Collection of Drabbles from Way Back
May. 14th, 2010 10:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tamela_jI originally started this journal for blogging and talking about writing. And, while I do have many thoughts and wish to share them with all... finding time is proving problematic.
I also want a place to chronicle my writing. So, I thought I'd put some drabbles (100 word stories) here. These were all done in 2007 at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
crackwhore_muse. They're all PG at best and though I hadn't imagined they'd be interrelated, I guess one could see the same nameless characters in each story...if one wanted to. :)
The protean nature of his personality was what she’d admired about him. The never knowing what she’d find. Now though, its true nature revealed itself and she’s just exhausted. The work involved in gauging his emotions; running ahead of his outbursts to see the outcome, easing him towards it.
The hospital said it was good to let go. The guilt of failure she felt would have eaten at both of them. Now her culpability would only consume her. He’d now be free to create his own reality every day. She would be the one stuck in the old tedious one.
***
Packing the kitchen hadn’t hurt, neither had the bathroom; there were only so many memories inspired by aspirin. It’s the bedroom that got her falling into a puddle of misery. The objet trouvé this time was his red Bic lighter. Holding it to her breast she remembered that when the lights went out in the last storm he had lit candles all around the apartment with it.
She carries it to the fireplace where the rest of his possessions lie. Going to strike the flame that will erase him; she discovers that like him, the Bic has lost its flame.
***
She holds the shimmering ball in her hand and hefts its weight lightly; feeling its power radiating, calling to her. Taking a deep breath she studies her guru. He stands on the parched soil in his Birkenstocks, hemp clothing and dreadlocked hair.
The aplomb stance of a seasoned professional emanating from his unkempt and sloppy posture, he shows her the way to roll the ball to the tip of her fingers and let its own inertia bring it back.
She needs this to work. When her life spins out of control and she feels lost and alone; having this oddly hypnotic skill will save her.
***
Looking into the crystal ball had never done anything for her. Cards hid their secrets; tea leaves bitter on her tongue. She’d started to look to the stars to prognosticate her calling. All it said was that she needed to move out of the city. She already knew that.
What she wanted to know was everything; was that too much to ask? She used to have everything—promise, hope, a future. Now she had uncertainty and hopelessness. She also had a fifth of rum that always told her the truth; and after a few more fingers; would tell her future.
***
Listening to him cursing fluently, she tried to stay angry. His juvenile behavior when faced with adversity amused her; which ofcourse made him angrier.
“John, wow that’s substantial cursing that is. You’re like a thesaurus of filth.”
He looked up and scowled at her. “You’re not helping.”
“Oh, but you see, I’m not trying.”
His cursing suddenly turned bilingual. If they weren’t in the situation they were, she’d be turned on.
But they were and as she took the mangled credit card and handed him the rock to open the door that way, she thought of few things less sexy.
***
Jillian had run as far as her Dodge Neon and ninety-two dollars would take her and still the freedom she longed for had thwarted her. There was that old saying; you can’t run from your problems, they will just follow you. She had always hated that saying.
But as she looked out the rearview mirror and could almost feel her past breathing on the back of her neck through the swirling desert dust, she didn’t care what anyone said. Maybe it was true that she couldn’t run from her problems, but at least she could change their scenery.
***
On the dilapidated deck of her tenement apartment she sits with her morning coffee, her New Yorker and her ex-boyfriend’s guitar. He had taken back the ring but left the guitar. It had been broken, like the relationship. The guitar had been easy to fix. She couldn’t fix the relationship.
She drinks her coffee, flips through her magazine and flexes her fingers, preparing herself for the ultimate revenge. She is going to become a virtuoso guitar goddess. She will become a rock star using the guitar that he had abandoned rather than take the time and energy to repair.
***
A mother holds tight to her child. Stroking his hair, she tries to hide the tears. She will swallow her anxiety until she has read his bedtime story that he will never understand. She knows now that he will never understand. That language will always be lost on him. The doctors have told her that langue will always be a foreign concept to her beloved child.
She will read the story, she will say prayers with him and she will kiss him on his forehead, and that, that kiss will be all he understands. She will be okay with that.
***
I also want a place to chronicle my writing. So, I thought I'd put some drabbles (100 word stories) here. These were all done in 2007 at
crackwhore_muse. They're all PG at best and though I hadn't imagined they'd be interrelated, I guess one could see the same nameless characters in each story...if one wanted to. :)The protean nature of his personality was what she’d admired about him. The never knowing what she’d find. Now though, its true nature revealed itself and she’s just exhausted. The work involved in gauging his emotions; running ahead of his outbursts to see the outcome, easing him towards it.
The hospital said it was good to let go. The guilt of failure she felt would have eaten at both of them. Now her culpability would only consume her. He’d now be free to create his own reality every day. She would be the one stuck in the old tedious one.
Packing the kitchen hadn’t hurt, neither had the bathroom; there were only so many memories inspired by aspirin. It’s the bedroom that got her falling into a puddle of misery. The objet trouvé this time was his red Bic lighter. Holding it to her breast she remembered that when the lights went out in the last storm he had lit candles all around the apartment with it.
She carries it to the fireplace where the rest of his possessions lie. Going to strike the flame that will erase him; she discovers that like him, the Bic has lost its flame.
She holds the shimmering ball in her hand and hefts its weight lightly; feeling its power radiating, calling to her. Taking a deep breath she studies her guru. He stands on the parched soil in his Birkenstocks, hemp clothing and dreadlocked hair.
The aplomb stance of a seasoned professional emanating from his unkempt and sloppy posture, he shows her the way to roll the ball to the tip of her fingers and let its own inertia bring it back.
She needs this to work. When her life spins out of control and she feels lost and alone; having this oddly hypnotic skill will save her.
Looking into the crystal ball had never done anything for her. Cards hid their secrets; tea leaves bitter on her tongue. She’d started to look to the stars to prognosticate her calling. All it said was that she needed to move out of the city. She already knew that.
What she wanted to know was everything; was that too much to ask? She used to have everything—promise, hope, a future. Now she had uncertainty and hopelessness. She also had a fifth of rum that always told her the truth; and after a few more fingers; would tell her future.
Listening to him cursing fluently, she tried to stay angry. His juvenile behavior when faced with adversity amused her; which ofcourse made him angrier.
“John, wow that’s substantial cursing that is. You’re like a thesaurus of filth.”
He looked up and scowled at her. “You’re not helping.”
“Oh, but you see, I’m not trying.”
His cursing suddenly turned bilingual. If they weren’t in the situation they were, she’d be turned on.
But they were and as she took the mangled credit card and handed him the rock to open the door that way, she thought of few things less sexy.
Jillian had run as far as her Dodge Neon and ninety-two dollars would take her and still the freedom she longed for had thwarted her. There was that old saying; you can’t run from your problems, they will just follow you. She had always hated that saying.
But as she looked out the rearview mirror and could almost feel her past breathing on the back of her neck through the swirling desert dust, she didn’t care what anyone said. Maybe it was true that she couldn’t run from her problems, but at least she could change their scenery.
On the dilapidated deck of her tenement apartment she sits with her morning coffee, her New Yorker and her ex-boyfriend’s guitar. He had taken back the ring but left the guitar. It had been broken, like the relationship. The guitar had been easy to fix. She couldn’t fix the relationship.
She drinks her coffee, flips through her magazine and flexes her fingers, preparing herself for the ultimate revenge. She is going to become a virtuoso guitar goddess. She will become a rock star using the guitar that he had abandoned rather than take the time and energy to repair.
A mother holds tight to her child. Stroking his hair, she tries to hide the tears. She will swallow her anxiety until she has read his bedtime story that he will never understand. She knows now that he will never understand. That language will always be lost on him. The doctors have told her that langue will always be a foreign concept to her beloved child.
She will read the story, she will say prayers with him and she will kiss him on his forehead, and that, that kiss will be all he understands. She will be okay with that.
