Putting a plan into action (finally)

So, the plan all along was to post short pieces of fiction I had written in this blog. Writing short fiction is a definite passion of mine, but I can never seem to finish anything. This first piece I am posting is not, by any means, my favorite or anything I am particularly proud of. In fact, I think I could have written it much better. It is, however, the first piece I have finished in a very long time. I do not have a title for it and will probably edit it a myriad number of times if I ever decide to do anything with it.

I like this piece because I wrote it at two very different points in my life. I began it not knowing how things were going to turn out. Things turned out in a way that I was hoping they would not. Like the girl in the story, I was in denial. Knowing was just too painful. But now I know and I am relieved.

Anyway, here it is.


She got out of bed because she could not sleep. He had been sleeping for quite a while. She knew she would wake him but it would be brief, a momentary interruption from his dreams. She did not feel badly. He often fell asleep first and had exciting and interesting dreams that he would tell her about in the morning. She often lay in bed long minutes and hours listening to him snore and would not have much to talk about in the morning, over coffee.

It was not his snoring that kept her from sleeping on this particular night, however. His snoring had, on other nights, delayed her slip into unconsciousness. Tonight, the darkness of the room and the vacancy of her mind prevented her from sleep. This dark room reflected the blankness in her head. Such blankness echoed so loudly that his beastly snores composed a lullaby lost in the background.

Awkwardly, she maneuvered her body over his to escape her bed’s embrace. He rolled over, awoke, and asked, sleepily, where she was going. She told him she needed water and offered to bring him something. He said yes and was satisfied. She knew he would very soon be asleep and bringing him something would only entail waking him again. She never intended to give him anything (and often made empty promises). She had not even stood before he began to snore.

She found her way out of the dark room, fumbling around a misplaced desk chair and trudging through worn clothes. A stray hairclip broke into pieces beneath her bare foot and she quietly cursed in the darkness, the pieces of her life.

Stairs creaked as she skipped down them. She hated the sound of these stairs but right now she found relief in the way they broke the empty silence of the apartment. Strangely, she felt like she was doing something, even if it was just making a noise, causing a racket.

Akin to a robot, she sat down at the dining room table in her self-designated seat. She stared straight ahead into the living room, and clasped her hands together in something like polite prayer. She sat still then, akin now to a statue, and freed herself from the constraints of time. She was well aware that a sleepy eyed boy would not appear at the bottom of the creaky stairs, to look for her, concerned. He did not miss her to hold onto in the darkness. He used miss her when she would leave a room too long in the middle of the day. He used to be that into her. But things were not that way anymore.

She did not let herself think about this though. She kept her mind blank. Blank was now how she got through her days, but blank was keeping her awake tonight. Blank prevented her from feeling, from admitting, being less than happy. She guessed this was better. It was better than knowing things had changed and that there was no one to blame. Time had simply passed.

It wasn’t a matter of how much time had passed- she suddenly needed to lie down. Pulling herself up and sliding her chair in, she turned to face the stairs. Then she faced the couch. She stood in a trance, seduced by its offer to let her collapse in weakness and rest until beams of sunlight pierced through the slits of living room blinds. Her trance was broken by the subtle sounds of snores.

These sounds grew louder as she climbed the creaky stairs. She entered her room and saw him, lying on his side, facing away from her. His back was bare and so she went to him, to cover him, because really, she loved him. He turned over and faced her. He lifted up the covers and stretched his arms out to receive her. She slipped into bed and he pulled her close beneath the blanket. He had no idea. Her head fit beneath his chin, cradled in the sling of his neck. He kissed her softly on the forehead, and moments later, began to snore. She was lost again, under the covers, secure in his embrace. It was good enough for now.

She drifted into a dreamless sleep, then, and slept the rest of the night, the best she could.

November: an artistically sad month

I have been dreading November for months. It had been looming in my future, a gloomy, orange shadow (when I hear November, I think orange). November was near enough to know my life would not be different when it came, but far away enough that knowing this depressed the hell out of me. I would still be here, working part-time with a less than desirable resume, having failed to seriously consider applying for graduate school. I would not have finished the book I have been reading since the summer and I would not have written any stories of my own. And I would be alone.

November is artistically sad- people sing about this. I know 20 emotional songs affirming the same thing: November is a fucking miserable month. The day gets shorter and the night gets longer. The weather gets cold and dead leaves fall like rain. Not to mention, it rains.

But today, November is exactly halfway over. Everything that I knew would be true in November is. Somehow, though, it doesn't make me too sad. I feel okay. I feel so okay that I cannot believe how quickly November is passing by.