Note: A small bit from my WIP ghost fic. It's another scene set in the past, written in second person. (Still not sure I like that.) Not edited by anyone other than me. Cheers!
Past (2)
You hate days when you have to dress in anything more formal than casual. It isn't that you don't like to look nice—that part, you love. No, it's the insane footwear society has forced upon you. You hate, hate, hate heeled shoes and the way they make your calves ache. You know it's your own damn fault, though, because you're too vain to wear flats that, while more comfortable, make you look completely ass-less in your long skirts and tailored pants.
You've learned a few tricks over the years, though. You wear slip on shoes as you make the short-but-just-long-enough-to-hurt-your-feet trek from your (okay, Matt's, since his is the only name on the lease) apartment to the Metro. You keep the comfortable shoes on for the first leg of your trip because there's really no rush to change when you're going to have to wait for your connecting train at one of the hub stops, anyway.
Unfortunately, when you're seated between an older black woman with a colorful suit and some tourists who look more confused than anything else, you know the inevitable can no longer be avoided. Opening your briefcase, which you carry mostly to look professional as it only holds your shoes and purse, you remove the dreaded pumps. They're really cute and fit like a dream but you know that will not save you.
Bending over to make the exchange, you get a different perspective of the people riding the Metro that morning. There's a caramel skinned man in a suit who looks about your father's age and a scowling teenager whose arms are crossed sullenly as he listens to some sort of MP3 playing device seated across from you. On the other side of the man is a couple sharing a seat. You pause with only one heeled shoe on to watch them for a moment.
The man, who can't be any older than you if that, is leaning into the corner of the car with his arms wrapped around the woman on his lap. Their heads are bent as if they're sharing secrets and you feel a pang in your heart. It's been a long time since there was anybody to whisper into your ear… longer still since you sat on someone's lap (unless you count Santa, which you don't). You offer them a lopsided smile when the man notices your less-than-veiled attention.
His eyes widen, as if surprised, and he opens his mouth. The brakes on the train slam suddenly and you have to concentrate fully on not being thrown into the older woman who, while sturdy looking, probably wouldn't appreciate being bombarded by a twenty-something with only one shoe on. You slip your other shoe on and close up your briefcase before you glance back over to the couple. They're gone, though, and there's only a stack of newspaper in the seat they previously occupied.
You furrow your brows for a moment wondering what that was all about, and then shrug it off. You have only two more stops before you get off and suddenly a wave of nerves hits you. You've never met your Representative before, and, even though you're only going to speaking with one of her aides regarding her stance on education policy, it's still kind of a big deal to you. Suddenly, you're almost glad you have your shoes to be annoyed about—it helped you forget to be terrified for a while.
You decide to send a thank you letter to Steve Madden when you get a chance as you stand up and prepare to exit. You even indulge in a smile before terror (and maybe a bit of excitement) overtakes you again.
Showing posts with label chapter. Show all posts
Showing posts with label chapter. Show all posts
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Sunday, April 19, 2009
09. fallen angels at my feet; whispered voices at my ear
Notes: This story is a work-in-progress chapter thing. I was somewhat inspired by the style of a book called Catfish and Mandala where the story is told in three ways--the present narrative, memories from the past and stories about the protagonist's family he wasn't present for. With that in mind, this Untitled Ghost Story Thing is going to be told similarly. There will be present narrative, memories from the past and stories about how the ghosts the protagonist sees lived/died. This here is the first bit I wrote and pretty unedited. Also, I'm not sure I like that it's in second person present tense as the other two chapter types are in third person past tense (for now, anyway).
Past (1)
It's late and even though you told yourself you'd be asleep by eleven, that time's long since passed. You know you could punish yourself but having to be at work by eight in the morning will be punishment enough and you know it. You'll be lucky if you don't drag all day and, since you work with elementary school aged children, that means you're almost guaranteed to be wrecked by three.
None of that matters now, though. You're in the zone. And, even though it's just a hobby to you now, you know that someday this art thing could be a career. (Well, really, you dream that it will be, hope that it could be and think it probably won't be. But that's neither here nor there.) You've even sold a couple paintings in your time but that was back when you lived in the suburbs. Here in the city, things aren't quite the same.
The real problem with working late is how tired you get. There are dark circles under your eyes, which will still be present tomorrow, you're certain. You've been fighting yawns for the past half hour, but you love the subject of your latest work so much that stopping is simply inconceivable to you. You don't so much want to finish as need to. His passing hit you hard and this is the only way you know how to cope. (Though you'd give up every iota of your talent if you could have him back.)
Those are the thoughts that make your heart break all over again. There's still a part of you that doesn't believe it's true—that he's really gone. He wasn't just a grandfather to you, is the thing. He was the man who showed you what caring really looked like. Sure, he was flawed—who isn't?—but he was also good. Good in the way that you (and your aunt and grandmother) aren't. Good like your mom and younger brother.
He did things like volunteer with Planned Parenthood and work for pro-choice legislation. When you asked about it once, he was surprised. "Why wouldn't I?" he'd asked you. "I have a sister, a wife, two daughters and a granddaughter. Almost everyone I love the most is a woman. I want them to have the same rights and education as men." Those words touched you like you'd never been touched before. They comfort you when you think about your dream man, wherever he may be.
"Do they really?" You swear that you can hear him asking the question in your minds eye. "Angel, you never told me that…"
It's only when he says his nickname for you—Angel—that you realize it's not in your head. The grip on your paint brush and mug of cocoa tightens and, slowly, you turn in your swivel chair. You've braced yourself for whatever you may see but, still, the sight of your grandfather standing before you with a pensive expression is shocking enough to make you drop both the brush and mug. The ceramic shatters when it hits the floor but you barely notice. "Pop-pop?" you whisper, voice uncharacteristically timid as you reach toward the image in front of you.
"Jelly!" the loud voice from the master bedroom shocks you out of your reverie and you promptly fall off your chair. "It's after midnight, could you please keep it down! Some of us care if we do good work at our jobs."
From the heap of limbs that is your new position, you scowl but don't respond with the witty retort just begging to be hollered back. You might hate your roommate (with a violent burning passion) but he is the best friend of the sweetest ex-boyfriend you ever had. Moreover, he did let you stay your first few months rent free.
Suddenly, remembering your grandfather, your eyes snap back to where he stood. But he's not there any longer. You wonder if that anchovy and artichoke pizza was a mistake because surely you didn't actually see your deceased grandfather standing in the middle of the room. You decide you must still be reeling from the funeral and all the hectic family time you suffered the week before.
Sighing, you clean up the mess that is your ex-favorite mug and begin packing up your supplies. If nothing else, you know that it really is time you head to bed. Hallucinations and angry roommates aside, you don't want to break anymore of your favorite things. And you know how clumsy you get when you're tired. Still, there's a pang in your chest when you close your eyes because you can still see him standing there, smiling just a little as he looks down at you with love in his eyes.
When you finally fall asleep, you're crying and it isn't the first time that week. Deep down, you know it won't be the last, either.
Past (1)
It's late and even though you told yourself you'd be asleep by eleven, that time's long since passed. You know you could punish yourself but having to be at work by eight in the morning will be punishment enough and you know it. You'll be lucky if you don't drag all day and, since you work with elementary school aged children, that means you're almost guaranteed to be wrecked by three.
None of that matters now, though. You're in the zone. And, even though it's just a hobby to you now, you know that someday this art thing could be a career. (Well, really, you dream that it will be, hope that it could be and think it probably won't be. But that's neither here nor there.) You've even sold a couple paintings in your time but that was back when you lived in the suburbs. Here in the city, things aren't quite the same.
The real problem with working late is how tired you get. There are dark circles under your eyes, which will still be present tomorrow, you're certain. You've been fighting yawns for the past half hour, but you love the subject of your latest work so much that stopping is simply inconceivable to you. You don't so much want to finish as need to. His passing hit you hard and this is the only way you know how to cope. (Though you'd give up every iota of your talent if you could have him back.)
Those are the thoughts that make your heart break all over again. There's still a part of you that doesn't believe it's true—that he's really gone. He wasn't just a grandfather to you, is the thing. He was the man who showed you what caring really looked like. Sure, he was flawed—who isn't?—but he was also good. Good in the way that you (and your aunt and grandmother) aren't. Good like your mom and younger brother.
He did things like volunteer with Planned Parenthood and work for pro-choice legislation. When you asked about it once, he was surprised. "Why wouldn't I?" he'd asked you. "I have a sister, a wife, two daughters and a granddaughter. Almost everyone I love the most is a woman. I want them to have the same rights and education as men." Those words touched you like you'd never been touched before. They comfort you when you think about your dream man, wherever he may be.
"Do they really?" You swear that you can hear him asking the question in your minds eye. "Angel, you never told me that…"
It's only when he says his nickname for you—Angel—that you realize it's not in your head. The grip on your paint brush and mug of cocoa tightens and, slowly, you turn in your swivel chair. You've braced yourself for whatever you may see but, still, the sight of your grandfather standing before you with a pensive expression is shocking enough to make you drop both the brush and mug. The ceramic shatters when it hits the floor but you barely notice. "Pop-pop?" you whisper, voice uncharacteristically timid as you reach toward the image in front of you.
"Jelly!" the loud voice from the master bedroom shocks you out of your reverie and you promptly fall off your chair. "It's after midnight, could you please keep it down! Some of us care if we do good work at our jobs."
From the heap of limbs that is your new position, you scowl but don't respond with the witty retort just begging to be hollered back. You might hate your roommate (with a violent burning passion) but he is the best friend of the sweetest ex-boyfriend you ever had. Moreover, he did let you stay your first few months rent free.
Suddenly, remembering your grandfather, your eyes snap back to where he stood. But he's not there any longer. You wonder if that anchovy and artichoke pizza was a mistake because surely you didn't actually see your deceased grandfather standing in the middle of the room. You decide you must still be reeling from the funeral and all the hectic family time you suffered the week before.
Sighing, you clean up the mess that is your ex-favorite mug and begin packing up your supplies. If nothing else, you know that it really is time you head to bed. Hallucinations and angry roommates aside, you don't want to break anymore of your favorite things. And you know how clumsy you get when you're tired. Still, there's a pang in your chest when you close your eyes because you can still see him standing there, smiling just a little as he looks down at you with love in his eyes.
When you finally fall asleep, you're crying and it isn't the first time that week. Deep down, you know it won't be the last, either.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
