Shoreless Ocean, you stretch far before me.
The nearest and farthest reaches of sight
Are filled with pristine blue and foamy white,
The mirror of the vast sky above thee.
The birds drink your water that makes blind see.
Your surface glows even at dark of night.
Your tide ever sweeps with glory and might.
If drowned in your depths, alive I would be...
Yet I lie here in my arid sand pit.
Like a beached whale, I sit here and wait
For the tide to come and wash me away.
If I could only get one finger wet...
The tide waits on me and it's getting late.
I fear I'll yet thirst at passing of day.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Italian Sonnet: attempt number one
As Sister Winter gently plants her kiss
So nonchalant upon my naked face
My frosted heart retreats inside this space
To long after the right she did dismiss
The sky is dead, life's cycle seems amiss
Wrapped up, look out the window's frosty lace
Shut up inside this somehow sacred place
And wonder how a season such as this
With frozen ground now armed with icy shield
And how closed doors and insulated cracks
Could fragile hope here gently incubate
Do not forget the green it soon will yield
For soon we'll stretch our legs, unfold our backs
Bare heart, you will no longer hibernate
So nonchalant upon my naked face
My frosted heart retreats inside this space
To long after the right she did dismiss
The sky is dead, life's cycle seems amiss
Wrapped up, look out the window's frosty lace
Shut up inside this somehow sacred place
And wonder how a season such as this
With frozen ground now armed with icy shield
And how closed doors and insulated cracks
Could fragile hope here gently incubate
Do not forget the green it soon will yield
For soon we'll stretch our legs, unfold our backs
Bare heart, you will no longer hibernate
Friday, January 16, 2009
The Prototype: The Message (very rough draft)
It looks like an ocean, no, an infinite slab of glass. Yes, the smoothest obsidian glass, with little holes where the ocean of pure light that lay behind is able to escape through. The pressure behind is building. Now, all we see is the droplets. Soon, I feel, we will see the ocean. The obsidian gate, no, curtain will disintegrate. The purest ocean of light will stretch forever and ever. That is what it looks like. Hope. That is what it feels like.
Those were just a few of the thoughts going through Pathos’ exceptional mind. He sat there on that hill alone, always alone. His only companions were the sea of tall grass brushing and blowing against him and the clear night sky above him. Nature had always been Pathos’ favorite companion. It was usually his only companion. It was not that Pathos did not want anyone’s company. He just wanted to be in the company of those that understood him, those that cared for him despite his eccentricities. Nature understood. Nature cared. Nature brought with it a sense of peace.
A soft breeze flowed through the air around Pathos. It caused the tall grass to dance and his chestnut hair to skip. It whistled in his ears a tune of utter serenity but also one of dark mysteries. The kind of mysteries that make you wary and exhilarated at the same time. The kind that makes you want to jump to your feet and dance, shout a restless chorus from your mouth, and run, run in any direction with no intent to cease. Pathos would have done just that had he not been captivated with the stillness of the moment. Those were the moments he treasured. Those were the only times he felt at least a little bit of release from the bitterness of life. Pathos was one truly weary of the world. He was a diamond in the rough and was constantly battered and bruised by the harsh environment. He was a sixteen-year-old prodigy in a population of barbarians. In a time when people, in their near-sightedness, refrain from looking and judging beyond the surface, Pathos longed for his heart to be heard.
Pathos dropped his head to his knees, which he held against his chest. Why must I be this way? Why must I be so different? What caused me to be like this? A single, heavy tear rolled silently down his cheek. It was like the warming touch of a good friend when they wrap their arm around you. It brings a subtle, unquestioning comfort, but also proves that something must be wrong. It brings out the pain and dulls it at the same time. One tear is never enough to really comfort, but one tear is enough to cause one to accept that the pain is real. Pathos’ pain was real.
Writing and literature had always been Pathos’ true love. It was that love that, at age five, caused him to choose that name for himself. It seemed fitting to him. It was true, at least to himself. The story of his life had always carried with it a deep pathos, and if anyone cared to read it, they would not be able to help but feel a strong sense of compassion and sorrow. Actually, most people’s stories carried with it the same sort of pathos, but the world tends not to read one’s story. The world tends to focus on only their own story, and sometimes they even feel that their’s is the only story. One of the extraordinary things about Pathos was that he did not dwell on his own story. He knew that there were so many other stories out there to be read. He could look into someone’s eyes and read their story. He could see them and know them at the same time. That was one of the reasons he spent so little time around people. He found that when he was around other people often, he became much more depressed. By reading so many stories and feeling so much emotion for those whom the stories belonged to, he wanted very much to do something for them. The fact that people were so closed to outside help stopped Pathos from being able to do anything for them. This was what caused his depression.
That night, Pathos sat there on the grassy hill underneath the star-filled night sky in contemplation. Something had happened earlier that day that caused him to sit in wonder. It was surprising that a mind so extraordinary as Pathos’ could ever be caused to wonder by anything, but this flummoxed even his mind.
Where did that voice come from? It can’t have been actually born in my own mind. Why would I send a message like that to my own mind? I do not even quite know what the voice in my mind spoke of. “At the point where nothing meets nothing, there you will find something. Come, come to me. I hold a perspective that you have not. Two halves shall become one soul.” That was what the voice spoke to me. If I was not the one sending the message, than why was the voice in my mind my own voice? It sounded just like something I am thinking now, but that thought was out of the blue and in the second person. My mind will not rest until I have discovered the answer to this message. From inquisition through toil does illumination birth.
Pathos slowly arose from his spot on the rolling hill. He savored the beauty of movement. Pathos ran, not hurriedly, but quick and gracefully. He was not rushing. No, Pathos never rushed. He knew too much about life and beauty to ever rush. As he ran over and past the flowing hills that seemed to wave to him as he passed, he thought. Pathos spent every waking moment thinking, contemplating many things of a vast variety. He had come to many conclusions in his young lifetime, but he had come to many more questions than conclusions. He thought a lot about that strange feeling he sometimes had. Every now and then, a feeling would come over him that made him question himself and wonder if there was something more. He wondered if there was something about the universe that was more immaterial than the wind but more powerful than the tempest. More fearsome than fear itself but more beautiful than the purest essence of life. More lovely than love. The more he thought about it, the more he longed for it; the more he longed for it, the hollower he felt. Pathos very much wanted to have faith. He was tired of relying so much on intelligence, but he was given so much intelligence that it hindered his path to faith.
As Pathos ran through a forest of strong oak trees, he decided he would practice having faith. He decided he should start out small and work his way up. Pathos made a firm commitment in his mind and will and heart that he would have faith that he would find the answers to this strange message he received. He would never stop until he found the messenger and the meaning of the message. He would go where nothing meets nothing and find something. That was the essence of faith, wasn’t it? To go where there is nothing and find something? To believe there is something there? Pathos believed.
He kept running and running and running. Pathos was a good runner. He ran often and for very long distances. He had decided quite a while back that he had legs for a reason, and he would use them to their extent. Pathos had never ever ridden in a car or a train or a boat or a plane or any vehicle. He had never had need to travel very long distances. Wherever he truly needed to go, he could get to by natural means.
After Pathos cleared the forest and crested a rather tall hill, he looked out and saw small houses with lights in there windows in the horizon. Before the houses were fields with crops growing and a country lane dividing the fields in half. He went through the options in his mind and decided that the best one would be to travel to the nearest farm house and offer to work the fields the next day in exchange for a meal and a bed to sleep that night. Pathos could easily steal some food without getting caught, but the thought never crossed his mind. Strangely, wrong thoughts never really did cross his mind. Pathos never actually thought, said, or did anything wrong. The option to do wrong never entered his thoughts. Since he never thought wrongly, he never became prideful of his morality. He was never self-righteous, but always righteous. He was quite an exceptional young man.
Pathos did exactly what he planned to do. He jogged down the other side of the hill and down the country path until he reached the first farmhouse. He knocked on the door, and an elderly, jovial man answered. He introduced himself as Hank Wilkinson and gratefully accepted Pathos’ proposition. As Hank led Pathos inside the small cottage, he explained that his wife Molly had just made up a nice big pot of baked beans. They also had an open bedroom since their son Jacob had moved out to search for success in New York. With a smile missing a couple teeth, Hank said to Pathos, “All the success I need is right here, in muh nice, peaceful farm. Nuthin’ but the soft earth, the flyin’, twitterin’ birds, and muh lovely wife. Mmhmm, nah them’s success.”
Pathos ate his fill and lay down on the comfortable mattress in the spare bedroom. As he was contemplating his next move towards the answer to the strange message, a thought popped into his mind.
Hmm, I wonder. Could it be possible? Would he hold the answers? He did make me the way I am, after all. He raised me until I was five, albeit I was in permanent sub-conscious. I suppose I have no other ideas at the moment. Yes, that is what I will do.
Pathos decided he would pay a visit to Dr. Erwin Gallagher.
Those were just a few of the thoughts going through Pathos’ exceptional mind. He sat there on that hill alone, always alone. His only companions were the sea of tall grass brushing and blowing against him and the clear night sky above him. Nature had always been Pathos’ favorite companion. It was usually his only companion. It was not that Pathos did not want anyone’s company. He just wanted to be in the company of those that understood him, those that cared for him despite his eccentricities. Nature understood. Nature cared. Nature brought with it a sense of peace.
A soft breeze flowed through the air around Pathos. It caused the tall grass to dance and his chestnut hair to skip. It whistled in his ears a tune of utter serenity but also one of dark mysteries. The kind of mysteries that make you wary and exhilarated at the same time. The kind that makes you want to jump to your feet and dance, shout a restless chorus from your mouth, and run, run in any direction with no intent to cease. Pathos would have done just that had he not been captivated with the stillness of the moment. Those were the moments he treasured. Those were the only times he felt at least a little bit of release from the bitterness of life. Pathos was one truly weary of the world. He was a diamond in the rough and was constantly battered and bruised by the harsh environment. He was a sixteen-year-old prodigy in a population of barbarians. In a time when people, in their near-sightedness, refrain from looking and judging beyond the surface, Pathos longed for his heart to be heard.
Pathos dropped his head to his knees, which he held against his chest. Why must I be this way? Why must I be so different? What caused me to be like this? A single, heavy tear rolled silently down his cheek. It was like the warming touch of a good friend when they wrap their arm around you. It brings a subtle, unquestioning comfort, but also proves that something must be wrong. It brings out the pain and dulls it at the same time. One tear is never enough to really comfort, but one tear is enough to cause one to accept that the pain is real. Pathos’ pain was real.
Writing and literature had always been Pathos’ true love. It was that love that, at age five, caused him to choose that name for himself. It seemed fitting to him. It was true, at least to himself. The story of his life had always carried with it a deep pathos, and if anyone cared to read it, they would not be able to help but feel a strong sense of compassion and sorrow. Actually, most people’s stories carried with it the same sort of pathos, but the world tends not to read one’s story. The world tends to focus on only their own story, and sometimes they even feel that their’s is the only story. One of the extraordinary things about Pathos was that he did not dwell on his own story. He knew that there were so many other stories out there to be read. He could look into someone’s eyes and read their story. He could see them and know them at the same time. That was one of the reasons he spent so little time around people. He found that when he was around other people often, he became much more depressed. By reading so many stories and feeling so much emotion for those whom the stories belonged to, he wanted very much to do something for them. The fact that people were so closed to outside help stopped Pathos from being able to do anything for them. This was what caused his depression.
That night, Pathos sat there on the grassy hill underneath the star-filled night sky in contemplation. Something had happened earlier that day that caused him to sit in wonder. It was surprising that a mind so extraordinary as Pathos’ could ever be caused to wonder by anything, but this flummoxed even his mind.
Where did that voice come from? It can’t have been actually born in my own mind. Why would I send a message like that to my own mind? I do not even quite know what the voice in my mind spoke of. “At the point where nothing meets nothing, there you will find something. Come, come to me. I hold a perspective that you have not. Two halves shall become one soul.” That was what the voice spoke to me. If I was not the one sending the message, than why was the voice in my mind my own voice? It sounded just like something I am thinking now, but that thought was out of the blue and in the second person. My mind will not rest until I have discovered the answer to this message. From inquisition through toil does illumination birth.
Pathos slowly arose from his spot on the rolling hill. He savored the beauty of movement. Pathos ran, not hurriedly, but quick and gracefully. He was not rushing. No, Pathos never rushed. He knew too much about life and beauty to ever rush. As he ran over and past the flowing hills that seemed to wave to him as he passed, he thought. Pathos spent every waking moment thinking, contemplating many things of a vast variety. He had come to many conclusions in his young lifetime, but he had come to many more questions than conclusions. He thought a lot about that strange feeling he sometimes had. Every now and then, a feeling would come over him that made him question himself and wonder if there was something more. He wondered if there was something about the universe that was more immaterial than the wind but more powerful than the tempest. More fearsome than fear itself but more beautiful than the purest essence of life. More lovely than love. The more he thought about it, the more he longed for it; the more he longed for it, the hollower he felt. Pathos very much wanted to have faith. He was tired of relying so much on intelligence, but he was given so much intelligence that it hindered his path to faith.
As Pathos ran through a forest of strong oak trees, he decided he would practice having faith. He decided he should start out small and work his way up. Pathos made a firm commitment in his mind and will and heart that he would have faith that he would find the answers to this strange message he received. He would never stop until he found the messenger and the meaning of the message. He would go where nothing meets nothing and find something. That was the essence of faith, wasn’t it? To go where there is nothing and find something? To believe there is something there? Pathos believed.
He kept running and running and running. Pathos was a good runner. He ran often and for very long distances. He had decided quite a while back that he had legs for a reason, and he would use them to their extent. Pathos had never ever ridden in a car or a train or a boat or a plane or any vehicle. He had never had need to travel very long distances. Wherever he truly needed to go, he could get to by natural means.
After Pathos cleared the forest and crested a rather tall hill, he looked out and saw small houses with lights in there windows in the horizon. Before the houses were fields with crops growing and a country lane dividing the fields in half. He went through the options in his mind and decided that the best one would be to travel to the nearest farm house and offer to work the fields the next day in exchange for a meal and a bed to sleep that night. Pathos could easily steal some food without getting caught, but the thought never crossed his mind. Strangely, wrong thoughts never really did cross his mind. Pathos never actually thought, said, or did anything wrong. The option to do wrong never entered his thoughts. Since he never thought wrongly, he never became prideful of his morality. He was never self-righteous, but always righteous. He was quite an exceptional young man.
Pathos did exactly what he planned to do. He jogged down the other side of the hill and down the country path until he reached the first farmhouse. He knocked on the door, and an elderly, jovial man answered. He introduced himself as Hank Wilkinson and gratefully accepted Pathos’ proposition. As Hank led Pathos inside the small cottage, he explained that his wife Molly had just made up a nice big pot of baked beans. They also had an open bedroom since their son Jacob had moved out to search for success in New York. With a smile missing a couple teeth, Hank said to Pathos, “All the success I need is right here, in muh nice, peaceful farm. Nuthin’ but the soft earth, the flyin’, twitterin’ birds, and muh lovely wife. Mmhmm, nah them’s success.”
Pathos ate his fill and lay down on the comfortable mattress in the spare bedroom. As he was contemplating his next move towards the answer to the strange message, a thought popped into his mind.
Hmm, I wonder. Could it be possible? Would he hold the answers? He did make me the way I am, after all. He raised me until I was five, albeit I was in permanent sub-conscious. I suppose I have no other ideas at the moment. Yes, that is what I will do.
Pathos decided he would pay a visit to Dr. Erwin Gallagher.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
The Proverbial Killed Cat
(from Dr. Cotton's class)
I'm not proud of this, it's painfully cliche...I don't do short stories well. But here it is anyway.
The wind tossed my hair around as I set my sights on the green newspaper vending machine across the street, across the raging current of traffic dotted with busy yellow taxis that were resolutely migrating their way upstream. I pulled my hat down more snugly onto my head and wrapped my long brown coat a little bit more tightly around my body. Crossing my arms over my torso to protect myself from the cold and the rest of the world, I stepped intentionally onto the crosswalk. Hurrying across the street, I got an eerie feeling from the cars that waited hungrily for the next green light.
Somehow, I survived my pilgrimage to printed news. I fumbled around in my pocket for loose change, enough to buy what would probably be a biased perspective on reality—recycled ideas to match the recycled paper. Despite this, I do what I can to support this industry, I try to make some kind of statement to society that readers are not extinct and there is still a place for words and graphics other than on a screen. I figure that if all else fails, the crossword puzzles are at least worth my time and money. I only left three blank yesterday and I’ve been dying to see the answers.
A penny, a dime, a couple nickels; everything except quarters is equal in value with pocket lint. Finally, I arrived upon a couple of quarters so I popped them into the coin slot and opened up the machine. To my dismay, there was nothing, nothing but the back of the vending machine. I gritted my teeth. They would be out of newspapers, I thought to myself. Just as I was about to close it and walk away, something caught my eye in the back of the newspaper machine. Thinking it might be a crumpled paper, I reached for it and to my surprise pulled out a smallish black book.
That’s odd. I cracked it open and saw handwriting scrawled across its pages with dates at the top left corners. It was a journal.
I’ve always had a problem with nosiness. I’m one of those medicine cabinet kinds of people—I like wearing sunglasses so that I can watch people without being seen watching them, and sometimes when I’m wearing headphones I turn off the music so I can listen to people’s conversations. It’s something I’ve been trying to overcome. Because of this, I didn’t quite know what to do. This would be a golden opportunity to satisfy my urges of curiosity, to read a journal containing a complete stranger’s most private thoughts. It had, in fact, come to me. And yet, how low could I stoop? In junior high, this would be one of the ultimate transgressions any girl could commit against another. I was bigger than this. It was not my business, and I would never overcome this snoopy habit of mine if I didn’t start making choices against it.
To keep myself from trouble I tossed it back inside and closed the machine. Sitting myself at my bus stop nearby, I was quite satisfied with my own willpower. Good job. Well done. I deserved congratulations. It was better just to let things be, to let life progress as it had intended, and to mind my own business. I glanced at my watch. At least 15 more minutes until the bus. That’s okay, you could use some time just to sit and think.
I was sitting and thinking quite nicely, but through a series of unexplainable events, I found myself having scavenged my person for two more quarters, and was now sitting with the book back in my hands again. I couldn’t help myself.
I opened up the book again and began reading. The handwriting seemed to move across the page in a familiar sort of fashion. It gave me a peculiar feeling that I couldn’t put my finger on. The way the “y’s” looped below the lines and the letters slurred together as if the author could not decide on cursive or print seemed almost recognizable.
I read, and as I read my suspicion evolved into shock and bewilderment as events that were detailed were far too similar to my own experiences to be coincidental. Each name that appeared on the page was that of someone I knew. Each place was a place where events of my own life had once taken place.
The pencil lines sparked my curiosity. Pencil was not my usual weapon of choice with which to assault a page. What if… I fumbled around in my coat pockets, my backpack and the pocket of my jeans until my quest was put to a halt by a man’s voice that came from behind.
“Here, I have what you’re looking for.”
I twisted my head around to see a tall, slender man wearing a long black coat. He was all wrapped up in a scarf and hat, and the only features I could make out were dark eyes and ebony skin. He nonchalantly extended his hand to offer me a classic-looking pencil with a bright pink eraser on the end. Because of the confusion that already surrounded my situation I asked no questions as I took the pencil from the man. I flipped to a blank page of the journal and wrote a single sentence: “I am confused.” I braced myself.
I sat there waiting for several seconds. I don’t know what it was that I was expecting to happen, but whatever it was, it didn’t.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” asked the man.
“I don’t know. I thought I would try something to…”
“Try again,” he said with a smirk scrawled across his mouth.
“Try what? All this is crazy and irrational and I…”
He cut me off mid-protest with an upraised palm. “Ah, but if I witnessed the scene correctly, you’re the one who couldn’t let it be. Think of it as an assignment. What do you do if you make a mistake on a test?”
Normally I would have taken offense to the manipulation of a complete stranger, but I could not help but feel a secret gratitude for any amount of direction in such an oddly ambiguous situation.
I thought for a moment and then flipped the pencil around in my hand and placed the eraser to the page. I rubbed out the word “confused” and replaced it with the word “angry”. Suddenly it was as though a switch had been flipped in my emotions that caused me to become engulfed by a fury, like rushing waters that had exploded through a broken dam. This unexplainable rage came over me for no apparent reason and I was left with the possibility that it had something to do with what I had just written. Quickly, I erased the entire sentence. The rushing waters inside me stilled and I quickly returned to my placid state.
The man who had been standing behind walked around and sat himself on the bench next to me. “Remarkable, isn’t it?”
I was flabbergasted. “I don’t understand. Tell me what’s going on,” I demanded.
The man chuckled to himself, an action which irritated me all the more.
“Hey, I don’t know who you think you are, but I don’t appreciate being the butt of this joke, whatever it is.”
He turned to look at me. “Well, perhaps you should appreciate it. People don’t come upon an opportunity like this everyday. And who I think I am is of no consequence. Perhaps you should be asking yourself who you think you are. Or, you could just read about it,” he said, with a grin and a nod of his head toward the journal I was holding. “Then again, be careful. You never know what you might find.”
His smug attitude nearly provoked me to tell him what I really thought of him, but I reluctantly decided to bite my tongue. I started flipping through the pages of the journal and witnessed the unexplainable records of my life, chronicled by my own hand. It made me feel quite uncomfortable, a naked sort of feeling. I flipped to a recent date, February 4 of this year, three days ago:
I lost my cell phone today. This disconnection from my digital leash leaves me feeling helpless. The more dependent we become on technology, the more I wonder what people ever did without modern conveniences. What if someone needs me? What if I get lost somewhere? It’s quite inconvenient, but an interesting reminder that as much as we try to control our lives, our environment, our reality, we are not God and are left at the mercy of things bigger than ourselves. Profound thoughts, all because of my lost cell phone. Alrigh, God, I get it. I’ve learned the lesson. Can I have my phone back now?
I turned to the annoying man of mystery. “It’s talking about my lost cell phone. This just happened a few days ago. These are my thoughts, this is my writing, but I didn’t do this. You seem to be so knowledgeable, so why don’t you let me in on your little secret.”
The man was gazing off into the distance, watching the traffic pass.
“Or not, you know,” I said, my tone a little sharper, “no big deal. Don’t inconvenience yourself.”
He sighed and shook his head, “Some things aren’t meant to be explained. Some things should just be accepted and experienced.” His low, leathery voice seemed to calm my racing thoughts despite the lack of explanation.
It was an odd experience in and of itself finding this book in a newspaper vending machine, but even more strange was meeting this man I’ve never seen before who had this insight into me, into my life, and into this paranormal event that had imposed itself upon my day. Yet, for some reason, my irritation was subsiding and I found myself warming up to him. There was something soothing in his voice, something in his demeanor that reassured me.
“You could keep exploring,” he said, “but again, be warned.”
Why does he have to be so cryptic? I sat and pondered for a few moments, the book in my lap and the pencil in my hand. Again, I put the eraser to the page, the February 4th entry. I rubbed vigorously until every trace of writing was gone and the page was left blank. A startling tickling sensation caused me to flinch and let out a squeak of surprise. This sensation continued, a tickling, something like a buzzing.
It was vibrating. Immediately I recognized what was happening. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my ringing cell phone. Incoming call: Mom. She would have to wait.
I stared with disbelief at the phone in my hand. “Ok, this is getting too weird.”
The man smiled at me. He began rubbing his hands together, “Weird, or exciting? You can’t deny that this is much more interesting than your typical morning.”
I couldn’t keep myself from smiling in agreement. “But if what just happened really happened, I mean, if I now have my phone after I just…”
He looked intently at me saying nothing, although the look on his face encouraged me to continue my thought. “Well, then I can just erase things and rewrite them, and they really happen. I can rewrite my life.”
The man nodded.
“Wow. This reminds me of something one of my English teachers used to say. ‘There’s no such thing as writing, only rewriting.’ Perhaps he had it more right than I ever realized.”
The man laughed, “Apparently so. So, what are you going to do now?”
What was I going to do now? This was not an experience for which I had planned, nor did I have any examples to follow. I continued to read the journal, and to add yet another twist to an already tangled plot I realized that the dates recorded extended past the current date. I began to read tellings of events that had not yet taken place. I read the beginning of the entry that would have been today’s:
The bus was several minutes late today. How am I supposed to portray a prompt, professional persona when I am at the mercy of the city’s flawed transit system?
I glanced at my watch which read 7:31, already a minute after the bus’s scheduled arrival time. Things were getting more peculiar with every passing moment. I continued reading. Tomorrow I would have an unexpected meeting with my boss: a promotion. Friday I would find twenty dollars on the ground. This coming weekend the concert my friends were planning on attending would be cancelled.
“It tells the future too?” I exclaimed.
The man was silent.
I kept reading and was suddenly taken aback by an entry dated sometime next week.
One never expects these things to happen, and when they do, the world seems to freeze around you. Suddenly all the fluff blows away and all that matters is what really matters. Mom’s accident has really shaken me. The hospital is a cold place; she doesn’t belong here. The beeping rhythm of her heart rate monitor seems to taunt me as I sit waiting, not knowing what’s going to happen.
Immediately the trite predictions I read previously paled in comparison to this foreboding prophecy. “Oh God, oh God,” I said to the man. “Did you know about this?” My tone had escaladed from perplexed wonder to panicked distress. I felt sick to my stomach.
“It’s time you stop questioning me and start answering yourself. For some reason fate has whispered a secret in your ear. With knowledge comes power, but as they say, ignorance is bliss. I tried to warn you.”
I was so overcome by everything that my eyes welled up with tears. “So what should I do?”
The man shrugged. “The choice is yours. Keep reading and risk reading more than you bargained for. It also seems we’ve reached the conclusion that you have the option of making changes. And then there’s the third option.”
“What’s that?”
“What you almost did already. Walk away.”
He was right, I almost did walk away. I should have walked away, and now I was the proverbial killed cat. Now I knew of my looming fate, or rather that of my mother, and I was faced with a decision.
I watched an elderly man slowly crossing the street at the intersection I had crossed earlier to get to the newspapers and my bus stop. Time waits for no one and neither do people who live inside of its constraints. The cars had the audacity to honk in objection to his slow pace, even seemingly inching up, anticipating a green light. They had no respect for him and the countless slippery seconds that had slid through his wrinkled fingers, seconds they had yet to experience. Time had slowed him down, passed over him like a storm cloud and left him drenched by its debilitating effects. He acted in this same drama in which I would soon be performing, whether tragedy, comedy, or both. Indeed, he had weathered the storm, and now he was crossing the same intersection that I had crossed in front of the same line of ravenous traffic. And he didn’t have a magical black book.
I turned to say something to my mysterious acquaintance, but to my surprise, he was nowhere.
I was puzzled, but it didn’t matter any more. I knew what I had to do. I saw my bus coming and gradually slow to a stop in front of me. I flicked out my watch. 7:37. I laughed to myself as I rose, leaving the troublesome black book lying on the bench. I did not want to be a confidant of destiny any longer; that was not my job. It was none of my business.
I boarded the bus and situated myself in a seat next to the window, breathing a sigh of relief. The hiss of the air breaks and groan of the bus’s tired engine signaled our departure, and I looked out the window to see a young man about my age who had just seated himself on the bench. He had picked up the book and the look on his face morphed into that of baffled confusion as he was leafing through the pages, just as I had. I smiled as we drove away.
The woman across the aisle from me was folding up a newspaper she had been reading.
“Excuse me, are you done with that?” I asked her.
She looked over at me. “Yeah, you want it?”
“Anything interesting?”
She shrugged and handed it over. “Eh, same old same old.”
I grinned. “That sounds perfect.”
I'm not proud of this, it's painfully cliche...I don't do short stories well. But here it is anyway.
The wind tossed my hair around as I set my sights on the green newspaper vending machine across the street, across the raging current of traffic dotted with busy yellow taxis that were resolutely migrating their way upstream. I pulled my hat down more snugly onto my head and wrapped my long brown coat a little bit more tightly around my body. Crossing my arms over my torso to protect myself from the cold and the rest of the world, I stepped intentionally onto the crosswalk. Hurrying across the street, I got an eerie feeling from the cars that waited hungrily for the next green light.
Somehow, I survived my pilgrimage to printed news. I fumbled around in my pocket for loose change, enough to buy what would probably be a biased perspective on reality—recycled ideas to match the recycled paper. Despite this, I do what I can to support this industry, I try to make some kind of statement to society that readers are not extinct and there is still a place for words and graphics other than on a screen. I figure that if all else fails, the crossword puzzles are at least worth my time and money. I only left three blank yesterday and I’ve been dying to see the answers.
A penny, a dime, a couple nickels; everything except quarters is equal in value with pocket lint. Finally, I arrived upon a couple of quarters so I popped them into the coin slot and opened up the machine. To my dismay, there was nothing, nothing but the back of the vending machine. I gritted my teeth. They would be out of newspapers, I thought to myself. Just as I was about to close it and walk away, something caught my eye in the back of the newspaper machine. Thinking it might be a crumpled paper, I reached for it and to my surprise pulled out a smallish black book.
That’s odd. I cracked it open and saw handwriting scrawled across its pages with dates at the top left corners. It was a journal.
I’ve always had a problem with nosiness. I’m one of those medicine cabinet kinds of people—I like wearing sunglasses so that I can watch people without being seen watching them, and sometimes when I’m wearing headphones I turn off the music so I can listen to people’s conversations. It’s something I’ve been trying to overcome. Because of this, I didn’t quite know what to do. This would be a golden opportunity to satisfy my urges of curiosity, to read a journal containing a complete stranger’s most private thoughts. It had, in fact, come to me. And yet, how low could I stoop? In junior high, this would be one of the ultimate transgressions any girl could commit against another. I was bigger than this. It was not my business, and I would never overcome this snoopy habit of mine if I didn’t start making choices against it.
To keep myself from trouble I tossed it back inside and closed the machine. Sitting myself at my bus stop nearby, I was quite satisfied with my own willpower. Good job. Well done. I deserved congratulations. It was better just to let things be, to let life progress as it had intended, and to mind my own business. I glanced at my watch. At least 15 more minutes until the bus. That’s okay, you could use some time just to sit and think.
I was sitting and thinking quite nicely, but through a series of unexplainable events, I found myself having scavenged my person for two more quarters, and was now sitting with the book back in my hands again. I couldn’t help myself.
I opened up the book again and began reading. The handwriting seemed to move across the page in a familiar sort of fashion. It gave me a peculiar feeling that I couldn’t put my finger on. The way the “y’s” looped below the lines and the letters slurred together as if the author could not decide on cursive or print seemed almost recognizable.
I read, and as I read my suspicion evolved into shock and bewilderment as events that were detailed were far too similar to my own experiences to be coincidental. Each name that appeared on the page was that of someone I knew. Each place was a place where events of my own life had once taken place.
The pencil lines sparked my curiosity. Pencil was not my usual weapon of choice with which to assault a page. What if… I fumbled around in my coat pockets, my backpack and the pocket of my jeans until my quest was put to a halt by a man’s voice that came from behind.
“Here, I have what you’re looking for.”
I twisted my head around to see a tall, slender man wearing a long black coat. He was all wrapped up in a scarf and hat, and the only features I could make out were dark eyes and ebony skin. He nonchalantly extended his hand to offer me a classic-looking pencil with a bright pink eraser on the end. Because of the confusion that already surrounded my situation I asked no questions as I took the pencil from the man. I flipped to a blank page of the journal and wrote a single sentence: “I am confused.” I braced myself.
I sat there waiting for several seconds. I don’t know what it was that I was expecting to happen, but whatever it was, it didn’t.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” asked the man.
“I don’t know. I thought I would try something to…”
“Try again,” he said with a smirk scrawled across his mouth.
“Try what? All this is crazy and irrational and I…”
He cut me off mid-protest with an upraised palm. “Ah, but if I witnessed the scene correctly, you’re the one who couldn’t let it be. Think of it as an assignment. What do you do if you make a mistake on a test?”
Normally I would have taken offense to the manipulation of a complete stranger, but I could not help but feel a secret gratitude for any amount of direction in such an oddly ambiguous situation.
I thought for a moment and then flipped the pencil around in my hand and placed the eraser to the page. I rubbed out the word “confused” and replaced it with the word “angry”. Suddenly it was as though a switch had been flipped in my emotions that caused me to become engulfed by a fury, like rushing waters that had exploded through a broken dam. This unexplainable rage came over me for no apparent reason and I was left with the possibility that it had something to do with what I had just written. Quickly, I erased the entire sentence. The rushing waters inside me stilled and I quickly returned to my placid state.
The man who had been standing behind walked around and sat himself on the bench next to me. “Remarkable, isn’t it?”
I was flabbergasted. “I don’t understand. Tell me what’s going on,” I demanded.
The man chuckled to himself, an action which irritated me all the more.
“Hey, I don’t know who you think you are, but I don’t appreciate being the butt of this joke, whatever it is.”
He turned to look at me. “Well, perhaps you should appreciate it. People don’t come upon an opportunity like this everyday. And who I think I am is of no consequence. Perhaps you should be asking yourself who you think you are. Or, you could just read about it,” he said, with a grin and a nod of his head toward the journal I was holding. “Then again, be careful. You never know what you might find.”
His smug attitude nearly provoked me to tell him what I really thought of him, but I reluctantly decided to bite my tongue. I started flipping through the pages of the journal and witnessed the unexplainable records of my life, chronicled by my own hand. It made me feel quite uncomfortable, a naked sort of feeling. I flipped to a recent date, February 4 of this year, three days ago:
I lost my cell phone today. This disconnection from my digital leash leaves me feeling helpless. The more dependent we become on technology, the more I wonder what people ever did without modern conveniences. What if someone needs me? What if I get lost somewhere? It’s quite inconvenient, but an interesting reminder that as much as we try to control our lives, our environment, our reality, we are not God and are left at the mercy of things bigger than ourselves. Profound thoughts, all because of my lost cell phone. Alrigh, God, I get it. I’ve learned the lesson. Can I have my phone back now?
I turned to the annoying man of mystery. “It’s talking about my lost cell phone. This just happened a few days ago. These are my thoughts, this is my writing, but I didn’t do this. You seem to be so knowledgeable, so why don’t you let me in on your little secret.”
The man was gazing off into the distance, watching the traffic pass.
“Or not, you know,” I said, my tone a little sharper, “no big deal. Don’t inconvenience yourself.”
He sighed and shook his head, “Some things aren’t meant to be explained. Some things should just be accepted and experienced.” His low, leathery voice seemed to calm my racing thoughts despite the lack of explanation.
It was an odd experience in and of itself finding this book in a newspaper vending machine, but even more strange was meeting this man I’ve never seen before who had this insight into me, into my life, and into this paranormal event that had imposed itself upon my day. Yet, for some reason, my irritation was subsiding and I found myself warming up to him. There was something soothing in his voice, something in his demeanor that reassured me.
“You could keep exploring,” he said, “but again, be warned.”
Why does he have to be so cryptic? I sat and pondered for a few moments, the book in my lap and the pencil in my hand. Again, I put the eraser to the page, the February 4th entry. I rubbed vigorously until every trace of writing was gone and the page was left blank. A startling tickling sensation caused me to flinch and let out a squeak of surprise. This sensation continued, a tickling, something like a buzzing.
It was vibrating. Immediately I recognized what was happening. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my ringing cell phone. Incoming call: Mom. She would have to wait.
I stared with disbelief at the phone in my hand. “Ok, this is getting too weird.”
The man smiled at me. He began rubbing his hands together, “Weird, or exciting? You can’t deny that this is much more interesting than your typical morning.”
I couldn’t keep myself from smiling in agreement. “But if what just happened really happened, I mean, if I now have my phone after I just…”
He looked intently at me saying nothing, although the look on his face encouraged me to continue my thought. “Well, then I can just erase things and rewrite them, and they really happen. I can rewrite my life.”
The man nodded.
“Wow. This reminds me of something one of my English teachers used to say. ‘There’s no such thing as writing, only rewriting.’ Perhaps he had it more right than I ever realized.”
The man laughed, “Apparently so. So, what are you going to do now?”
What was I going to do now? This was not an experience for which I had planned, nor did I have any examples to follow. I continued to read the journal, and to add yet another twist to an already tangled plot I realized that the dates recorded extended past the current date. I began to read tellings of events that had not yet taken place. I read the beginning of the entry that would have been today’s:
The bus was several minutes late today. How am I supposed to portray a prompt, professional persona when I am at the mercy of the city’s flawed transit system?
I glanced at my watch which read 7:31, already a minute after the bus’s scheduled arrival time. Things were getting more peculiar with every passing moment. I continued reading. Tomorrow I would have an unexpected meeting with my boss: a promotion. Friday I would find twenty dollars on the ground. This coming weekend the concert my friends were planning on attending would be cancelled.
“It tells the future too?” I exclaimed.
The man was silent.
I kept reading and was suddenly taken aback by an entry dated sometime next week.
One never expects these things to happen, and when they do, the world seems to freeze around you. Suddenly all the fluff blows away and all that matters is what really matters. Mom’s accident has really shaken me. The hospital is a cold place; she doesn’t belong here. The beeping rhythm of her heart rate monitor seems to taunt me as I sit waiting, not knowing what’s going to happen.
Immediately the trite predictions I read previously paled in comparison to this foreboding prophecy. “Oh God, oh God,” I said to the man. “Did you know about this?” My tone had escaladed from perplexed wonder to panicked distress. I felt sick to my stomach.
“It’s time you stop questioning me and start answering yourself. For some reason fate has whispered a secret in your ear. With knowledge comes power, but as they say, ignorance is bliss. I tried to warn you.”
I was so overcome by everything that my eyes welled up with tears. “So what should I do?”
The man shrugged. “The choice is yours. Keep reading and risk reading more than you bargained for. It also seems we’ve reached the conclusion that you have the option of making changes. And then there’s the third option.”
“What’s that?”
“What you almost did already. Walk away.”
He was right, I almost did walk away. I should have walked away, and now I was the proverbial killed cat. Now I knew of my looming fate, or rather that of my mother, and I was faced with a decision.
I watched an elderly man slowly crossing the street at the intersection I had crossed earlier to get to the newspapers and my bus stop. Time waits for no one and neither do people who live inside of its constraints. The cars had the audacity to honk in objection to his slow pace, even seemingly inching up, anticipating a green light. They had no respect for him and the countless slippery seconds that had slid through his wrinkled fingers, seconds they had yet to experience. Time had slowed him down, passed over him like a storm cloud and left him drenched by its debilitating effects. He acted in this same drama in which I would soon be performing, whether tragedy, comedy, or both. Indeed, he had weathered the storm, and now he was crossing the same intersection that I had crossed in front of the same line of ravenous traffic. And he didn’t have a magical black book.
I turned to say something to my mysterious acquaintance, but to my surprise, he was nowhere.
I was puzzled, but it didn’t matter any more. I knew what I had to do. I saw my bus coming and gradually slow to a stop in front of me. I flicked out my watch. 7:37. I laughed to myself as I rose, leaving the troublesome black book lying on the bench. I did not want to be a confidant of destiny any longer; that was not my job. It was none of my business.
I boarded the bus and situated myself in a seat next to the window, breathing a sigh of relief. The hiss of the air breaks and groan of the bus’s tired engine signaled our departure, and I looked out the window to see a young man about my age who had just seated himself on the bench. He had picked up the book and the look on his face morphed into that of baffled confusion as he was leafing through the pages, just as I had. I smiled as we drove away.
The woman across the aisle from me was folding up a newspaper she had been reading.
“Excuse me, are you done with that?” I asked her.
She looked over at me. “Yeah, you want it?”
“Anything interesting?”
She shrugged and handed it over. “Eh, same old same old.”
I grinned. “That sounds perfect.”
Neruda Plug
This is not really in line with our typical postings that are categorically original, but I can't help myself. If you have never read the poetic works of the master craftsman of language that is Pablo Neruda (all two of you that actually read this), run, don't walk to your nearest library, half-price book store, or black market vendor of literary merch and read some of his "verses of pastry which melt into milk and sugar in the mouth, air and water to drink, the bites and kisses of love," to use his own words (Sweetness, Always). Read that one. And then read the rest. And then try to catch your breath. Even if you don't, trust me, you'll die happy having been so moved by his unmatched workings of thoughts and images.
Robert Bly said it well in my Riverside Anthology of Literature when he asserted, "Compared to him, most American poets resemble blind men moving gingerly along the ground from tree to tree, from house to house, feeling each thing for a long time, and then calling out 'House!' when we already know it is a house."
I would commit myself to the Spanish language solely to experience the works of Neruda in their truest form. Actually, I am learning Spanish now, although it's my least favorite class. The professor is lame. But that's beside the point. The point is that it just might be worth it thanks to my dude, Pablo.
So yeah, it's possible everyone already knew how grand he is already and I sound really ignorant right now, but it doesn't even matter. I love him. I want to travel back in time and have his Chilean, beautiful, communist babies. Maybe you will too, if you don't already.
Robert Bly said it well in my Riverside Anthology of Literature when he asserted, "Compared to him, most American poets resemble blind men moving gingerly along the ground from tree to tree, from house to house, feeling each thing for a long time, and then calling out 'House!' when we already know it is a house."
I would commit myself to the Spanish language solely to experience the works of Neruda in their truest form. Actually, I am learning Spanish now, although it's my least favorite class. The professor is lame. But that's beside the point. The point is that it just might be worth it thanks to my dude, Pablo.
So yeah, it's possible everyone already knew how grand he is already and I sound really ignorant right now, but it doesn't even matter. I love him. I want to travel back in time and have his Chilean, beautiful, communist babies. Maybe you will too, if you don't already.
Betrayal
This story was written at the prompt of my friend, Allison Plummer, who goes attends the University of Missouri Ralla. There is a radio contest there for $50 in gas money for the person to write the best story/reason as to why they should receive the winnings. Here is my attempt:
Betrayal is a hard thing to stomach.
Stranded on the side of the road, out of gas—this was not the position in which I thought I would find myself when I left the house this morning. The alarm went off at the sinful 6 o’clock hour. The day was premature, only having existed for those six puny hours. Yesterday seemed so recent and sleep was something I somehow missed out on when I blinked last night. Now I had to peel myself out of my nice, warm bed and put my feet to the cold, unwelcoming floor and face another day.
An hour later, showered, dressed, and bitter I got into my car and turned the key in the ignition. The engine reluctantly turned over and the slow rumbling grew over the course of a few seconds.
“If I can do it, you can do it, Esmerelda.” Her exotic name seemed appropriate for her luscious, rusting 1992 Honda civic exterior in a dull but endearing navy blue tone. She’d been faithful over the years. What began as an embarrassment to my 16-year-old need for image maintenance grew into something like an annoying, quirky friend that grew on me while I wasn’t looking and now I can’t imagine myself without her. I think we have a sort of mutual understanding, a sort of symbiotic relationship, if you will. She takes me where I need to go and I keep her sheltered as much as much as possible and hydrated with gasoline. It’s a relationship characterized with joint respect and concern for one another and I had no reason to think that there was any sort of beef between us.
Esmerelda rolled down the driveway slowly, letting me in on her discontent at the trip commencement with a cloud of lavender-gray smoke streaming from the tailpipe in the rear. My dad’s diagnosis was that this was a symptom of burning oil; I knew that it was more of a physical manifestation of inner emotional unrest. “I know, Ezzie, momma knows...” I said patronizingly as I gave the dashboard a few loving strokes. A small flash of orange light in my peripheral vision caught my attention and my eyes migrated across the dash to my fuel meter. The low fuel light had just blinked on. This did not surprise me as I usually keep it filled in small increments based upon whatever small amount of cash I can reason with myself to part with for this obnoxious, environmentally unfriendly, money-guzzling cause. I often compared myself to the Biblical widow who miraculously always had just enough oil to get her and her hungry child through the day with nourishment. She emptied the jar to cook their bread for the day, and the next day she would wake up to find that there was miraculously just enough to do the same thing all over again. This comparison had made me feel noble although the pathetic puddle in the bottom of my car’s gas tank was something short of supernatural. It didn’t feel quite so miraculous when I was at the gas station, outside in the cold, fingers aching and lacking blood flow as they grasped the cold metal pump, cursing the day that this God-forsaken horseless carriage was invented.
So I found myself at the commencement of the daily commute trusting that this small amount of fuel in the tank would somehow be enough to get me where I needed to go until I was able to break out of my lethargy and find my way to a pump once again.
“Esmerelda, I’m sorry,” I said apologetically, “I know that it hasn’t been easy lately, I know that you’re probably frustrated with me, but I need you to do this for me today. Just this once, I promise I’ll do better. I promise to keep your tank fuller and not to leave you outside all night so that the ice accumulates and you have to be scraped in the morning (I know how you hate that). I really promise. Please just get me to work, please, please. I ‘ll make it up to you.”
I continued the drive out of my neighborhood with my fingers crossed (more mentally than literally as it often proves difficult to drive with one’s fingers crossed, especially when driving a stick). The further I drove, the rougher the engine sound became. The car seemed to be progressing in a fatigued, forced manner and my anxiety began to rise. Esmerelda had been a moody vehicle form the start, never one to put up with any crap. I’d let the coolant get too low lately, the last oil change was overdue, and the gas situation wasn’t helping either. She certainly did not hesitate to let me know that she was, in fact, quite peeved.
Despite my requests, despite my angry threats, my reminders of my quality traits as an auto owner, and finally, despite my desperate pleas, Esmerelda would not be appeased. It wasn’t long before she sputtered and slowed to a stop on the side of the road at a jaunty angle, as I had barely managed to get the car out of the steady stream of traffic in time.
That, my friends, brings us to my initial sentiment, that sickening feeling of betrayal referenced at the commencement of this story. In the argument between my car and I, my fickle, beloved automotive of Japanese descent had the last word. Betrayed—betrayed after all these years together. My nonchalant and lazy actions had culminated into this final act of animosity, this final statement of her exasperation. I found myself at the side of the road, wallowing in regret, wishing I would have done a better job of respecting my car. The problem is that the lightness of my wallet contributes to the heaviness of the obstacle that lies between the two of us, Esmerelda and me. I have not the funds to keep the tank full.
I recall this emotional saga to beseech, to ask, to beg, really, with those to whom this issue concerns to take this story into account when deciding the recipient of the gas money. I love my car very much, and I especially love the transportation she provides me. I desperately long to right that which has been broken, but the lack of gas money has created quite a rift. For the sake of our love, for the sake of my wonderful, piece of junk vehicle and the relationship between us, for the sake my livelihood, and for the sake of all that is good and holy, please grant us the gas money. I believe it will be money virtuously spent, and I think I can speak for Esmerelda (someone has to) in saying that she couldn’t agree more.
Betrayal is a hard thing to stomach.
Stranded on the side of the road, out of gas—this was not the position in which I thought I would find myself when I left the house this morning. The alarm went off at the sinful 6 o’clock hour. The day was premature, only having existed for those six puny hours. Yesterday seemed so recent and sleep was something I somehow missed out on when I blinked last night. Now I had to peel myself out of my nice, warm bed and put my feet to the cold, unwelcoming floor and face another day.
An hour later, showered, dressed, and bitter I got into my car and turned the key in the ignition. The engine reluctantly turned over and the slow rumbling grew over the course of a few seconds.
“If I can do it, you can do it, Esmerelda.” Her exotic name seemed appropriate for her luscious, rusting 1992 Honda civic exterior in a dull but endearing navy blue tone. She’d been faithful over the years. What began as an embarrassment to my 16-year-old need for image maintenance grew into something like an annoying, quirky friend that grew on me while I wasn’t looking and now I can’t imagine myself without her. I think we have a sort of mutual understanding, a sort of symbiotic relationship, if you will. She takes me where I need to go and I keep her sheltered as much as much as possible and hydrated with gasoline. It’s a relationship characterized with joint respect and concern for one another and I had no reason to think that there was any sort of beef between us.
Esmerelda rolled down the driveway slowly, letting me in on her discontent at the trip commencement with a cloud of lavender-gray smoke streaming from the tailpipe in the rear. My dad’s diagnosis was that this was a symptom of burning oil; I knew that it was more of a physical manifestation of inner emotional unrest. “I know, Ezzie, momma knows...” I said patronizingly as I gave the dashboard a few loving strokes. A small flash of orange light in my peripheral vision caught my attention and my eyes migrated across the dash to my fuel meter. The low fuel light had just blinked on. This did not surprise me as I usually keep it filled in small increments based upon whatever small amount of cash I can reason with myself to part with for this obnoxious, environmentally unfriendly, money-guzzling cause. I often compared myself to the Biblical widow who miraculously always had just enough oil to get her and her hungry child through the day with nourishment. She emptied the jar to cook their bread for the day, and the next day she would wake up to find that there was miraculously just enough to do the same thing all over again. This comparison had made me feel noble although the pathetic puddle in the bottom of my car’s gas tank was something short of supernatural. It didn’t feel quite so miraculous when I was at the gas station, outside in the cold, fingers aching and lacking blood flow as they grasped the cold metal pump, cursing the day that this God-forsaken horseless carriage was invented.
So I found myself at the commencement of the daily commute trusting that this small amount of fuel in the tank would somehow be enough to get me where I needed to go until I was able to break out of my lethargy and find my way to a pump once again.
“Esmerelda, I’m sorry,” I said apologetically, “I know that it hasn’t been easy lately, I know that you’re probably frustrated with me, but I need you to do this for me today. Just this once, I promise I’ll do better. I promise to keep your tank fuller and not to leave you outside all night so that the ice accumulates and you have to be scraped in the morning (I know how you hate that). I really promise. Please just get me to work, please, please. I ‘ll make it up to you.”
I continued the drive out of my neighborhood with my fingers crossed (more mentally than literally as it often proves difficult to drive with one’s fingers crossed, especially when driving a stick). The further I drove, the rougher the engine sound became. The car seemed to be progressing in a fatigued, forced manner and my anxiety began to rise. Esmerelda had been a moody vehicle form the start, never one to put up with any crap. I’d let the coolant get too low lately, the last oil change was overdue, and the gas situation wasn’t helping either. She certainly did not hesitate to let me know that she was, in fact, quite peeved.
Despite my requests, despite my angry threats, my reminders of my quality traits as an auto owner, and finally, despite my desperate pleas, Esmerelda would not be appeased. It wasn’t long before she sputtered and slowed to a stop on the side of the road at a jaunty angle, as I had barely managed to get the car out of the steady stream of traffic in time.
That, my friends, brings us to my initial sentiment, that sickening feeling of betrayal referenced at the commencement of this story. In the argument between my car and I, my fickle, beloved automotive of Japanese descent had the last word. Betrayed—betrayed after all these years together. My nonchalant and lazy actions had culminated into this final act of animosity, this final statement of her exasperation. I found myself at the side of the road, wallowing in regret, wishing I would have done a better job of respecting my car. The problem is that the lightness of my wallet contributes to the heaviness of the obstacle that lies between the two of us, Esmerelda and me. I have not the funds to keep the tank full.
I recall this emotional saga to beseech, to ask, to beg, really, with those to whom this issue concerns to take this story into account when deciding the recipient of the gas money. I love my car very much, and I especially love the transportation she provides me. I desperately long to right that which has been broken, but the lack of gas money has created quite a rift. For the sake of our love, for the sake of my wonderful, piece of junk vehicle and the relationship between us, for the sake my livelihood, and for the sake of all that is good and holy, please grant us the gas money. I believe it will be money virtuously spent, and I think I can speak for Esmerelda (someone has to) in saying that she couldn’t agree more.
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