Writing...

So, as you have most likely noticed, I have not written in a long time or posted anything in a long time, so here goes.

I began writing a new story after I realized that the reason I was having so much difficulty writing in the first place was because the story I was currently writing was very similar to a story I had already written. So I'm trying something else. I'm also just letting my hands type away and let the story goes where ever it wants to go: I'm not going to make happen what I want to see happen. Whatever happens happens. Hopefully it comes together and makes sense in the end. I'm not very far. This is what has happened thus far.

Beatrix, daughter of wealthy parents, has multiple personality disorder, though since I'm writing it, it's set in the middle ages, and therefore everyone thinks she's weird, and so her parents have kept her hidden for the sake of their reputation. Her sister, who is currently unnamed, is a criminal who helped assassinate the King and now wants to assassinate the Queen.

I know it doesn't sound like much, but we'll see what happens. Nothing is guaranteed.

The Book of Life ( Part V )

           Darkness. The sky wept a steady rain onto the chilled October afternoon. The graveyard sighed, saddened by the funeral it now held. The old man, in an oak casket, rested in peace. His white face, looking much too bright against the dim colors. Max, Alexandra, Sophie, and Geoff cried silently into the wind. The preacher said a lot of things that they did not want to hear. They knew all the good things their father had done and they did not need to hear the shortened, cold version from a man they nearly knew. Then came the hardest part: saying goodbye. The preacher finished his statement and turned to Max, Alexandra, Sophie, and Geoff, who all held white roses. One by one they gently placed the roses onto the casket. All their shoulders heaved against each other. Their sobs rose above the graveyard and were lost in the cloudy sky. I turned the page.

            The book had ended. A small end note was gracefully written in beautiful calligraphy.

Thus ends the life of Howard Vincent Grey. His children and grandchildren survive and will join his wife.

            I looked at the assistant who looked pleased. He told me to follow him in a collected voice. I felt the tension in his voice as if he was hiding something that desperately affected my life from here on out. He led me down a wide hallway and asked if I had any questions. Of course I did. I could spend weeks asking him all my questions, but I decided to wait and just ask one. I asked about the little girl. He told me that she was four when she died and had been dead for ten years. Her name was Lily Anne Edorson. Her older sister almost committed suicide three years later because of the guilt she felt. She was stopped by her mother, who found her sitting in her room with a knife. She had been living a good life here. He also told me that when she had first arrived, she could only say how wonderful the grandfather had been: she meant me. I was not her grandfather, but just a humble, seventy year old man, who loved children.

            We stopped walking and I found myself in a waiting room and saw, sitting in one of the chairs was my beautiful wife. I was so overjoyed that I thought I would have a heart-attack, if I could die again. We smiled as we gazed into each other’s eyes. I took her in my arms and enjoyed a long-awaited kiss from decades of being unable to hold her in my arms. I hugged her once more and looked up at the assistant who was beaming from ear to ear. He told us to follow him. He opened a plain oak door, like one in a clinic. Inside was a small girl sitting by herself enjoying the book she was engrossed in. She looked up at the three of us. I recognized the girl I had saved when I was seventy. She smiled and ran to give me a hug. My heart cried out to her, unable to believe this was the little girl from almost a decade earlier. Her face was no longer bloodied and her eyes were peaceful, no more horror. I picked her up and held her in my arms. She motioned to the table, where an envelope rested. She took it and handed the white envelope to me. It bore my name. I sat, with the little girl in my lap, and read the beautiful letter:

            Dear Mr. Grey,

                        Thank you for being there for me when no one else was. You reminded me of my grandfather before he passed on. He would read to me and hold me, just like you had. I was scared and did not know who else to turn to. But you were there. You kept me safe and you held me when I was most desperate. So thank you, Mr. Grey. I have thought of you for these past ten years and I have watched you. You are a good man. Thank you for touching my life and going through the pain you did just to keep my company and to help my passing.

                                                                                                                        With all my love,

                                                                                                                        Lily Anne Edorson

            I did not understand how a four year old could write such a beautiful letter, though everything seemed almost impossible, so I did not ask. She reached her small fingers toward my face and wiped the tears from my cheeks. I smiled at her kindness. The assistant tapped me on the shoulder and told me to go with him. He led me to a room across from Lily’s. It looked identical. My wife stayed with Lily. We sat on the plastic chairs. He asked if I knew the purpose of my life. I thought I had, but I did not know anymore. He spoke:

            You thought your purpose was to be good to your family. You did your best. Well done. But now I think you have realized that your purpose has changed. You affected so many people in your life for the good. You played with your younger brother when your friends did not want to. You married a wonderful woman, who bore you four beautiful children. You raised them to the best of your ability, despite your depression from your wife. You helped your mother get through the most difficult time of her life: her husband’s suicide. You think you failed with Geoff, but you did not. You were firm with him when he needed it most. He has become a good husband and a good friend. You helped Ms. Edorson in a time when she needed someone. You did not save her life, but you eased her passing. She has been grateful for the past ten years. She loves you very much. You have led a good life. You made a difference in those around you, despite what you think.

            Tears sprang to my eyes as I listened to the good things I had done in my life.  I could not believe that I had been an influence for so many people. My heart cried with joy. The assistant smiled tenderly aware of my happiness. A man opened the door. His brightness was above anything I had ever seen before. The assistant motioned or me to stand. The man came to me and took me in his arms. I cried more, hoping that my eyes would run out of tears. He looked into my eyes:

            Howard, you lived your life to the fullest, never leaving a moment untouched. You have nothing to fear or regret from your life. Well done, thou good and faithful servant.

The Book of Life ( Part IV )

A cozy room filled with soft orange light from lamps lit around the small room. Books slept, crammed like sardines, on the deep cherry shelves. Their cracked leather covers complained of being cramped and beaten from years long gone. An over-stuffed leather chair and ottoman caressed a man with thinning grey hair. His dusty jeans with a well-worn look were paired with a flannel shirt that snapped. A newspaper, like a blanket, covered the slumbering man while his glasses hung gently off his ears. The window behind him had long went dark and made no attempt of lighting itself anytime soon. I remembered this place: my favorite spot in my house. All my children had either moved out or married. I was carefree and preparing for retirement. I had just finished the last touches to the small library in the front of the house. I had hoped to retire in five years at sixty-five. I had the rest of the house to finish, but I wanted a place to rest and relax from my daily chores and chaos of remodeling. I knew I had picked a much too comfortable chair. I would do more sleeping than reading in that blasted chair. It had been a lovely year. A granddaughter had been born, thanks to Alexandra getting married six years before. It had been a lovely wedding. All the family was there, even Geoff, who ended up running away. He began to turn his life around: becoming a member of Alcoholics Anonymous. It was one of the best choices he had ever made, especially since most of his choices seemed to be pretty lousy. I tried not to judge him and just treat him like my son, which proved difficult at times. He was a good kid. I sat and thought of my family and my love for them. I smiled gently: the corners of my lips barely moving, if they moved at all. I turned the page.

            A street unfolded: not busy like the ones in New York but almost small enough to be built of cobblestone. Small children walked down the sidewalk, trying not to get into trouble. An older child, perhaps an older sister, walked with them to a small candy shop on the corner. They passed an older man, who was shuffling along. His cane, made of walnut, tapped against the concrete with each step. He stopped at the crosswalk and watched the small group of children walk into the candy shop, except for a small girl, about four. She watched the other children through the window, decorated with candy displays. Her little brown pony tail hung down her back in disappointment. Then I remembered seeing an argument take place, unknown to the older sister. She had been made to stay outside. Being a four-year old, her patience grew thin quickly. She saw a beautifully lit sign across the road that caught her attention. Without checking both ways before she crossed the street, she dashed into the traffic. Car tires screeched to a halt, trying to avoid the little girl. The old man watched in horror as the little girl’s life flashed before her eyes. A teenager—the old man recognized him—not paying attention to the cars in front of him, hit a blue SUV, which hit the red Honda which inched forward just enough to hit the small girl. She fell to the ground. I ran to the girl, her face bloodied from the force. Her miniscule bones had broken and cracked. Her voice rang shrill through the air. Tears streamed down her face as she looked deep into my eyes. Her bright blue eyes, like baseballs, stared into my soul as I held her fragile body in my arms. She was terrified. I looked up and saw the older girl running after us. I told the little girl that she would be alright, but I knew better. I could feel her lungs fighting, trying to get any molecule of air into her lungs. Her heart began to beat erratically and her lungs began to seize. The tears burned as I held them back in my tear ducts: oh, how they burned! I felt the last breath leave her tiny body and went still. I felt like my heart died along with hers and I would never be able to feel whole again. The older sister reached us with a horrified look. Her hands shook as she looked on her younger sister who now lay lifeless in my arms. I held the young girl and rocked her body back and forth like a mother quieting a crying child in a rocking chair. My joints screamed with pain but I had to ignore it. This little girl had been someone’s pearl and now she was gone. I thought of my own children who I could have just as easily lost, with all the careless baby-sitters I had hired. The older sister knelt next to us and began to weep openly. I only noticed my left arm surround her shoulders: I was out of feeling. I did not notice the ambulance arrive or the police. I hardly noticed when they took the little girl out of my arms. All I knew was that life could be so short, it could end at any moment. We just had to do whatever we could with the time that was given to us. Small tears repelled off my cheeks and onto the picture. I took a deep breath and slowly turned the page.

The Book of Life ( Part III )

Snow covered mountains reached to the pure blue sky above them, reflecting in the mirror lake below. There weren’t any clouds in the sky. In the bottom right corner I saw a family of five sitting posing for a picture: Me and my four children: Max, Alexandra, Sophie, and Geoff. I was hoping to see my wife there and then I remembered. Two years before she had passed away from cancer at thirty eight: we had been the same age. I never remarried and it took me years to get over. Max, thirteen years old, had suggested we go on a vacation so I could take my mind off things. We all took a trip to Idaho to see the mountains and go hiking. We camped as we went: nothing had been planned ahead. We were completely free of time constraints. I had a month off of work as a restaurant manager. It was a wonderful three weeks with my children. I dreaded going home to the house that my wife and I had started our lives together. That was one of the hardest times in my life. I had not exposed myself to these deep thoughts of my wife for years and I began to cry out openly. I turned the page.

            Banners of gold and blue filled a damp garage. Those awful colours were everywhere: the walls, tables, flowers, plates, and even the food were the monstrous colors. Then I remembered. Sophie dressed in a beautiful white summer dress ran around hugging friends and family. Her hair, curled especially for the occasion bounced as she skipped from one person to another. Geoff was not around, having fought with us, well me, the night before. My smile faded into sadness. The previous night I had caught Geoff in his room passed out. Alcohol and drugs were spread out on the floor next to his body. He was in a sad position, body crammed between his bed and the wall from gravity pulling on the small weight of his body. I remembered yelling at him, telling him how disappointed I was. I had said such terrible things: I hated him, I didn’t want him to become like my father: an abusive drunk. He swore at me and threatened to hurt me (I knew he would never dare to hurt his sister). He ran, breaking the door in his wake. I clenched my jaw and began to turn the page. The assistant reached out and told me to continue on the page (I forgot I wasn’t alone). I returned my shaking hand to my lap, puzzled: why did I need to stay on this page? What did I need to learn? I had been fifty years old, I thought I had handled the situation appropriately. I continued looking at the page and saw, deep in the corner, a small image. My nose almost touching the tender pages, I could scarcely make out the faint shape in the distance. There he was, dressed in black, keeping to the shadows: Geoff. He had returned! He had loved his sister so. I looked up as the assistant grunted, holding another large leather book, similar to the one in my hands. He placed the open book on top of my book and motioned for me to look. The picture was confusing, very fuzzy. I saw the same scene in my book, though it was in a different perspective: Geoff's. The book seemed to bring about a depressed feeling. I watched as the scene unfolded. I noticed a stream of words running across the bottom, like a news reel: his thoughts. If only he understood my pain. I don’t do this on purpose. I feel so lost and alone. ...maybe if I end it I will be happier, though I doubt he would feel better. ...Please don’t bring mom into it. I feel bad enough as it is. I love you, I really do. I’m lost and I need help. I’m sorry you had to find me this way. That wasn’t exactly the plan. I am under a lot of stress. Your support would be nice, not this rage of anger. You are beginning to remind me of the stories of grandpa. My heart sank into my stomach. It felt like I had been shot in the chest. I could not believe how unhelpful I had been. I loved him so much and I made him feel like nothing, the exact opposite of what he was. I looked up at the assistant who gently closed the book and toddled off. With a guilty heart, I turned the page.

The Book of Life (Part II )

I noticed a small tree house standing high overlooking the cliff across the street. Three young boys played around under the tree while one remained in hiding above in the tree house. My father had helped us build that tree house. The boy above was my little brother George, keeping watch to make sure no girls were around while us, older boys, played beneath. My mother was angry with me for not letting George play. I had responded that he was too young for our games. She replied that he was eight and not an idiot. And that two years wasn’t that big of a difference. The next time my friends, Johnny and Billy, came over George played with us. He tried to do his best, but he didn’t know how to play. It would have helped if we had told him that you were supposed to hide every now-and-again and not just run up and try not to get hit by the pirates. I turned the book and strained to see what was in the binding: I noticed a tall, thin man. It was my father. He was yelling at me to quit playing and do something productive. That was the first time he’d yelled at me when he was drunk. It only got worse. I shook my head remembering what my father had done to me and my little brother. I could only fathom what he had done to my mother. Saddened, I turned the page.

            Behind the large group of people was a little church. I noticed myself standing awkwardly in a tuxedo next to my bride. It was my wedding day: one of the happiest moments in my life. My father had thought I got married too young and did not attend the wedding. My mother, bless her heart, tried to convince him that twenty was not too young to be married and that he should come to the wedding anyway. He stayed at home and got drunk. My brother and sister, George and Sheila, stood in the wedding party. My wife did not have any siblings so mine were the bridesmaid and groomsmen. My brother was looking at my wife’s second cousin who was quite pretty: later becoming his wife. I looked to the bottom of the page. A small black car with colorful windows and streamers everywhere was to be our get-a-way car. We fought through all the flying rice: it had not been banned yet. I smiled remembering the next few years with my wife. I turned the page.

            There was an office. It was small and cramped. I stood next to my desk on the phone with someone. I did not know who, I had been on the phone with many people during my occupation as assistant for an automobile CEO. I looked to the assistant who seemed so eager to help me fill in the gaps. He looked solemnly at the navy blue carpet and told me that I was on the phone with my mother, who was sobbing. It was October 7, 1997. Tears came to my eyes remembering that awful conversation with my mother. She was indeed sobbing. She had come home after a long day at work. She had told me she stayed at the school as long as she could before going home so she would have to spend as little time with my father as possible: he was drunk most of the time now and he was an abusively mean drunk. When she entered the door, she did not hear yelling of the most vulgar language imaginable like she usually had. It was silent. She knew something was wrong. She carefully made her way into her bedroom. She turned the light on and screamed from what she saw. There was my father, his feet not quite touching the top of her bed. Blood had pooled on her bedspread. She found a note carefully placed on her desk. It was a suicide note from my father. She never disclosed what it had said to me. As I looked at the picture that was in front of me: me in the office, I could see the permanent stress in my facial expression: I looked almost forty five instead of thirty. I had remembered feeling the slightest hint of joy after that horrifying phone call. My father was gone and he could not hurt us anymore. Hoping to forget the terrible sounds of my mother’s cries, I turned the page.

The Book of Life

        My apologies for not posting earlier...yes it's been twelve days. My apologies. So...

This is a draft to revision piece (short story) and I really ran with it. My draft was nothing like this result, but it was a start. Since this piece is like ten pages long, I will post it in sections.. and perhaps it will help with the suspense. :) That's the hope anyways... So here it is: The Book of Life. Or at least part of it... 

   The Book of Life, as it was called, was made of dark leather and worn from constant use in the past one hundred years. The pages were wrinkled and slightly torn from getting to certain pages quickly. It lay before me now, on the table for my viewing. I was afraid to look at it: afraid of what I might find. Had I lived the life I thought I had or was it all just a big myth and did not matter in the end? I was about to find out, though I was not sure if I really wanted to. I was urged to take the book and open it and contemplate the contents. I was assured that it was not too scary and that I had nothing to lose any more; I am what I am and that’s the end of it.

            I opened the cover and came upon the title page. There, in black ink, my name was listed. Under the careful letters of my name, I found the names of my parents, my brothers and sisters, my wife, and my four children: Max, Alexandra, Sophie, and Geoff. I was amazed to see all of my information listed as well: Date of Birth, Address, etc. Though there was a number I could not recall; it was listed under my social security number. It was twenty digits. I turned toward the assistant who had helped me earlier with a confused look on my face. He laughed and told me that my reaction was not uncommon and that the number was my birth number. Out of all the people born on the earth that was the number I was. I was young compared to some of the numbers they had nowadays. I turned the page.

            The two sheet spread showed a scene that seemed to be in a hospital. Light greens and yellows were surrounding the edges like a blanket. There were two faces in view: my mother and father. They both looked happy. Flowers cluttered the far corner and I noticed a small girl, who would have been my older sister, Sheila. Overall, she looked happy, but angry about the pink paisley dress that my father had obviously picked out for her to wear. I laughed with delight and turned the page.

The Oak Door

So, there is a scary oak door in our basement, which really freaked me out at night and especially when I was home alone. Oh...and I get scared really easily. Just some background to the piece. Enjoy...?

The Oak Door

My mind began to wander as I sat down at the computer, dreading the history paper I had to write. I thought about my day and all the frustrations I had and then it hit me. I turned around to look behind me. The hallway was ominously dark; anything could have been hiding down it: a person, a monster, anything. Yet it remained with the old brown door at the end. The black outline and cracks on the edges of the door made it seem as though anything terrifying from my mind would come charging through ready to kill me, or worse, if such a thing existed. But it was only seven o’clock in the evening and I was an adult. I should not be afraid of my imagination, despite the fact that it comes up with the most horrific things. I should be used to it by now, but alas, I am not.

            I turned back to the computer screen trying to rid my mind of the images and petrifying scenes in my head (everything from my crystal imagination, horror movies, or any scary scene I had ever beheld) and focus on something that I pretended was worthwhile. Though an insignificant sound made my nerves tense and my heart painfully skip a few beats. My eyes wide, I slowly turned in the navy swivel chair expecting the worst. I squared my shoulders to the door, angered that the computer faces away from it. The door stands alone: quiet and haunting as if it is straight from a Stephen King novel. I could only imagine what could come from its vexing powers. The light, however, only accentuates the light grains making the black outline and cracks more predominant and all the more terrifying. Determined to diminish my terror once and for all, I stood and never lost sight of the door as I turned on the living room light: the basement glowed. I sat in my chair, content that I had banished all my fears from existence and began writing the blasted paper. The wind howled in the silent night and all my fears came rushing back, plain as day. I ran upstairs with a notebook and began hand writing the paper, avoiding the oak door at all costs, as if it was the door that led to the underworld of hell, ready to release all its dark creatures on me. Then I would die and no one would understand how when all that was there was a simple oak door.