Sunday, January 5, 2014

Kicking the New Year with New Stories

Hi everyone :) It's been an awfully long time since I actually wrote some decent fiction. It's been a while since I wrote anything except the short tidbits of my life. Over the break, I was inspired to write which happens at the most bizarre times. I was about to practice my speech when I accidentally clicked the document next to the speech since the documents folder is categorized alphabetically. It's a story about a girl who has lived through so many different identities but must face the reality of who she is.

I have another rant on the way so stay tuned for that :) (it's not about health care or banking but rather about the way people view feminism.) I'm returning to school and we all know what that means for the state of this blog. I do Mock Trial (I'm the court journalist yoooo! lawl) and that and speech/debate combined makes for quite a busy schedule so I'm sorry if there aren't as many posts to greet the new year. Less is more sometimes. I'd much rather put some thought into posts than quickly sending them off because I want you guys to read something or keep my blog sort of relevant.

I also wanted to draw attention to the new tab at the top of the screen! Last year, I wrote a post about a happy moments jar. This year, I wanted to spice it up and add a little tab with random photos I plan to add. I'm not sure about the structure of it because well, I'm not so good at computer design. I wish there was a way to incorporate a tumblr esque element to this blog but there just isn't a way (that I know of..). So I'll be thinking about it and I hope you'll check it out!

Anyways here's the first chapter of my SHORT story. If you guys happen to still be waiting for coffee shop (which I's been about a year...), I honestly don't see any ending to that. I'm just not inspired to write and I'm not captivated by these characters anymore. That's a part of my writing past that I think I'm letting go of. But we never know. I hope you enjoy this one :) next update will be next week! I promise!! It'll be under the tag City Girl so tune in :)


         I sit nervously in the little office. One of the light bulbs died and I sit in a state of perpetual darkness. The shadows of passing cars and trees dancing in the wind flicker across the window. There’s nothing special about this office. There are no family pictures on the nondescript metal desk or posters tacked up to the white washed wall. The room is void of any furniture except the desk and the white couch I have occupied. It’s large enough for two people or one person and a large bag.  I squeeze my beige bag against my hip. It has nothing special but I don’t have anything else to protect. A dingy Persian rug covers the floor and I can’t help but wonder what it’s trying to hide. The floor hasn’t been vacuumed for a while. I nervously brush my fingers over the wild tangles of blondish hair. I wish I had taken a shower, I silently think and apply more chapstick to my dry, cracked lips. I did try tonight, to look normal. A dab of blush on my cheek, a swoop of mascara against my protesting eyelashes. It’s all effort. I stare down at my wristwatch for the third time that evening. It’s ten minutes past my appointment time but I’m still alone. I hear someone’s wrist banging on the doorknob. He’s here. It’s as if a rock sinks to the bottom of my stomach. The door opens and I instinctively look up. My hands fly to my side and crumple up together. I’m desperate for this person to think that I’m normal.
         “Hello,” I manage to squeak out.
         “Hi,” he says with a reassuring smile. It’s obvious he doesn’t know who I am. He’s done this a lot, I have to remind myself. He sits at his desk with his hands folded over his lap. His ankles are crossed and he wears large, heavy spectacles. He takes a quick swig of coffee before saying anything else. “How was the ride here?” He’s wearing a nice collared shirt and tweed pants. It is his job, I think before looking up at his face again.
         “I walked,” I simply say and look down at my hands. I’m wearing a brown jacket and a red dress under. It’s the first time wearing heels in three months. I resist the urge to pull the straps back and fling them away. I bite my lip, hoping that he can’t see that I’ve borrowed clothes from my stepmother. The clothes hang loose but I don’t think he notices. We haven’t talked in a year now but I figured this particular outfit set would come in handy.
         “Oh did you? Name please.” He opens one of the desk drawers and takes out a clipboard, paper already attached. I hesitate before looking into his eyes. It bothers me that I can’t see what’s in all of those drawers and what he’s hiding. Why do I have to make myself vulnerable to a person I know nothing about? I gulp down my frustrations and think of why I even came in the first place. I grip the arms of the chair tightly before looking at him again.
         “Brie,” I say in a quiet, trembling voice. I immediately blink afterwards. It’s an impulse I get now when I tell the truth. His mouth parts a little but I can’t tell what this communicates. “Brie Sommers.” His pen glides against the creamy white paper. He doesn’t look up again. What else am I suppose to say? I let out a little um. It’s the best I can do.
         “Age.” His voice is monotone, just like his office. He fades in to the background and I’m 100% positive it’s what you learn at therapist school.
         “Seventeen.” Another blink. He seems to have noticed it that time.
         “Why do you do that?” He sounds frustrated. I look around for some sort of identification: a nameplate, an ID card, an old yearbook picture. There’s nothing.
         “Do what?” I play the innocent card because the only cards left in the deck are rage and fear. I remember not to touch my eyes or the rest of my face.
         “Blink like that.” I shrug and he taps his pen impatiently against the desk. The loud hollow ringing sound echoes from the walls of his office. I cringe and cup my hands over my ears. He smirks and writes something down. I can’t see over the desk.
         “What’s your name?” I was always good at changing the subject. He scrunches up his face.
         “I’m supposed to be asking questions here.” He looks weary but not more than thirty. I look around the room again. He scratches his reddish hair once and accidentally shifts his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. There are a couple freckles sprinkled about his face. “Stop that.” He feels my intense gaze on his face.  
         “What was the question again?” I feel like an insolent child that the teacher hates. Why am I here?
         “Why are you here?” He seems to have read my mind.
         “I felt alone and I don’t really know who I am.” He looks down momentarily but sets his pen down in alarm. We’ve just had our first break through moment. “Are you married?” It’s gone as he lets out a disappointed sigh.
         “Where are you living?” He ignores my question completely. I stare at his bare fingers and take that as a no.
         “Just a few minutes away, the Landry Apartments,” I say with another blink. He jots something down but when I peer, it’s a nondescript squiggle. I think of all the money I spent to secure this appointment, money spent for a stranger to jot down squiggles.
         “Are you working?”
         “I was.” He writes down a little check mark.
         “How about school? Have you graduated?”
         “I graduated when I was fourteen.” He puts his pen down again and waits for me to continue. Graduating at fourteen is usually something to be proud of, something to relish about. I don’t say anything more and his lips part to ask another question.
         “Why do you keep blinking?”
         “It’s an impulse I get when I tell the truth.” He stares into my eyes for the first time that evening. He sets his spectacles on his desk. His eyes are a radiant blue, something hidden behind the glassy feel of his spectacles. He doesn’t look old at all. I lean forward, another instinct.
         “Are you dating someone?” I smile and lean back.
         “No.” I purse my lips together and feel the temptation of laughing in his face. I don’t and instead simply smile. He seems unnerved by that enough anyway.
         “How can you afford the Landry Apartments?” His neutral tone turns into one of slight interest and judgment. I can tell from the way his pen stays down and his posture is pointed.
         “It’s a long story. I just wanted to talk to someone tonight. Someone who isn’t interested in buying me a drink or taking me home for the night.” His cheeks redden and I wait for another question.
         “What happened in the three years after you graduated? School?”
         “Do you think I had money?” He stops to think.         “I didn’t come here to talk about that.”
         “It’s important.” He’s obviously curious.
         “How old are you?”
         “Twenty one,” he says honestly. That’s not old at all. It’s much too young to be married. I stare at my wristwatch. My time is up.
         “I should go,” I say, slowly standing.
         “Can you come back next week?”
         “I don’t have the money.”
         “We can go to the cafĂ©, as friends or something.” My mouth curves into a little smile.  Friends or something, I think to myself. Not really a patient but not someone you’d talk to in normal circumstances.

         “Sure.” He writes down my phone number in perfectly legible handwriting. I leave his office without another word. He probably won’t call me, I figure, and keep walking.

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