, otherwise I'd give you something new. :P But I trust you can bear with me.

What have you all been up to in these autumnal months of my absence?

Arachnophobia
(a poem inspired by make-up and mascara: two very evil, addicting drugs of the modern world)

 Her eyes were like flies’ eyes,
How they shone back the light in five thousand colors
Like multi-faceted black-and-blue diamonds
Shuttered beneath butterfly eyebrows.

Her lips were silkworms as she
Pulled thread from her mouth
Full of teeth-eating maggots
To weave a skirt like a spider’s web.

 Her dress drew me in:
Spun like candy floss it looked so sweet,
A lovely eye candy treat
Swirling about katy-did-ankles.
 
Her hair—it writhed,
Like insubstantial ringworm ringlets,
The Gorgons’ modern siren-child,
Tipped not by split ends but teeth
And hungry, blank black eyes.
 
The lies she lied were locusts,
Jumping out at me and scratching my skin with their
Grasshopper claws and lying eyes.
 
Her hands were like spiders,
Spindly, five-legged carnivores
Attached to praying mantis arms,
Twitching across the sticky thread
Reeling between her silkworm lips.
 
But as I think about it,
It was not her hands but her eyes that preyed
Arachnid-like on my face,
Hungry for my flies’-eyes eyes.

Beearbee

That is to say, I'm going on a short hiatus until the end of October, because marching band and school have gotten the better of me, and it's unfair to make my readers constantly check to see when I've written a new post. :)

See you soon!

Math on the Brain is Never a Shame

In Other News: I'm getting published! My 900-word life story is being published this month in an anthology of local life stories! Eeeeee!!!

In Other Other News: I love children... Two little 3-year-old twins are staying over with my family tonight because they're in the foster care program, and foster parents can't leave their kids with just anyone when they go on vacation. I miss having little kids around the house... :)

In Other Still Unrelated News: What is this? A somewhat-consistent posting schedule? Since I have creative writing every other school day, you can probably count on hearing from my every time I have that class. Woo hoo!

Today's creative writing class was, as always, a joy! I taught the lesson today along with one of the newer students. We decided to talk about metaphors. We brought a bunch of different items like a plastic snake, a bottle of shampoo, gloves, a hacky sack, and other such oddities, and had the class think of them in a metaphorical sense. Most of us drifted more toward personification, but that's okay. I got to share my favorite poem, so I didn't really mind what happened after that. What can I say? I love to share.

The object I used as a metaphor was a paper airplane, and my previous class was math, which obviously influenced the wordplay.

A Play on Geometry Lessons

I am a plane
No shape nor dimension defines me
Lines pierce me and fiercely I try to resist all the wearing and tearing
You hold me and fold me

and now

I'm a plane
No shape nor dimension defies me
You can throw me or bow me decrease all my edges but as my wing fledges
I soar

Flat no more

Writing Exercise: Creative Vomit and Beautiful Words

EAL always does these little teaching moment things, which I think are super cool. Well, I decided to give it a try myself. The following is my greatest weapon against writer's block (aside from mowing the lawn).


Creative Vomit: The Ultimate Inspiration Tool

Today in creative writing we did one of my favorite exercises: stream of consciousness writing (or as I like to call it, creative vomit). For those who are not familiar with the term, stream of consciousness writing is a tool  to extract ideas from your brain. I think it is one of the purest forms of ideas and inspiration: raw and unedited, like the "unrated" versions of R-rated movies, only generally less crude (really, it's one of the stupidest marketing ploys I've ever seen, but, then again, I don't watch R-rated movies).

How To Do It

1. Find a quiet place.
2. Get a whole lot of paper or use a computer. You're going to be writing a ton, and you don't want to run out of paper halfway through a thought.
3. Choose a topic to start yourself off (for example, one of my streams started at autumn and ended at accidental homosexuality (It's not what you think! It's not! I'll put up the paper when I find it)).
4. Write. Write every little thought that passes through your head, no matter how weird, dumb, abstract, stupid, etc. etc. you may think they are.
        4.1. Set a timer. Don't lift your pen or stop typing until it goes
               off. Start small: 5, 10, 15 minutes is a good start. Once
               you figure out how it works, you can work up to longer
               periods of time.
        4.2. DON'T worry about grammar or punctuation or spelling.
               You can edit after the timer goes off.
        4.3. DON'T edit before you record your thoughts and
               don't edit until you're done. You waste time and ideas
               by doing that.
        4.4. DON'T look back at what you've written.
        4.5. DO go off-topic. If you stray back to your original topic,
               you're forcing yourself. Don't. Let your mind wander.
               Most of your good ideas will come about 3-5 minutes into
               writing as long as you let them.

Most people's streams look like a massive wall of text, but mine end up looking more like poetry. Every person vomits differently, so don't worry about making it fancy.

An Example of Stream of Consciousness Writing

My thoughts were pretty fleeting and I had to leave halfway through to go see my stupid school counselor (gr) to talk about a class that I don't want to take but my parents insist I do so I can get this stupid scholarship. (Try saying that sentence in one breath). Well, not stupid. I'm just bitter because the counselor wasn't even paying attention (she was unpacking a printer, I think), and I was on a roll in my writing! Don't you just hate when that happens?

Notice how sometimes my thoughts are coherent and sometimes not. Like I said: my thoughts were fleeting. Also, don't feel obligated to read the whole thing, as I have more to say at the end and it's pretty long and incoherent.

Did I mention it's incoherent?

and sometimes maybe then such so someday but not just today you joy yes because then tomorrow indeed inword if please

if i calm my mind i have nothing to say, no words tho think or thoughts to speak, not anything will come on the words or the p[age with be blank as my mind that’s not thinking, not a thing to be said, not a thing to be said, no thoughts to band e thinking or thinkings to think, void of void nothing there, no time to spare i must fill up the spaces with thinkings and places to roam far from home and certainly i am quite alone but it’s not something i mind, no, not at all do i mind being one of a kind, im just as good as i can be here yes

the birds did not cry out today
as though they had no thing to say
and the sun stayed low in the sky without a reason to pass through the highway is this the end?

sylvia plath i am not alone am i?

and tomorrow i have work to do
and
is my favorite word without end to the sentence and phrase and and and and and and

chillllllls
up my spine
can’t be min
but they are

how to write a sonnet what shall i do
i haven’t the foggiest,
no, i have no clue,
no, i haven’t the fogiest
can rhyme yes?

appease my diseased mind
no food can quench this hunger, no water slake my thrist, but first i must find these reasons that i’m not good enough in the first place
and if i were younger, maybe,
taller, thinner, stronger, quieter, healthier, prettier, doubtless,
doubtless i would love me
too

quiet as two am
sun syrup
my favorite thingsssssss

if i imagine then i am a celebrity in my own mind
mustn’t get caught up with myself

qwertyuiop is a word indeed

ther’s a certain slant of light i’ve been told that slants a certain way. certainly.

i am alpha so i think. i sure am glad i’m an alpha. white is such a pretty color.

listen to the camera flashes. I amd famous aren’t i?

alevoli

i could have olive oil if i wanted. olive oil and rosemary

what does the heart race?

my heart beats with a clockworktick

words want to be marriedtogether always indeed

inword and indeed

idon’t like hymns but i do love poetry
i love music but not singing
no

p l e a s e
and then
because

i am sick i am tired
yeah
carry me

poetry is not paragraphs but lines of literature

what is an illiteration?

i need to i need to i need to

oh what a thrill my thumb instead of an onion!
and my mind isn’t right

look at me look at me
repetitoin is so utterly important
why aren’t the important words repeated?

supercomma to the recue!

internet poets are doing it
wrong
like me.

i want someone to love meeeeeee like i do
please

just as things were geting good look who showed up to wrruin it all\

look at all that empty space on the page
it must be lonely
like me

fill me darling
with something
like sweet
or cool
fill me chilll me like your icebox, glacier cyhunks and bread hunks
hunkny
huny.

gills were made for breathing

poets should not take anatomy. you don’t speak with your esophagus, nor do men have breasts.

water breathing under it please surface little fish for you are dorowning.
no im’ not
i have gills and frills for swimming
do not save drowning fish from drowning
mister chinese man
writeen by a chinese woman

iiiiiiiiiii
staring eyes
on faceless ps and qs
are what exactly

look at creative vomit it still looks just like poetry
coming out of me
that kame out of my brain
my pretty little head
i can’t rhyme with dead or dying anymore
hackneyed, gross, cliched cliches

out of sight out of mind so they say
who they are?

and polluted

pinkies will be gone soon as well as feet and appendixes and tears

o brave new world with no people in it.
ione word is all it takes.

The Diamond in the Midst: Drawing Inspiration from Your Own Thoughts

So there's 30 minutes of stream of consciousness. The next important thing is to use it.

When you've finished writing for your 10-15 minutes, read over everything you've just written. If you typed up your stream, print it out. If you wrote on paper, obviously that doesn't apply.

Take a highlighter and find one, two, three lines that you absolutely love or can expand. I put the lines I liked (they're at the beginning of my stream) in bold. Pull them out and write again, but this time you are allowed to take your time and follow the rules of grammar and spelling (you're welcome).

The first line of my stream turned into this (also, no, the internet didn't mess it up. I formatted it that way on purpose):

The Most Beautiful Words

                                                p l e a s e
because then you AND i__________
someday AND

just m a y b e
because       then >/if/< we
AND \                    / indeed
        > tomorrow<

maybe then                                 such
s   o         |such|
maybe ////not////          TODAY

but then                            yes
            t  o  m  o  r  r  o  w AND sometimes
us

So there you have it: stream of consciousness, essentially. If you try it out, I would love to see your creative vomit (in part) and what you make of it! Email it, post it on your blog, whatever.

It Started out So Well

I’ve already checked all my symptoms and diagnosed myself.
I sought out cures just for you,
But it just isn’t enough
To appease my diseased mind.
You tell me I’m good enough,
But I see right through your lies when your eyes don’t smile the way your lips do.

Why didn't I finish it?

What were my thoughts one hundred-and-one days ago?

How should it end?

Why didn't I finish what I started?

Dang.

The Mind Is a Blank Slate

I love children, but I don't know if I'll ever have any of my own.

There, I've said it. My greatest fear: having children.

I'm still young. I've got a while to grow out of it, but sometimes I worry. I worry that I'll be... forced... into something I don't want. Certainly I want to find a man, but after that... then what?

I never was the child who dragged a baby doll everywhere I went; in fact, I was terrified of them. When my family stayed in hotels on vacation, I insisted that my sister get rid of her baby doll before she got in the bed we shared.

Growing up, my friends wanted to grow up, get married, and have twelve children, and they had already picked out names for each and every boy and girl they intended to produce. I never participated in such conversation. Actually, I found playing "superpowers" with the boys more enjoyable than associating with girls in any way.

I think that's kind of what helps me empathize with the character in the story you're about to read. It's a major work in progress, like all the short stories I start and never finish. This one's different, though. Something about it makes me want to write more...

The working title is "Blank Slate." Chapter 1.2 is still majorly in progress, as is chapter 2, and the preface needs work. Try not to be too critical.

Have you ever loved someone enough to kill them? I’m not asking about a sick pet or an ancient many-greats-grandmother who’s been confined to life support for the last few years, and I’m not speaking metaphorically. I really mean to ask: Have you ever cared about someone so much that you took it upon yourself to…

I think I’m starting this off in the wrong way, because already I’ve made myself sound like a—no.

I mean to say, you’re probably wondering why I haven’t—well, never mind.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that right now I’m very emotional, and the words I’m trying to say aren’t coming out right. But that’s the funny thing about writing from the heart: even though it hurts, I know I still have to do this. I still have to tell this story, and I have to tell it properly.

Today my son is dead. Carter did not die of natural causes, nor was it accidental, or suicidal, and it wasn’t murder. Carter died because of love, and the best way to explain that—well, there’s two ways, and I’ll tell you both.

The first way to explain it is that when you love something—or someone—very much, you have to let them go. That’s how I explained it to Carter when he lost his stuffed toy. I’m not sure that was something he could understand, but it made me feel better about leaving his toy at the doctor’s office. I’m sure some other kid is having a better life because of it.

The second way to explain it will take longer to tell, but hopefully it will help you make a little sense of what I’ve done.

1.2 
“Angie, have you ever thought about adopting?” She asked me.

“No,” I said automatically. That was my natural response, but in reality, adoption was the thought foremost on my mind. I just didn’t know how else to answer her question. She was obviously looking to educate me on the matter.

“Oh. Well, I’m working on the red tape for my third. He’s a little gem from Ethiopia.” She waved her lettuce-laden fork as though to emphasize this fact. “My husband and I have been working it out for five months, but the end result is worth it.”

She took a bite, then looked up at me curiously. “You’ve worked here for, what, five years? And you really haven’t tried out a kid? I hope you don’t mind me saying, but it’s a bit beyond me.”

Well, it would be for you, I wanted to say. Miss married-at-twenty, two-adopted-kids-and-another-on-the-way—it would seem strange that someone like me doesn’t want all that. But what I really said was, “That’s nice, Bree.” I sucked in my breath and glanced at my phone. “Ooh, sorry. My break’s over. Maybe we can talk later.” I feigned a smile and walked off, leaving her staring after me a little stunned.

I don’t know why I always let her get under my skin, but she was so... Naïve. The words came flying out of her mouth before she could wrap her brain around them, and she didn’t seem to notice the friction they caused. But despite her abrasive nature, she was one of my closest friends when I could stand to be around her.

She chatted about her “hubby” and kids ninety percent of the time she talked, which only reminded of the things I didn’t have. I wasn’t married. I didn’t have kids. Up until that point, I had never desired either, but I felt something growing inside me. I don’t know if it was my natural motherhood instinct suddenly kicking in or an errant rush of hormones, but I wanted all that: the husband, the kids, the sense of belonging.

My office seemed suddenly empty, devoid of life. Unlike all the others, I had no family pictures to deck the walls. In fact, the only photos I had were a baby picture, a picture of me with my parents, and the portrait from my senior prom. I don’t know why I kept that picture. I didn’t date the guy past prom night, and it was hardly a treasured memory of mine. I suppose it was just wishful thinking, or maybe a pathetic attempt at fitting in with the rest of the agency.


2.
“Are you sure you can handle this?” Alison, my supervisor, asked.

I flicked through the file in my hand, not sure how to answer her question. Could I handle this? Was this the right thing for me to be doing now, or would it pull me under?

Alison shifted in her seat across the table from me and cleared her throat. “Listen, Angie… I mean, I know this is a big dream of yours, but do you really think you can take care of a kid on your own? Especially this one!” She gestured to the manila folder in my hand. “Do you realize how much help he needs?”

I did. The boy had been bounced around a few foster homes before finally ending up back here, just three weeks after his arrival. The circumstances of his upbringing were… interesting, to say the least.

“Yes, of course I do. I’ve only read his file, what, a thousand times?” I placed the folder on the desk and let out a deep sigh before meeting Alison’s eyes. I could feel rebellious tears springing up in my eyes. “Alison, I just… I know he’s the right one for me. I can’t tell you how many children I’ve looked at, and none of them make me feel the way he does.”

Alison echoed my sigh. “I just don’t want you to go into this too quickly.” She picked up the boy’s file and replaced it in a stack on her desk. “Give it a week,” she said, standing up to leave. “If he’s not in another home by then, we’ll talk.”

“Yeah… yeah, all right,” I mumbled, swiping the tears away from my face.

I slipped into the ladies’ room to check my makeup. The blotchy, tear-stained face that stared back at me from the mirror didn’t seem like my own. There was a desperation behind those green eyes that I’d never seen before. Never had I wanted something so badly, and the thought that this boy might go to another family almost made me sick. I had to have him.

My mind was in a fog as I walked down the halls of the agency, and I was so deep in thought that I passed the door I wanted before I realized where I was.

I could almost feel a dark curtain lifting from my brain as I entered the playroom. There he was, sitting off to the right with his back to the door: my son. I couldn’t help myself; I ran over and scooped him into my lap.

“Hi, sweet boy,” I murmured into his ear, giving him a kiss on the cheek. “How are you today?”

As always, he made no response. His blue eyes looked anywhere but at me, his fingers twitched, and his only sound was quiet breathing. But for me, I could swear he smiled; that was why I was in love.

“I brought you a friend, Baby Brother,” I said. Baby Brother was his temporary name, as his father had never bothered to name him. In my mind I had already began to list the names I wanted for him: Ethan, Jackson, Cooper, Carter, Isaac. There were more, of course, but I had narrowed it down to those five then.

I reached into my purse and produced a stuffed lion, yellow with a brown yarn mane. Its eyes matched Baby Brother’s: empty.

“His name is Lionel.” I shook Lionel and the bell inside of him tinkled. “He’s very kind and brave, and he’ll always be a good friend.”

 Do you agree? Is this a worthy pursuit? And am I alone in my fears?

ROMance

What a day...

I woke up at 7:00 and rushed out the door to get to school before 7:30 (an obscene hour, if you ask me). Thankfully the girls I take with me found other ways to get there, but I still feel... well, dumb. I didn't even turn on my alarm, for heaven's sakes!

It's been a helter-skelter kind of day.

My brain is helter-skelter, too.

On one of the blogs I follow, the main topic of late has been the author's adventures through an online relationship. Ten posts long, so far, and apparently there's more. :O

Now this is, mind, a seventeen-year-old, in-the-thick-of-puberty-and-high-school take on things, but the only online "dating" experiences I've ever had were bad ones, as in a guy said he loved me and turned out to be a creeper, so I blocked him and moved on.

But can it really work? (eHarmony says it can, but you can't trust corporations these days.)

I find it hard to believe that you can really truly fall in love with someone over the internet. I can see how you could find someone of interest or someone you might like to take on a date, but love? I don't believe in it. There's something so intrinsically cold and unfeeling about internet relationships. I enjoy you, my readers, and all your jokes and feedback, but I could never see myself falling in love like that (especially not the ladies. Heavens, no).

But I do see the appeal. I like to think of my blog as "concentrated Alexa: all the opinions with half the obnoxious." My real-world friends can probably attest to this, except they all comment via Google Buzz rather than on my actual blog (I'm telling you, you guys are missing out by doing so. Just sayin'). So boys who would usually be repelled by my loud and wonderfully annoying personality might find me super appealing, attractive, and insightful (if I do say so myself) on my blog.

So, being the poet that I am, I wrote a poem expressing my feelings with more than a little alliteration. Admittedly, my favorite part of this poem is the title. Aren't I just... just so clever? You don't have to answer. I already know I am. }:)

ROMance

I don’t believe in love at first site.
I cannot discern personality from pixels,
Character from characters,
Or status from stat messages.
I find nothing exciting in email,
Attractive in AIM,
Or fun in Facebook.
I do not believe in e-harmony—
Or e-chemistry—
But,
Then again,
It’s never happened to me.

What about you, readers? Will you have an internet marriage, or a traditional courting experience? Do you use the internet for laughs, or finding your soulmate? Or flirting, for that matter? (Like those weird Zoosk commercials. Honestly, who actually does that?)

Ah, But There Are No Excuses For What I Have Done

All the same, let's not jump to conclusions.

These weeks preceding the start of school have been on heck of a ride, which is why most of my readers have assumed my death (well, so I assume). But as my seventh grade science teacher once said:

When you assume, you make an *** of u and me

 She swore in class, and our young minds were scandalized. To this day I have yet to recover....

She was kind of mean...

My past aside, I felt it only fair that I post something since I haven't posted anything for almost two weeks, I think. If I were following my blog, I would drive me crazy like that!

BUT FIRST I want to blab about school for a while, because reminiscing about seventh grade has put me on a tangent.

This being my senior year, I get to take fun classes! My schedule turned out great, because I have two hard and two easy classes every day. My schedule goes something like this:

A Days: Symphonic Band (because I don't practice enough to be in wind symphony, our school's top band), AP Statistics, AP Political Science (I must be crazy, but the subject fascinates me and taking it in college will be no easier), Creative Writing 2 (I'm Editor-in-Chief this year! Woo-hoo!)

B Days: AP Literature (I still haven't finished the summer homework... :O ), School Newspaper (our editor-in-chief isn't high this year (last year my favorite activity was listening to the EIC describe all the drugs she was taking and how she thought she was a rug once when she got high)), Cooking 2, Seminary (religious instruction, for those who don't know.)

And then there's marching band, which is a totally different story.

It was a long summer and boy does my brain need a workout! I'm taking AP Stats this year and our first homework assignment was to review some algebra II concepts. It felt like I was reading a foreign language! But I'm not worried, because although math is not my lifelong dream, it's also far from my lifelong struggle.

Speaking of homework, I need to wrap this up and chat about this in a different post, because I still haven't finished that math assignment or that summer homework.

I've deliberated about this for a while, as far as what to post, because I wrote quite a few things in the past few weeks and before that I never got around to posting. Naughty me... So as an apology for being so exceedingly tardy, here are a handful of poems on a variety of topics! Hooray!

Two Inches

The mind is an ocean about two inches deep
filled with fishes slipslidesuffocating,
mechanical spasms in the open air,
or rotting in a heap of twisted herringbonehearts,
blackblank eyes and
other suchthings.
 
The mind has storms above that shallow sea.
It reaches out coldwhitefingers
Among the half-rotted herringbonehearts
Still beating
Then lowlaughs fleeting down at me.
 
The mind is solemndark and gruesomegloom
Alone upon the sea-expanse
The corpses watch with mindless dread
As I give in, lay down my head
Slipslidesuffocating on the ground,
And with two inches wait to drown.

For once, I'm going to talk after a poem, because I didn't want to make you wait any longer. The first stanza was written on a day when I literally felt as though I was drowning inside of myself. I was unhappy and anxious and altogether not feeling well. The second and third stanzas were written during a late-night thunderstorm. Thunderstorms are excellent times to write because usually the power goes out and there's nothing else to do, but also because thunder and lightning are very emotional. In fact, if you think about it, a storm can express any range of emotion.

City Lights 

The fireflies blanketed cross the sticky flytrap strip greeted my glancing eyes.
I freed a few on my passing past by,
I wanted to watch them float,
Often alone, but sometimes in pairs,
Sets of lovebugs speeding on.
 
They stop for brighter lights than they,
And then go quickly on their way.
They’ve no time to thank me, no,
They’ve miles to go before they sleep,
And some their marital promise to keep.
 
I thought they formed fireworks on that formidable field
Of blackness. I find it strange that they would yield
Themselves up and stay there, stuck,
On the sticky stripe of dark,
Those orange-and-yellow fireflies,
 
Who pass me by, without a care,
Sometimes alone, but often in pairs.

I should have been watching the road more carefully, but city lights in the rain are so mesmerizing... (thankfully no one was on the streets when I left my friend's house on the eve of this poem).

Pool

 Blue chalk squeaks on the end of
A white pine pole leaves marks on
The cue ball clicks and rolls across
The green felt scarred and stained by
Cigarettes and coffee create a haze.
 
The balls clack together as
The game begins by breaking
The triangle explodes into a thousand colorful
Points are scored by
Sinking spirits as
Points are lost by
Scratching my initials in
The table.

 Fingers arched, I set my sites on
The eight ball thunks into the back left
Pocket filled with loose change for
The jukebox music joins the haze of
Coffee and cigarettes in the billiards hall.

I've never actually been to a billiards hall, but that's what the imagination (and movies) is (are) for! This is an older poem, but still a favorite. (I'm also not good at pool, but I can dream (and watch movies)...)

Death is Unfair

Yesterday I had to bury my guinea pigs.

I got a call from my mom right as I was beginning another day at band camp. When she told me that my piggies had died during the night, I couldn't help myself. I bawled. I cried. I couldn't get control of myself, so I went home.

Seeing their little bodies sprawled out in their cage cut my heart in half.

...

I'm crying too hard. I can't see the screen. I'll finish this later.



I was up until an obscene hour last night crying on and off. Jeez, I'm such a wreck. It doesn't help that I'm just emotionally drained from marching band. Normally I come home from marching band, crash on the couch, and watch TV with a piggie. Now I don't know what I'll do.

I thought a lot about her. Her name was Reeses. She was chocolate brown with patches of black and orange, and her hair was swirly. We bought her and her sister, KitKat, in a rural area. The previous owners bred guinea pigs partly for fun, partly for money, and partly by mistake (that's what happens when you put boy and girl guinea pigs in the same cage), and they charged us ten dollars for each of them. They're worth more than a million dollars to me.

On the ride home, my sister and held them in our arms because we didn't have a cage for them yet. She peed on me in the car, all over my shirt and on the seat belt. That was a recurring theme for the four years we owned them. Guinea pigs have very small bladders.

She loved to eat lettuce, and she licked my fingers when she wanted more. When we let them run around in the grass, they ate like lawnmowers and hid in the chives plant. In the winter when it was too cold for them to live outside under our porch, they stayed in my room or in my sister's. When I read books in bed I took one or the other out and let them crawl under the sheets or nibble the pages. Reeses once ate the corner of a library book, plastic cover and all.

We always called them dumb, not to be mean, but they were actually pretty smart. Reeses figured out that if I held out my hand to her, she should climb onto my arm and then she would be brought back to her cage. KitKat learned that if she jumped up on the roof of their little house, we might give her a treat.

They were usually nice to each other, but KitKat made it very apparent that she was in charge. Even though we had two water bottles for them to drink out of, Reeses always let KitKat drink and eat first. When they ran around in the grass, KitKat led the way, and Reeses followed with her nose practically shoved up KitKat's wee bum. Sometimes they fought, as sisters do, and they would nip hair off each other's bums. We affectionately called Reeses "baldy" as she had three or four large bald spots as a result of these little spats. But even so, it was obvious they loved and cared about each other. Even in death they were close, though KitKat had kicked Reeses out of their little house to die.

KitKat always had something to say, but Reeses was content to sit quietly in my lap and resorted to violence (biting me) when she had an opinion to state. She loved being held and stroked, and she purred like a little motor when she was happy.


I don't know if I'll be able to have another piggie. I leave for college in a year, and I probably won't be able to have a pet there. My parents are... reluctant. Piggies are stinky little critters, even if you clean their cage twice a week, and my mom isn't a fan of that.

Death isn't fair. If we had left them under the porch when our lawn got fertilized, KitKat and Reeses would still be alive. It was my sister's month to take care of them, and I want to blame her. I want to blame her so much. But I can't. I wonder, does she think about them as much as I do? Does she cry in the shower, at night, at lunch, in bed, like I do?

We buried them on Friday at 10:15 am in a Boutique shoebox lined with a handtowel we had used when we gave them baths. I pulled their cold, stiff bodies from the cage. It felt wrong. It felt... unnatural. Reeses didn't move, didn't struggle, didn't protest as she usually did. Her eyes were open, her beautiful, melted-chocolate eyes.

My sister put them in the hole my dad dug in the corner of our backyard. I hate that grave. I hate it.

Death isn't fair.

KitKat, Reeses... I love you. I love you so much. I know you're in a better place now, but I wish I could cuddle you one more time, just one more time.

Death

isn't

fair.

Forget Rhyme Schemes. I'm a Rebel.

IN OTHER NEWS: I'm probably worrying too much (as usual), but I was just curious if you, all my readers, like my blabbing before posting poetry (like what I'm writing here). I've been looking at a lot of other poetry blogs and I've noticed that no one else seems to chat about what they've written in each post like I do. Does that make me unique, or is it annoying? Do you read my little introductions or skip right to the blockquotes? Just curious.

ALSO IN OTHER NEWS: I will be on a short LOA from the internet for the next two weeks or so, as I am leaving for a camping trip on Wednesday and then it's time for band camp! I'll be playing trumpet this year, for those who are interested. Anyone else do marching band (or color guard, for that matter)?

This here's a poem I wrote the other day inspired by a fallow field of alfalfa by my house. There were thousands of dandelions just waiting to be used for wishing, but I resisted because they actually grow alfalfa there and they wouldn't appreciate me spreading the love. I abandoned the rhyme scheme in the second stanza because I couldn't think of anything that rhymed with "farm" except "arm," and I couldn't think of a way to make that sound un-cheesy. (Actually what happened was I got bored and it made sense the way it was. ;)

Also, I haven't decided on a title. ;)

How many wishes d’you think lay concealed
In the corners and pockets of alfalfa fields,
Cotton-white dand’lions nodding their heads.
Forget about wheat; let’s plant wishes instead.

Farmers, forget all the weeds you’ve been weeding,
And think of, instead, all the wishes you’re seeding
By letting the dand’lions grow on your farm.

Then if fishes were wishes we’d scour the seas,
Seeking the goldfish to end all the pleas
For the wheat and the flour that we had stopped sowing
Because our main crop was wish-flower growing.

And, for the heck of it, here's another poem I finished recently. It was inspired by mascara, and it has a title.

Arachnophobia

Her eyes were like flies’ eyes,
How they shone back the light in five thousand colors
Like multi-faceted black-and-blue diamonds
Shuttered beneath butterfly eyebrows.

Her lips were silkworms as she
Pulled thread from her mouth
Full of maggots
To weave a skirt like a spider’s web.
 
The lies she lied were locusts,
Jumping out at me and scratching my skin with their
Grasshopper claws and lying eyes.

 Her hands were like spiders,
Spindly, five-legged carnivores
Attached to praying mantis arms,
Twitching across the sticky thread
Reeling between her silkworm lips.

 But as I think about it,
It was not her hands but her eyes that preyed
Arachnid-like on my face,
Hungry for my flies’ eyes eyes.

A Sudden Flash of Fiction!

Hello everyone! First off, I have a special announcement to make! The lovely V-writer from That V Word gave me an award! I do love those, you know.

The award is given to up-and-coming bloggers with fewer than 200 followers. So, according to the rules (which are right here:) ,
(1. Thank the giver and link back to the blogger who gave it to you.
2. Reveal your top 5 picks and let them know by leaving a comment on their blog.
3. Copy and paste the award on your blog.
4. Have faith that your followers will spread the love to other bloggers.
5. And most of all - have bloggity-blog fun!)

according to the rules I get to give it out again! Woo-hoo!

So the people I feel deserve this award are:

1. EAL from Assembling Imaginations, a brilliant young writer who always has something interesting to say, whether it be on her own blog or on mine. ;)

2. Kevin Routh from Shards: The Poetry of Kevin Routh, an amazing wordsmith. I'm always excited to see what he's written next.

3. Esjae from Esjae Official. What can I say? I have a soft spot for sadgirlpoetry.

4. Myself from Myself Through My Eyes, who helps me find my inner child and always makes me laugh.

5. RJ from a drop in the ocean, whose thought-provoking posts, poems, and prose should be posted more often, because when they're not I go into withdrawal. 0_____0

Congrats you guys, and another huge thanks to V!

Now back to our regular program.

Remember how I said that I write poetry, not prose? Remember that? Well, I was lying. The only things I've been writing lately are PROSE! (Writing prose kind of kills my soul sometimes, so I've still been writing poetry intermittently.)

Today's post is a flash fiction piece I've been focusing on the past few days. Criticism would be appreciated, and suggestions on how to cut down on words. I'm keeping it under 1000 words, and right now I'm at about 950, but I'd like to add some more stuff at the end. (Also, sorry if it's a little hard to read. Blogger was giving me a hard time. :P )

“LEAVE A MESSAGE AT THE—”


“TO CHECK UNHEARD MESSAGES, PRESS ONE-ONE.”
Beep-beep
“UNHEARD MESSAGE. SENT FRIDAY AT THREE-FIFTY-ONE, P.M..”
“Hey David, it’s Mitchell from Maple Mountain Apartments. Just callin’ back to chat with you about your new apartment. Give me a call.”

“END OF MESSAGE. NEXT MESSAGE. SENT SATURDAY AT FOUR-THIRTEEN, P.M..”
“Hi hon. It’s Annette. Just wondering if you’d like to have dinner with me later tonight to celebrate your new home. I’m making pasta. Give me a call.”

“END OF MESSAGE. NEXT MESSAGE. SENT SUNDAY AT SEVEN-TWENTY-SEVEN, P.M..”
“Hi Davey. It’s Mom. Um, just wanted to see if everything is okay. Alyse called earlier today. She didn’t sound very well. Do you want to talk? Call me when you—”
beep-beep

“YOUR MESSAGE HAS BEEN DELETED. NEXT MESSAGE. SENT TUESDAY AT SEVEN-FIFTY-EIGHT P.M..”
“Sweetie? It’s Alyse. Um, I know you don’t want to talk, but—”
beep-beep

“YOUR MESSAGE HAS BEEN DELETED. NEXT MESSAGE. SENT TUESDAY AT EIGHT-OH-THREE, P.M..”
“Hey man. It’s Jeremy. I heard about you and Alyse and just wanted to let you know that I’m here for you. If you’re up for it, me’n some of the guys are going bowling tomorrow night. Give me a call or text me. Whatever’s cool.”

“END OF MESSAGE. NEXT MESSAGE. SENT SUNDAY AT TEN-FIFTY, P.M..”
“Hey Davey, it’s me again. Alyse. Just wanted to call to see how you’re doing, and—”

click


“TO CHECK UNHEARD MESSAGES, PRESS ONE-ONE.”
Beep-beep
“FIRST UNHEARD MESSAGE. SENT MONDAY AT ONE-TWENTY-FIVE, A.M..”
“Davey, I know you won’t answer, but I needed to hear your voice on the answering machine.“I miss you so much. I can’t sleep without you here. This house is too big for me to live in alone.”

“END OF MESSAGE. NEXT MESSAGE. SENT MONDAY AT TEN-TWENTY-ONE, A.M..”
“Hello, Dave, this is Craig from Hansen and Associates. I set up a settlement session for you and Alyse for tomorrow, Tuesday, at nine o’clock am. If you can come earlier so we can discuss the situation beforehand, that would be great. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

END OF MESSAGE. NEXT MESSAGE SENT MONDAY AT TWO-FORTY-SEVEN, P.M..”
“Hi Davey, it’s Annette. I never heard back from you about dinner on Saturday, and you haven’t been returning my calls. Did you lose your phone? Call me back.”

“END OF MESSAGE. NEXT MESSAGE. SENT TUESDAY AT ELEVEN-SEVENTEEN, A.M..”
“Hey Dave. It’s me, Alyse. I was just wondering if you… well, if you wanted some paint for your apartment.
“I started painting the walls like you and I planned. Blue. I know it’s your favorite color.” sniff “Blue with yellow furniture, like the beach. Do you remember when we went to the beach last year? When we were just engaged. We flew a kite and you showed me how to send messages to it with a paperclip. Did I ever tell you what I wrote to the kite?
“I decided to paint the master green. I read that green is a calming color, and that’s why greenrooms are green so the actors don’t get nervous before their performance. Maybe we—I—should have painted it a long time ago. Maybe things would be different…”
“…Anyways, I’m sorry I missed the settlement. I haven’t been feeling well lately, and I slept late by accident. All I’ve wanted to do lately is sleep. It feels so good.
“I promise I won’t miss the next session. Call me back if you’d like me to bring over the paint.”

“END OF MESSAGE. NEXT MESSAGE SENT TUESDAY AT TWELVE-OH-ONE, A.M..”
“Hi Dave. It’s Alyse. I know you won’t answer, but… I need to talk to something other than myself.
“I… I decided it was time to clean out the baby—the storage room yesterday, and while I was in there I… I heard a baby crying. And I knew it was… that it was our baby.
“I looked all over the place—in the crib, the closet, through all the boxes, but I never found a baby. And it kept crying and crying, like it had been left alone. And I can still hear it. It’s there all the time, crying in every room. I’m afraid it’s haunting me, but no one else can hear it.
“Dave, I think I’m going insane! I need you! Please, answer the phone!”

“END OF MESSAGE. NEXT MESSAGE. SENT TODAY AT THREE-THIRTY, A.M..”
“Hi Dave… It’s Alyse... I was thinking about one of the messages I sent you and I realized that I never did tell you the message I sent to the kite.

“I asked it if it was lonely.
…
“It never answered…”

“END OF MESSAGE. NEXT MESSAGE. SENT TODAY AT THREE-THIRTY-NINE, A.M..”
“Davey…
“I wanted to call you and tell you that I love you.
…
“Don’t return my calls. I can’t answer anymore.”

“END OF MESSAGE. TO SAVE MESSAGE, PRESS THREE-THREE. TO CALL SENDER, PRESS ONE. TO—”
beep
“Hi, you’ve reached Alyse. If this is Dave, keep listening. Otherwise, please hang up.
…
“Davey, I’m sorry. I can’t be here, alone, anymore. I just… I know that our baby needs me. I don’t know how I know, but I do. And without you here… Well, I don’t know what else to do.
“I’m sorry. I… I wish things could have been different. I feel like… like this is all my fault. I just want to make things better.
…
“Leave a message after the—

“BANG!”

beeeeeeep

click