Young Jonathan looked his weary, bed ridden Uncle Jacob in the eyes. "Where will you be after you die?" he asked in a most serious tone a eight year old boy could ask.
Jacob knew even in his weakened state, his tired mind, he had to answer Young Jonathan as honest and thoroughly as he could. Young Jonathan was an old soul, his Grandmother would say; wise beyond all of their years combined. Jacob knew this as well, and had often learned a great deal from his young nephew. Now, for once he felt he could return the favor; at least he'd try.
Collecting his thoughts, his wits, Jacob thought about wanting to believe in heaven, an afterlife; but he didn't. Yet, he also didn't believe there was nothing, either. And while he could give most children Young Jonathan's age a simple, patronizing answer, Jacob knew that Jonathan would probably led him to his true belief through their conversation.
"I suppose I will be a bit everywhere," he began, "and a bit nowhere." The words fell from his mouth and it dawned on him. "Kind of like my whole life, I guess you could say." Young Jonathan cocked his head and smiled at Jacob.
"You'll just be different, but the same," he said as he patted Jacob on the hand. Jacob wasn't sure he understood what Young Jonathan was saying, but he knew Jonathan had delved to a much deeper level than he could understand.
"Some day you'll just have to explain it to me, nephew."
Friday, June 25, 2010
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
06-14-2010
Start Fiction:
Walter Smith hadn't changed much since the day he graduated from high school. While his face seemed older, only slightly, he carried himself about as a young man, a child, half his age. Standing on the precipice of his forth decade, Walter Smith unconsciously thumbed the future and bared his arse to time.
Walter still cracked the same jokes he did as a pubescent boy; farting and crotch kicking were still the height of comedy for him. Walter also lived the same life style; same friends, same beer, wearing goofy hats to impress girls, chasing his youth through sports for the aged, like slow pitch softball, and fall weekends held nothing but football and hangovers. And unfortunately, Walter Smith still thought the same thoughts; sports were life, "my money is mine", "my second wife is my soul mate", and "don't tell me how to love my life, however, you are living yours is wrong".
Now, that may sound harsh, even a bit nasty, but that's not to say he wasn't a decent enough of a fella. Unfortunately, unbeknown to Walter, he was the paragon of stuck in time, however not quite Peter Pan; he was too much of a breast man.
Facing a reunion after twenty years with individuals like Walter Smith, Paul Dunning verged on dread. Sure, they would be several individuals who would be interesting to catch up with, but many would merely recount the glory days, as it were; Paul didn't really have much interest in spending an entire evening reminiscing. The occasional flashback or inside joke was part of the social fabric of life; sometimes it is nice to remember who you were in a seemingly different life. However, for many, there wasn't any change during life, and they definitely were the same person.
End Fiction.
Walter Smith hadn't changed much since the day he graduated from high school. While his face seemed older, only slightly, he carried himself about as a young man, a child, half his age. Standing on the precipice of his forth decade, Walter Smith unconsciously thumbed the future and bared his arse to time.
Walter still cracked the same jokes he did as a pubescent boy; farting and crotch kicking were still the height of comedy for him. Walter also lived the same life style; same friends, same beer, wearing goofy hats to impress girls, chasing his youth through sports for the aged, like slow pitch softball, and fall weekends held nothing but football and hangovers. And unfortunately, Walter Smith still thought the same thoughts; sports were life, "my money is mine", "my second wife is my soul mate", and "don't tell me how to love my life, however, you are living yours is wrong".
Now, that may sound harsh, even a bit nasty, but that's not to say he wasn't a decent enough of a fella. Unfortunately, unbeknown to Walter, he was the paragon of stuck in time, however not quite Peter Pan; he was too much of a breast man.
Facing a reunion after twenty years with individuals like Walter Smith, Paul Dunning verged on dread. Sure, they would be several individuals who would be interesting to catch up with, but many would merely recount the glory days, as it were; Paul didn't really have much interest in spending an entire evening reminiscing. The occasional flashback or inside joke was part of the social fabric of life; sometimes it is nice to remember who you were in a seemingly different life. However, for many, there wasn't any change during life, and they definitely were the same person.
End Fiction.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
06-13-2010
Start Fiction:
William Jones wandered down the street; wobbly, crooked. It was unbecoming for any man to be intoxicated before twelve bells of midday; however, had one stopped to take notice of the bloody matted hair on the back of William's head they might have realized he was suffering from great injury. Being alive was a grand feat for his state, but the true miracle was the fact that he was on his feet.
It was of no matter, in the end. After he was found in the mid afternoon face down in an alley behind Doc Wilson's office, it was assumed that he had injured himself from falling as he was witnessed to have been intoxicated before noon. Eveyone assumed, that is except Doc Wilson. His noted that the amount of blood that would have come from such a deep wound on his head would have left a puddle of blood in the least. No, Doc Wilson wasn't so inclined to jump to conclusions as his neighbors and townsmen did; he was a man of science and there was mush more than met the eye in the case of William Jones.
Awaiting the arrival of Officer Bacon, Doc asked several witnesses to his alleged drunken state the hours before the discovery. Many noted he wobbled to and fro, not making any eye contact as he seemed to be focused on his direction. Doc also inquired as to if anyone had noticed William Jones to be bleeding; none, of course, had noticed such a thing. In Doc's mind, there was too much amiss in the alley as there was nothing that would have cracked William Jones' head open so deeply. No, it seemed to Doc that William's troubles started in some other location and that it was indeed no accident.
Officer Bacon arrived, his uniformed stained with cream from the half dozen pastries he had consumed for lunch. As he approached and dismounted from his horse, he was short of breath. A portly man, unshaven and disheveled; a dishonorable appearance for a man of the law. However, even though he was at first hard to accept as a professional, Officer Bacon was actually an accomplished diplomat and skillful detective.
"Doctor," Bacon said. He extended his right hand as he wiped his brow with his left.
"Officer," Doc said. He moved close to Bacon. "I think he was murdered elsewhere, but I need you to disperse the crowd before I explain." Doc and Bacon had known each other since they were kids, and even thought they were never exactly kept close company, they had a mutual respect for each other. Bacon knew there was something here, something Doc understood would cause a lot of trouble for him and his deputies if not properly handled form the start.
He searched the crowd, noting faces and the general atmosphere. He was the first lawman to arrive, not something that was in his favor with such a crowd. "I am afraid I need all of you to please wait around front until we get a chance to ask of you a few questions," Bacon announced to the crowd. "I am sure Doc Wilson wouldn't mind if you needed to wait in the shade of his waiting room until we can get our wits about us?" he said, looking to the doctor.
"Please, make yourselves comfortable," he motioned the crowd, hurrying to the front door to escort them all into his office. It would be cramped, but he knew Officer Bacon would need all the information out of them he could gather. After they were all in, he rushed back around the corner of the building to Bacon.
"Your theory?" Bacon said.
"It's obvious he received the wound on his skull elsewhere," Doc began. He knelt down over William Jones' body and explained that with the size of the wound, the depth, had that injury happened there in the alley, they both would be standing in a pool of blood. Bacon stood up and looked up and down the alley. He took several steps down the alley, away from the street.
"And had the wound happened elsewhere, why is there no trail of blood, Doc?" Bacon said.
"Obviously the bleeding had slowed enough for him to travel from where ever he received his injury," Doc said. "However, even with the bleeding slowed, or stopped, I am not sure how he regained consciousness, let alone walked at all."
Bacon stood at the end of the alley with his back to Doc. He was silent, still. "Well, I guess it's time to talk to the folks inside." He turned around and headed towards Doc who was still hunched over William Jones.
"Please, feel free to use my office," Doc said. "I'll wait for Henry to get here and collect the body."
Doc wasn't done examining the body, and it would be easier without Bacon looking over his shoulder.
"Thanks, Doc," Bacon said as he walked past and turned the corner. Doc remained focused on the wound; there was something about it, something in it that would have several answers.
End Fiction.
William Jones wandered down the street; wobbly, crooked. It was unbecoming for any man to be intoxicated before twelve bells of midday; however, had one stopped to take notice of the bloody matted hair on the back of William's head they might have realized he was suffering from great injury. Being alive was a grand feat for his state, but the true miracle was the fact that he was on his feet.
It was of no matter, in the end. After he was found in the mid afternoon face down in an alley behind Doc Wilson's office, it was assumed that he had injured himself from falling as he was witnessed to have been intoxicated before noon. Eveyone assumed, that is except Doc Wilson. His noted that the amount of blood that would have come from such a deep wound on his head would have left a puddle of blood in the least. No, Doc Wilson wasn't so inclined to jump to conclusions as his neighbors and townsmen did; he was a man of science and there was mush more than met the eye in the case of William Jones.
Awaiting the arrival of Officer Bacon, Doc asked several witnesses to his alleged drunken state the hours before the discovery. Many noted he wobbled to and fro, not making any eye contact as he seemed to be focused on his direction. Doc also inquired as to if anyone had noticed William Jones to be bleeding; none, of course, had noticed such a thing. In Doc's mind, there was too much amiss in the alley as there was nothing that would have cracked William Jones' head open so deeply. No, it seemed to Doc that William's troubles started in some other location and that it was indeed no accident.
Officer Bacon arrived, his uniformed stained with cream from the half dozen pastries he had consumed for lunch. As he approached and dismounted from his horse, he was short of breath. A portly man, unshaven and disheveled; a dishonorable appearance for a man of the law. However, even though he was at first hard to accept as a professional, Officer Bacon was actually an accomplished diplomat and skillful detective.
"Doctor," Bacon said. He extended his right hand as he wiped his brow with his left.
"Officer," Doc said. He moved close to Bacon. "I think he was murdered elsewhere, but I need you to disperse the crowd before I explain." Doc and Bacon had known each other since they were kids, and even thought they were never exactly kept close company, they had a mutual respect for each other. Bacon knew there was something here, something Doc understood would cause a lot of trouble for him and his deputies if not properly handled form the start.
He searched the crowd, noting faces and the general atmosphere. He was the first lawman to arrive, not something that was in his favor with such a crowd. "I am afraid I need all of you to please wait around front until we get a chance to ask of you a few questions," Bacon announced to the crowd. "I am sure Doc Wilson wouldn't mind if you needed to wait in the shade of his waiting room until we can get our wits about us?" he said, looking to the doctor.
"Please, make yourselves comfortable," he motioned the crowd, hurrying to the front door to escort them all into his office. It would be cramped, but he knew Officer Bacon would need all the information out of them he could gather. After they were all in, he rushed back around the corner of the building to Bacon.
"Your theory?" Bacon said.
"It's obvious he received the wound on his skull elsewhere," Doc began. He knelt down over William Jones' body and explained that with the size of the wound, the depth, had that injury happened there in the alley, they both would be standing in a pool of blood. Bacon stood up and looked up and down the alley. He took several steps down the alley, away from the street.
"And had the wound happened elsewhere, why is there no trail of blood, Doc?" Bacon said.
"Obviously the bleeding had slowed enough for him to travel from where ever he received his injury," Doc said. "However, even with the bleeding slowed, or stopped, I am not sure how he regained consciousness, let alone walked at all."
Bacon stood at the end of the alley with his back to Doc. He was silent, still. "Well, I guess it's time to talk to the folks inside." He turned around and headed towards Doc who was still hunched over William Jones.
"Please, feel free to use my office," Doc said. "I'll wait for Henry to get here and collect the body."
Doc wasn't done examining the body, and it would be easier without Bacon looking over his shoulder.
"Thanks, Doc," Bacon said as he walked past and turned the corner. Doc remained focused on the wound; there was something about it, something in it that would have several answers.
End Fiction.
Friday, June 4, 2010
06-04-2010 Dream
Another dream, another weird ass experience! Extremely detailed and very non-dreamlike... This is a little rough, I need to clean it up, so enjoy it if you can!
The dream began in animated color pencil drawings of an old friend's (Martha) Facebook status. She had posted about how the movers lost all of her shoes in the middle of their move across country. It was odd, mostly because the drawings were in colored pencil with a blue background. The animation was jumpy, like a kids TV show where they are telling a silly story.
As the dream progressed, the drawings changed to "reality". I awoke in the living room of a small apartment, on a single sized bed wrapped in a very comfortable quilt. At first, I had no idea where I was, then it slowly dawned on me; yet, still it made no sense. Why was I dreaming about somewhere I was?
At that moment, Martha walked around the corner in a robe holding a large coffee mug with both hands, her hair wet. "Morning," she said. She was smiling, looked wide awake as she sat down at a small dinning room table. I had a headache, felt like total ass; much like when I used to drink. I didn't respond at first, soaking in my situation. "What?" she asked.
"I was just thinking about the last time we saw each other," I said. "I am pretty sure it was at Kristin's, when she lived near Wrigley."
"Yeah, you're right," she said. "So, thirteen years, then?" Martha had been Kristin's (former girlfriend of mine) roommate when we first started dating my Sophomore year at Clarke College. We got along as she is a friendly, intelligent woman (currently a doctor), but I can't say we would have run in the same circle of friends had she not been Kristin's roommate. And it is not as though we had talked since our last meeting, except a few exchanges on Facebook.
As I continued to absorb the situation, I just couldn't get it to make sense. Why she had an apartment verses a hotel near Iowa City was a mystery, but why she had an apartment in a location somewhere in the middle of her move was a bigger mystery. I sat up, feeling a grand head rush; I had definitely been drinking. "Nothing happened last..."
"No!" she laughed. I let out a nervous laugh, apologized and we sat there for over an hour catching up. I discovered that her apartment was owned by a family member and they were letting her spend a few days in the area to break up the move. That's great an all, I thought, but where were her husband and kids? That's when the phone rang; It was Leslie, her husband.
She was lively, excited to talk to him; it was refreshing to see someone still so in love. However, soon I could hear his voice as he became loud when she told him I was there with her. I had never met Leslie, so I felt this could become a bad situation. Even though he was apparently in Kansas City, I was uncomfortable, especially when I heard him say something to the extent of calling up his boys.
Apparently this bothered Martha as well. Her smile faded as she turned away from me, lowering her voice as she tried to assure Leslie there was no reason to be upset. I could hear him clearly now; he was coming and his crew was going to check in on her and have a chat with me. Then he hung up. Martha put down the phone, but didn't turn around.
I jumped up off the bed and folded the quilt for some strange reason; one can't forget their manners even if they are potentially facing physical harm, right? After I tidied up, Martha was still standing by the phone, her back to me. I said nothing and moved towards the kitchen. As I passed through the kitchen I realized it was an old dinner type kitchen with a rear exit of a screen door which lead to a long, covered wooden porch stretching a city block. While all of this seemed odd, I kept moving, wanting to remove myself from a bad situation. Half way down the porch, I heard several voices behind me; they were yelling that they wanted to talk to me. As I turned around, I saw four large men walking abroad towards me, the smallest one being the one shouting and pointing at me.
I ran. It started to rain. As I approached the end of the porch, Martha pulled up in a red truck and told me to get in the back. I stopped. I turned around and saw an empty porch. Turning back to the truck, the four men were in the back of the truck! I looked at Martha as she realized they were there and she punched the pedal to the floor, shouted for me to go back inside and she headed down an embankment towards a river. The engine revved and just short of the river, Martha jumped out and the truck with the four men slammed into the river, launching the men out of the back, over the truck, into the middle of the river. After rolling several yards, Martha lay still on the ground.
I ignored her instructions and ran to see if she was ok. Half way down the dusty embankment (even though it had just rained) another truck pulled up. It was Becky' dad Larry, my father-in-law. We went to Martha and by this time she was sitting up, watching the river flow by; she wasn't dirty or dusty even though she had just jumped from a moving vehicle and rolled across the embankment. She laughed, almost as though she were intoxicated, about launching the men from the truck.
We all returned to the building that apparently housed her apartment. It was a small cabin, sitting in an open field, not with in the city limits as it had been. Standing on the front porch was Leslie, in bibbed overalls and a straw hat, holding a shotgun. How he arrived so quickly didn't cross my mind, nor how we ended up in the sticks; I was too focused on the gun.
No one said a word as I got out of the truck and walked towards Leslie, hands up. I knew I had no reason to be afraid as I had nothing wrong, but I also knew a simple misunderstanding is all I takes for very unfortunate things to happen. As I reached the porch, standing just a few feet from Leslie who had moved nothing but his eyes, I hear some laughter coming from inside. I recognize the laughs; Becky and Kristin. Then laughter arises from behind me; Martha and Larry.
It turns out, they all had come up with this plan to play a practical. Such a diverse group of individuals from very different parts of my life came together to pull a prank.
The End.
What exactly generated this dream is very intriguing to me, but also, the fact of the clarity of details and non-dreamlike sequence of recent dreams are even more intriguing.
The dream began in animated color pencil drawings of an old friend's (Martha) Facebook status. She had posted about how the movers lost all of her shoes in the middle of their move across country. It was odd, mostly because the drawings were in colored pencil with a blue background. The animation was jumpy, like a kids TV show where they are telling a silly story.
As the dream progressed, the drawings changed to "reality". I awoke in the living room of a small apartment, on a single sized bed wrapped in a very comfortable quilt. At first, I had no idea where I was, then it slowly dawned on me; yet, still it made no sense. Why was I dreaming about somewhere I was?
At that moment, Martha walked around the corner in a robe holding a large coffee mug with both hands, her hair wet. "Morning," she said. She was smiling, looked wide awake as she sat down at a small dinning room table. I had a headache, felt like total ass; much like when I used to drink. I didn't respond at first, soaking in my situation. "What?" she asked.
"I was just thinking about the last time we saw each other," I said. "I am pretty sure it was at Kristin's, when she lived near Wrigley."
"Yeah, you're right," she said. "So, thirteen years, then?" Martha had been Kristin's (former girlfriend of mine) roommate when we first started dating my Sophomore year at Clarke College. We got along as she is a friendly, intelligent woman (currently a doctor), but I can't say we would have run in the same circle of friends had she not been Kristin's roommate. And it is not as though we had talked since our last meeting, except a few exchanges on Facebook.
As I continued to absorb the situation, I just couldn't get it to make sense. Why she had an apartment verses a hotel near Iowa City was a mystery, but why she had an apartment in a location somewhere in the middle of her move was a bigger mystery. I sat up, feeling a grand head rush; I had definitely been drinking. "Nothing happened last..."
"No!" she laughed. I let out a nervous laugh, apologized and we sat there for over an hour catching up. I discovered that her apartment was owned by a family member and they were letting her spend a few days in the area to break up the move. That's great an all, I thought, but where were her husband and kids? That's when the phone rang; It was Leslie, her husband.
She was lively, excited to talk to him; it was refreshing to see someone still so in love. However, soon I could hear his voice as he became loud when she told him I was there with her. I had never met Leslie, so I felt this could become a bad situation. Even though he was apparently in Kansas City, I was uncomfortable, especially when I heard him say something to the extent of calling up his boys.
Apparently this bothered Martha as well. Her smile faded as she turned away from me, lowering her voice as she tried to assure Leslie there was no reason to be upset. I could hear him clearly now; he was coming and his crew was going to check in on her and have a chat with me. Then he hung up. Martha put down the phone, but didn't turn around.
I jumped up off the bed and folded the quilt for some strange reason; one can't forget their manners even if they are potentially facing physical harm, right? After I tidied up, Martha was still standing by the phone, her back to me. I said nothing and moved towards the kitchen. As I passed through the kitchen I realized it was an old dinner type kitchen with a rear exit of a screen door which lead to a long, covered wooden porch stretching a city block. While all of this seemed odd, I kept moving, wanting to remove myself from a bad situation. Half way down the porch, I heard several voices behind me; they were yelling that they wanted to talk to me. As I turned around, I saw four large men walking abroad towards me, the smallest one being the one shouting and pointing at me.
I ran. It started to rain. As I approached the end of the porch, Martha pulled up in a red truck and told me to get in the back. I stopped. I turned around and saw an empty porch. Turning back to the truck, the four men were in the back of the truck! I looked at Martha as she realized they were there and she punched the pedal to the floor, shouted for me to go back inside and she headed down an embankment towards a river. The engine revved and just short of the river, Martha jumped out and the truck with the four men slammed into the river, launching the men out of the back, over the truck, into the middle of the river. After rolling several yards, Martha lay still on the ground.
I ignored her instructions and ran to see if she was ok. Half way down the dusty embankment (even though it had just rained) another truck pulled up. It was Becky' dad Larry, my father-in-law. We went to Martha and by this time she was sitting up, watching the river flow by; she wasn't dirty or dusty even though she had just jumped from a moving vehicle and rolled across the embankment. She laughed, almost as though she were intoxicated, about launching the men from the truck.
We all returned to the building that apparently housed her apartment. It was a small cabin, sitting in an open field, not with in the city limits as it had been. Standing on the front porch was Leslie, in bibbed overalls and a straw hat, holding a shotgun. How he arrived so quickly didn't cross my mind, nor how we ended up in the sticks; I was too focused on the gun.
No one said a word as I got out of the truck and walked towards Leslie, hands up. I knew I had no reason to be afraid as I had nothing wrong, but I also knew a simple misunderstanding is all I takes for very unfortunate things to happen. As I reached the porch, standing just a few feet from Leslie who had moved nothing but his eyes, I hear some laughter coming from inside. I recognize the laughs; Becky and Kristin. Then laughter arises from behind me; Martha and Larry.
It turns out, they all had come up with this plan to play a practical. Such a diverse group of individuals from very different parts of my life came together to pull a prank.
The End.
What exactly generated this dream is very intriguing to me, but also, the fact of the clarity of details and non-dreamlike sequence of recent dreams are even more intriguing.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
06-03-2010
Start Fiction:
Harry Brown's movement seemed to indicate he was in great pain, but that was just how he carried himself. Each step gave the impression it was difficult; his shoulders slouched forward as though the agony was too much to bear; his work belt, with one shoulder strap hanging down, gave you the sense he was broken down. Unshaven, unbathed; he looked horrible.
Today things were not so different, but there was something about Harry that made everyone notice. A few people thought he was standing taller. Some thought he was wearing fresh clothing. Some even thought he trimmed his beard. No, it wasn't anything that vain, it was simply that he was producing a slight smile, of sorts.
It was three-quarters through their shift before Jenny figured out that was the difference, and she was the only one Harry wanted to notice. Intrigued, Jenny made the effort at late break to try and strike up a conversation. Harry was receptive, at least for Harry.
She talked more, asked him questions to which he gave many one or two word answers; but he was communicating. Harry didn't smile more broad or even let out as much as a chuckle at her little jokes, but he did make eye contact and that was something he did very rarely with very few people.
Jenny knew there were changes to Harry, big changes, even if the only thing everyone actually noticed was his pseudo-smile. While they chatted, Jenny could tell he wanted to talk, but was unsure; not nervous, unsure.
The image of someone flipping a switch located on the back of his head under the still mangled mess of hair kept flashing through her mind. maybe he's on medications, came in to money, or maybe he even met someone.
Oddly, she felt a tinge of jealousy.
End Fiction.
Harry Brown's movement seemed to indicate he was in great pain, but that was just how he carried himself. Each step gave the impression it was difficult; his shoulders slouched forward as though the agony was too much to bear; his work belt, with one shoulder strap hanging down, gave you the sense he was broken down. Unshaven, unbathed; he looked horrible.
Today things were not so different, but there was something about Harry that made everyone notice. A few people thought he was standing taller. Some thought he was wearing fresh clothing. Some even thought he trimmed his beard. No, it wasn't anything that vain, it was simply that he was producing a slight smile, of sorts.
It was three-quarters through their shift before Jenny figured out that was the difference, and she was the only one Harry wanted to notice. Intrigued, Jenny made the effort at late break to try and strike up a conversation. Harry was receptive, at least for Harry.
She talked more, asked him questions to which he gave many one or two word answers; but he was communicating. Harry didn't smile more broad or even let out as much as a chuckle at her little jokes, but he did make eye contact and that was something he did very rarely with very few people.
Jenny knew there were changes to Harry, big changes, even if the only thing everyone actually noticed was his pseudo-smile. While they chatted, Jenny could tell he wanted to talk, but was unsure; not nervous, unsure.
The image of someone flipping a switch located on the back of his head under the still mangled mess of hair kept flashing through her mind. maybe he's on medications, came in to money, or maybe he even met someone.
Oddly, she felt a tinge of jealousy.
End Fiction.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
06-02-2010
Start Fiction:
Tim walked away, not saying a word. Sara could hear his teeth grind; he was pissed. She knew she had hurt him, that he had the right to be angry, but the hotter his temper got the more attracted to him she became. Story of my life, she thought as Tim walked out the door, shutting it gently.
Sara remained still. She had never seen him so upset; never so upset he wouldn't speak. Although she had been in this situation countless times before, there was something about this situation that hit her harder than she expected. It didn't make sense to her; the loner, the rebel, Miss Independent. Why would it bother her if a boy decided not to stay? What did it matter? There were plenty of other people to experience and life was too short, right?
Then it hit her: she was in love with Tim. For the first time in her life, she not only cared for someone, but may have cared about someone more than herself. Sara became dizzy, bumped up against the table, knocking her candles over as she fell to her knees. She fought against it, but it was coming; she started to dry heaving, hyperventilate. She was... no, it couldn't... she was regret, remorse. How could that be?
Upon that realization the tears fell, snot ran. The mixture splashed on the floor, soaking her shirt as she wiped her face on her sleeves. Sara had never cried from emotional pain; feeling out of control did not sit well with her, but she couldn't control what was happening.
End Fiction.
Tim walked away, not saying a word. Sara could hear his teeth grind; he was pissed. She knew she had hurt him, that he had the right to be angry, but the hotter his temper got the more attracted to him she became. Story of my life, she thought as Tim walked out the door, shutting it gently.
Sara remained still. She had never seen him so upset; never so upset he wouldn't speak. Although she had been in this situation countless times before, there was something about this situation that hit her harder than she expected. It didn't make sense to her; the loner, the rebel, Miss Independent. Why would it bother her if a boy decided not to stay? What did it matter? There were plenty of other people to experience and life was too short, right?
Then it hit her: she was in love with Tim. For the first time in her life, she not only cared for someone, but may have cared about someone more than herself. Sara became dizzy, bumped up against the table, knocking her candles over as she fell to her knees. She fought against it, but it was coming; she started to dry heaving, hyperventilate. She was... no, it couldn't... she was regret, remorse. How could that be?
Upon that realization the tears fell, snot ran. The mixture splashed on the floor, soaking her shirt as she wiped her face on her sleeves. Sara had never cried from emotional pain; feeling out of control did not sit well with her, but she couldn't control what was happening.
End Fiction.
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