I pulled the covers up and set my laptop on my legs. It was good to be home. My bed sure beat an air mattress. Norman was sitting at my feet. I don’t usually let him onto my bed, but I knew Mike was having people over tonight, and so I’d have to keep Norman locked downstairs with me. I actually kind of liked having the extra warmth of his body at my feet. Ok, I thought, where do I begin? I need a story line. Or maybe I don’t. It’s supposed to be unconventional, so maybe it would be better to have no plot. This is how it always began; I got into bed, stared at the blank computer screen, and tried to come up with something to write. Not really the most romantic, or the most creative approach to writing. After a couple minutes of nothing, I would fill in my name and date at the top of the page. Progress. A sentence. Erase. Another. Erase. I’ll just write whatever comes to my mind, and then maybe I’ll get something out. Footsteps interrupted my forced stream of consciousness. They stomped up the front stairs, which climbed up alongside my bedroom. Thump. Thump. Silence. Doorbell. “Hey man, what’s up?” “Ahhh, I’ve got a stry t el ou…” Their voices faded into a steady stream of humming –a couple pronounced words here and there. The music came on. Strong, generic beat, muffled words.
Start with a character. Every story needs a character. Either somebody old, or somebody young –not in between. Kids and seniors –they’re the most fun. That old Greek guy who used to play backgammon outside of his gyros restaurant. He was cool. His stories of his days on the road. Gambling so he could buy a bus ticket, losing and having to hitchhike. His accent was thick. Whenever I try to use characters with accents they just sound cheesy.
More footsteps, more doorbells, more voices. Footsteps were coming down the stairs to my room in the basement. My door swung open, connecting the steps with Louis.
“Hey, Anna, sorry to bug you. You seen an old Nikon anywhere?”
Where had I seen it? I could picture it. Black leather case, film sitting out next to it. “Yeah, maybe in the living room?”
“Oh yeah, thanks. You gonna come upstairs or just sulk down here all night?”
“I don’t think so. I have school in the morning. Another time, Louis.”
“Hah, all right. We’ll try to keep it down for you.”
As the door closed behind him, heeled feet stomped up the front stairs. Two pairs maybe. The girls have arrived. The voices got louder, much louder. No clearer, just louder. I could hear them over the bass. The floor creaked overhead as people moved around. Norman jumped down off the bed, and began pacing back and forth. Every once and a while a shout would ring out over the general voices, causing Norman to begin whimpering and chewing at the doorframe. He came over to my bed and nudged me, then back to the door where he attempted to chew his way through to the crowd.
“Norman, stop it,” I said, stopping him from chewing at the door. He, instead, came over and nuzzled his nose into my arm, whining.
Ok. No to the Greek guy. I don’t want to deal with accents. I used a kid in my last story. Maybe a girl this time? Long, blonde, stringy hair. A yellow dress, printed with sunflowers. Dirty knees. Tangled hair. Active. But what will I do with her? An Alice in Wonderland type adventure? Something more original.
Music changed. Techno. The majority if the voices had turned into shouts. People were stomping around like they had sandbags strapped to their ankles. The floor moaned and groaned. Norman was slowly going insane. Eleven thirty. Can’t go on for too much longer. I pulled the blanket up around my arms, poking my right hand out just to type. The floor sounded weak above my head. It creaked and cracked. Any minute and it would come crashing down, squishing me paper-thin. They’d have to peel me off the bed with a spatula. Still alive, just flat as a pancake. Maybe that could happen to the girl in my story. I had a book like that when I was younger. Flat Stanley. It’s been done before. Everything’s been done before. Maybe I’ll just do it. It’ll be different because it’s mine.
A small piece of plaster fell from the ceiling in the corner of the room. The lamp swayed dangerously over my feet. I pulled my legs up, my knees supporting my laptop. My eyes darted around the ceiling. Was this the end? Was it coming down? This is stupid; it’s not going to fall.
Footsteps made their way down the front stairs. Just as I thought to myself that people were finally leaving, I heard two more pairs coming up the stairs. I don’t even know who’s in my house. I thought. There’s a whole party, and they have no idea I’m even here. How do they even know my brother? Old high school friends? Random people he met at school? I pulled myself out of bed and made my way to the window. I peaked out of the curtains, seeing a pick up truck running outside of my house. A couple guys were gathered around the back. It was dark; I couldn’t make out any of their faces. However, the keg that they were pulling out of the back gleamed in the streetlights. Shit. When did I move into a frat?
I pictured the scene upstairs. People squished into the living room, dancing, trampling my mom’s Persian rug. Guys sitting at our dinner table, ripping open swishers, leaving tobacco and wrappers in cups. Spilled drinks seeping into the cherry table. Beer pong out on the back porch. Maybe, if I were lucky, even somebody throwing up in the bathroom. Nothing I can do. I am sure as hell not helping Mike clean that mess up in the morning.
I crawled back into bed, propped myself up with a pillow, set my laptop on my lap, and got into serious writing mode. Ok. I can’t do anything about the noise. I’ll just have to ignore it. I’ll get so lost in my writing that I’ll forget it’s even there. Right? Blank. Blank. Blank. Where’s my inspiration? I should just pull from what’s around me. Write what I know. I’ll just write about this. About a girl trying to write a story. And the girl in the story will be writing about a girl trying to write a story. It’ll be like those pictures. Like when you have a picture of a guy reading a book, and the cover of the book is a picture of him reading that book, and it just goes on forever. Or when a room is mirrored on both sides, and the images just reflect for eternity.
A loud thump pulled me out of my thoughts. The whole room shook. I could see the ceiling dipping above my head. The seams between the ceiling and the walls began to crack. A crack split down around my window, quick as a lightening bolt. A stomp overhead, and my lamp dropped off the ceiling, dangling by the electrical cord. I was paralyzed in fear. The corner of the ceiling split completely from the walls. The whole thing tilted, pulling the rest off the walls. Screams above me. It came down first on my legs. Not just the ceiling, but the people too. My legs were caught, and people were sliding into my room from the floor above. It filled quickly with bodies. A steady stream of them. They poured in like sand in an hourglass. My room was filling, my time was up. The weight piled on top of me. Another piece of the ceiling fell. I was pinned from my chest down. I could see the people around me screaming, but I heard absolutely nothing. Finally some peace and quiet so I can write. The walls came crumbling in –the final piece of the ceiling hung above my head. The people around me coughed as dust slowly suffocated them. They disappeared into the huge cloud of debris. Everything turned white from the dust. White. Silence. I can concentrate. I wriggled my hands. I could still move my arms. I typed quickly, every last word before that last piece could crush me completely. I wrote of a girl writing a story as she lay beneath her collapsed home. I wrote until the ceiling cracked once more, until the house completely consumed me, until my fingers could no longer move.
The Image
Her blond hair trailed behind her as she ran across the bridge. It always followed a step behind. If you could have frozen her in time, she would have made a beautiful photograph. The banks of the river stretched out behind her, framing her graceful body. Her favorite yellow dress floated with her hair. She left everything she touched weightless.
The Dress
The dress was made by her grandmother. She had embroidered a small SD in the collar. Sophia Dane. She gave it to her on her eighth birthday. Sophia had worn it every day for the last three months. Occasionally her mother was able to pry it off her for long enough that she could wash it.
The mother
Her mother was rough, worn. Her skin was lived in –a sharp contrast with Sophia’s delicate complexion. She moved with a purpose. She had always been that way. A product of farm life. Every summer they would visit her parents at the farm, and every year she became more aware of Sophia’s weaknesses. She would offer, “Soph, what do you say we ride over to the Miller’s to say hello?” Sophia would just look up with those delicate eyes, as if to say. “Ma, I’m too fragile.”
Sophia
Gentle and subdued. She hardly spoke. A fine lace that most admired but found no real use for. Her mother would ask her, “Sophia, what are you thinking about all the time.” But the truth is, she didn’t even know. She had wild day dreams of losing everything; of coming home to find no house, no family, no life.
She Ran
She ran because of her dreams. She ran from her silent fear. She ran in the hopes of never leaving home long enough for it to disapear. She ran that day because she knew if she didn’t somebody would take it all away from her.
The Image
She came around the bend –the last turn before home. She knew it was gone before she got there. She faced the empty lot before her. There was a large square of dirt in the middle of the grass. A ghost of where her house once stood. She did not fall. She did not weep. She stood. She stared.
If she was frozen in a photograph, it would have been a beautiful one. The exact moment her childhood was lost. Strips of her long blonde hair dangled in her face. Her eyes closed. Surrounded by vast nothingness.