For my next book I am putting together a collection of short stories I have written over the last 10+ years. A lot of them were products of Creative Writing courses I took going to college in the late 90's, early 2000's. This is one I wrote in just such a class and it started out as a third person story with two characters, but in re-writing it I have decided to change it to a first person narrative story. I've noticed lately that almost every book I've read in the last year have all been told in the first person, so I'm trying to become more familiar with this point of view. You will find common themes with a lot of my writing at this time and they are drama and heartache. Oh, to be a teenager in lust - I mean - love!
Here's a rough draft of my story...
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American Spirit
The
dry, burned taste of smoke is the only thing keepin' me sane 'cuz I haven’t heard Jennie's voice in three days. The
one comfort I find is in the rumblin' sound of the Amtrak Surfliner passin' outside
my apartment. At least someone's gettin' outta here, I think. I push a stray piece of hair away from
my forehead and know immediately Jennie'll tell me it’s time for a
haircut. I hate it when she’s
right.
I
see my alarm clock glowin' in the growin' darkness across my bedroom. 8:15 it says. She texted she’d be here at 7:30, so in Jennie Land, she’s
right on time.
I felt so relieved when we first met, outside of a
coffeehouse three months ago. Our first conversation lasted for hours. We mostly discussed important things
like if we really believed the world was gonna end in 2012 or if we liked drivin' with the windows up or down on the freeway. And every time I looked into Jennie’s
mockingbird-blue eyes I was sure she was finally my fair shot after so many
unfair shots at love. I hate it
when I’m wrong.
I
get up from my chair to retrieve a bottle from the fridge. I’ve made the executive decision to
replace my glass of water with one of wine. Just like Jesus, I
think in my head.
I
hear the apartment door creak open and turn to see Jennie standin' there,
filling in the space in a way only her slight body knows how. She's wearin' her usual tight and
frayed gray wool sweater and I note she is holdin' onto nothin' now but her own
two hands.
“You
wanted to see me?” she says, trying so hard to sound unaffected by the distance
that has grown between us in the last few days.
Yes, I did want to see you, I think to
myself. She has this wild look in
her eyes and I can’t for the life of me remember why though. Why would I want to see someone who is so obviously repulsed
by me? You practiced everything you wanted to say so well, I tell
myself. It’s like a play. You just need to say your lines. But somethin' won’t let me. I take a seat back down in my chair and
decide she can talk all she wants tonight. I’m not sayin' another word.
