Well, last night la femme and I stayed up late doing the playstation thing. Ah, how I wish that was my clever way of saying "having sex." But, alas...
A little more story. Before I post this here, lemme just say that this horrible and depressing thing is coming pretty much straight from my head. Usually, by the time I let anyone see something I've written, there are three or four drafts behind it. And the first people to read it are a group of beta readers that I've cultivated over the last couple years. A couple of them are writers I admire, and who I hope never try to publish anything because their success will unquestionably be instant and complete, compared to my years of heartache and abject failure. Anyway. All that to say this: I don't think this is terribly good, but I've found the practice of writing everyday pretty important. So, a little forgiveness when it's rough (again! not a sexual euphemism!) and a little patience when it totally sucks. Enjoy the bits that can be enjoyed, and be polite to the rest. T'anks!
This story started here.
Thomas wandered the city, mostly alone, a hollow man carrying a hollow memory. He bundled the letters and pictures into the soft-edged box, tied its bulging top shut with a red christmas ribbon, and set out. Jenna had kept such things: christmas ribbons, recycled wrapping paper folded into careful squares, the tiny patches of tape delicately cut free. The paper was old with use, the once crisp designs getting fuzzy, constant wrapping and unwrapping melting the paper to the consistency of tissue. Thomas had reached into the shiny green box she had used to store all of this, taken the one bright strand of ribbon, and pushed the box back under their bed. How much of those letters had gone on in that bed, over that delicate paper?
He had gone out expecting catharsis, expecting some sort of resolution or revenge. A final, symbolic, wholly physical act to purge her from his mind. He couldn't decide if he was burying her, the memory of her, or freeing himself from the stain of her. Neither, in the end. He stood over the slate gray water as the slid under Highpoint bridge, the box in his trembling hands. He built a fire in the park, another in a trashcan behind the movie theatre; their first date. He struggled to find something significant enough, important enough. From a mountain top, from a bridge, in a fire. None of them seemed worthy graveyards for his anger or his pain. He set the box behind a dumpster near the church, the one she had been talking when they talked about things like that. He walked away, two blocks, three, then came back and retrieved the box. Dusted it off, tugged the ribbon tight, walked away. He walked all night with his pain in his hand.
A little more story. Before I post this here, lemme just say that this horrible and depressing thing is coming pretty much straight from my head. Usually, by the time I let anyone see something I've written, there are three or four drafts behind it. And the first people to read it are a group of beta readers that I've cultivated over the last couple years. A couple of them are writers I admire, and who I hope never try to publish anything because their success will unquestionably be instant and complete, compared to my years of heartache and abject failure. Anyway. All that to say this: I don't think this is terribly good, but I've found the practice of writing everyday pretty important. So, a little forgiveness when it's rough (again! not a sexual euphemism!) and a little patience when it totally sucks. Enjoy the bits that can be enjoyed, and be polite to the rest. T'anks!
This story started here.
Thomas wandered the city, mostly alone, a hollow man carrying a hollow memory. He bundled the letters and pictures into the soft-edged box, tied its bulging top shut with a red christmas ribbon, and set out. Jenna had kept such things: christmas ribbons, recycled wrapping paper folded into careful squares, the tiny patches of tape delicately cut free. The paper was old with use, the once crisp designs getting fuzzy, constant wrapping and unwrapping melting the paper to the consistency of tissue. Thomas had reached into the shiny green box she had used to store all of this, taken the one bright strand of ribbon, and pushed the box back under their bed. How much of those letters had gone on in that bed, over that delicate paper?
He had gone out expecting catharsis, expecting some sort of resolution or revenge. A final, symbolic, wholly physical act to purge her from his mind. He couldn't decide if he was burying her, the memory of her, or freeing himself from the stain of her. Neither, in the end. He stood over the slate gray water as the slid under Highpoint bridge, the box in his trembling hands. He built a fire in the park, another in a trashcan behind the movie theatre; their first date. He struggled to find something significant enough, important enough. From a mountain top, from a bridge, in a fire. None of them seemed worthy graveyards for his anger or his pain. He set the box behind a dumpster near the church, the one she had been talking when they talked about things like that. He walked away, two blocks, three, then came back and retrieved the box. Dusted it off, tugged the ribbon tight, walked away. He walked all night with his pain in his hand.
velocity:
Yeah, I'm pretty fond of fog. I've always wanted to live where there were fog, mountains and trees all in one place. I guess that's why I've set my eventual sights on New Zealand.