After a lengthy absence, I finally have something to share. I basically wrote this under the influence of Irish beer. I was interrupted by my sisters, so it may not be cohesive. Enjoy!

There are forty-five minutes until midnight, and the beginning of a new year. It’s a new year for the two of them, ushering in the anniversary of their first year of marriage, as well as the milestones of turning 30. He’s more relaxed about their birthdays than she is.

She is across the room, talking with a few friends, a glass of water in her hand. He watches her from across the way, feeling the effects of the second glass of beer he had, and finds her even more beautiful than she was when they left the house that evening for the party. She looks over at him, and smiles. He’s pretty sure she’s smiling because he’s on his third glass of beer, but he’s pretending she smiled because she is happy. He takes one last gulp, and walks over to her.

“Hello, darlin’,” he smiles, kissing her on the cheek and wrapping his arm protectively around her waist. She looks at him and smiles warmly.

All of her friends look at him, and are jealous of her. He doesn’t know why, he thinks he’s nothing special, despite what she tells him. She smiles again when she notices they’re staring at him, and not paying attention to the fact she’s talking about Santa Claus being her uncle.

“Will you ladies excuse us? I want to steal her away for a few minutes.”

“Go ahead, Colin. Having a good time?”

“I am having a great time. How can you not with such lovelies to admire?” He’s goading them, and he knows it. They flush, and he smiles triumphantly, whisking her off.

“You know they’re freely staring at your butt right now, right?”

“Are they, my love?”

“Well…after that invitation you gave them, yes.” She looks up at him, and laughs.

He leads her outside, to the deck outlined with clear Christmas lights, where he promptly presses a deep kiss to her lips. She kisses him back, giggling.

“You couldn’t do that in there?”

“Not really, no.”

“Are you suddenly against PDA? Because, in the past, it never would have stopped you.”

“Actually, I have a proposition,” he smiles devilishly.

“Well, you can propose it inside,” she replies. “It is cold as hell out here.” She walks away and back into the house. He is not too far behind, grabbing at her back as she playfully speeds away from him.

He catches her as she sinks onto a sofa in the corner, beneath the low light of an overhead light. He nuzzles his nose into her neck, and presses soft kisses up to her ear.

“What is this proposition, then?” She murmurs, smiling at the kisses.

“I propose we get out of here, and have our own little New Year’s party in our own house,” he breathes, kissing her ear.

“No, Colin. This is my first New Year’s party, and I want to stay here until midnight. What’s spurred this, I wonder? You were more excited about this party than I was earlier today. What’s changed?”

“It was this beautiful bird I saw from across the room,” he whispers, trailing his finger across her collarbone, leaving goose bumps in its wake. “She smiled at me, and I felt the need to bed her immediately.”

“’Bed her immediately?’ Have you been reading nineteenth century novels again? You don’t speak like that, even when you’re seducing me. You’re acting strange.”

“I haven’t touched those books recently,” he replied, pulling back from her. “I’ve cracked open a few of yours, though,” he retorted. “Is the whole ‘heaving bosoms’ thing your idea of an excellent novel?”

“Compared to your Game of Thrones­-themed books, they’re amazing. But to answer your question, no they aren’t my idea of a good book. I read them for a bit of a change from what I normally read, which has no sexual situations. Those books are the touch of HBO that everyone except religious leaders yearns for when they watch television. You’re well aware that I read books with far more substance than romance novels.”

“I could break out the Camelot cape I have in the wardrobe. I know what that does to you,” he smiles mischievously.

“Really?” She asks, getting distracted by the idea of him dressing up as a Knight of Camelot. “No, I won’t be distracted, even in the face of such a suggestion. I want to stay here through the end, and kiss you at the stroke of midnight,” she returns firmly.

“Don’t say ‘stroke,’ Olivia,” he groans, straightening up on the sofa.

“Okay, I’ll just leave you here then. I am going to go and talk with Alicia,” she laughs, kissing the top of his head.

Colin sits on the sofa, calming down, all while watching Olivia interacts with their friends. It seems strange to him that at this time the year before, he was totally single and wishing he wasn’t at this party. He met Olivia on his birthday, two months later. Five months later, they were married, shocking their friends and family members. Once he was ‘settled’, he went to grab two glasses of champagne. He spun to walk toward Olivia, when he met up with Gerard.

“Olivia seems happy,” Gerard voices, gesturing at Olivia.

“She’s over the moon,” Colin smiles. “I tried convincing her to get out of here, but she insists on staying.”

Just then, a ruckus stirs at the front door. Into the living room walks Declan, all boisterous and already drunker than someone should be before midnight. He makes an instant beeline for Olivia, which causes Colin to smirk.

“What is that?” Gerard asks, noticing Colin’s reaction.

“It’s Declan,” he returns, “Olivia cannot stand him. She thinks he’s loud, overbearing, and doesn’t like the fact he fancies her. The question is: how will she react?”

Colin stands there in amused silence. Declan approaches Olivia, and she turns just as he speaks her name. Her face contorts in fright and annoyance, as he pulls her into an uncomfortable embrace. Colin waits for the moment of truth: how will Olivia react? Colin is stunned when she puts on a fake smile and looks like she’s interested in what he has to say. She glances up at Colin, giving him the signal for rescue. He lets her fester a few more seconds, before walking over to them.

“Hey there, Declan. Happy New Year,” he smiles. Olivia looks at him in appreciation. “Here’s your champagne, baby-bear,” he voices, handing her the glass. Colin knows Declan cannot stand the fact that Olivia is married to him.

“Happy New Year to you as well, Colin,” Declan returns, putting on a fake smile. “I was just saying to Olivia it’s such a beautiful night.”

“Indeed it is, Declan. I have never seen such a clear sky on New Year’s Eve,” Colin smiles at Declan’s discomfort. Olivia shoots him a look. “Uh…there’s ten minutes until the New Year, and I wanted to introduce Olivia to some people. If you’ll excuse us, Declan.”

Olivia smiles brightly, zipping by Declan with a short ‘nice seeing you.’ Colin wraps his arm around her shoulder, and laughs. Colin and Olivia separate for a few minutes, and Colin finds a short moment to look at Olivia having a discussion with someone, occasionally sipping at her champagne and smiling.

At a minute until midnight, Colin pulls Olivia away from her conversation and they go to a part of the party where there aren’t too many people standing around, so they have some air. They exchange knowing glances, and smile as they sip their champagne. As the last thirty seconds tick by, Colin takes Olivia’s glass and places it on a nearby table. The last five seconds consist of Colin pulling Olivia to him, and kissing her deeply as everyone begin shouting “Happy New Year!” around them. Olivia squeals as he kisses her. Everyone around them has done the traditional kiss, and is now singing ‘Auld Lang Syne.’ Colin pulls away from their inaugural New Year’s kiss as a married couple, and he takes her hand and leads her out to the road, flagging down the only unoccupied taxi to take them home.

The ride home is filled with her giggling, since she normally doesn’t have a lot to drink, so she feels really loose. Colin takes advantage of her change in mood, and whispers everything he wants to do with her, which sends her into even more fits of giggles. After paying the driver, they walk down the lane to their tiny apartment.

“You are going to wear the cape and sword, right?” Colin looks at her in disbelief. “Because if not, you have left me severely disappointed. You promised.”

“I promised nothing of the sort,” he answered. Olivia pouted, snickering into giggles. “But if you wish me to suit up into armour, then you shall get your wish,” he smiles widely.

Olivia claps and jumps up and down in excitement.

They fall through the door, and the New Year’s festivities continue long after.

The Hellish Eighth Grade Year

When I was fourteen, my family moved across town. In this upheaval, I had to go to a new school for my final year of middle school. And we moved literally two weeks before school started. My first day was horrible, and it set the tone for how the rest of my school year was going to go.

Embraced Part 2

I am basically writing this like I wrote Part 1, without a plan, and seeing where the wind blows me.

**************

I spent the whole of our lunch period sitting at the male-dominated table of Jonathan and his friends. There were a few moments where I contemplated getting up and leaving, because I sensed the guys were holding back from their usual topics of conversation, but I ended up sticking around because Jonathan wouldn't remove his right arm from my body. At the beginning his arm was thrown around my shoulder, and by the end, it had fallen right above my hip. I was sure my face was showing tell-tale signs that this unnerved me, but if it was, nobody was talking about it.

August 28, 2009 Story

This story is unfinished. I also apologize for the date format possibly being incorrect. I am not European, but I deeply appreciate and am fond of their unique date format. I know that the date format in the story itself may be totally wrong, but I became confused.

10 October, 1902

Today my life has ended. The light in which I navigate has burned out, and is never to be re-lit again. How can one sum up such an experience? I deem it impossible.

17 October, 1902

Today, I buried my husband. I can scarcely believe it myself.  It feels as though my soul has been ripped from within me, and my air is out of reach.  I cannot possibly summarise the agony I am in.  With some help from James's close friends, I finally got out of bed four days later.  Thankfully, our own mothers helped me with the funeral arrangements.

Ava

Part 2 of Unnamed Story-From Christian's POV

I am not very good with describing physical confrontation (not that I have really tried), so you'll have to forgive me if it's not very descriptive. I also apologize if how I wrote out 30 Euros is wrong. I am American, so I am not good with foreign currency outside of England.

I'll Come Up With a Title Later

I came up with the concept of this story last night, as I was trying to fall asleep (usually when my ideas for stories happen). As a disclaimer, I want to say that I have never been in this situation, and that this story is a work of fiction. If anyone in the real world has been in this situation, you have my heartfelt condolences.

Waffles

This post stems from a conversation I had with my younger sister in March 2011. Basically, she brought to mind this thought that I hadn't had since I first began talking to that guy who inspired my story "Morning."  And I literally mean since I first began talking to him.  

At the time, he was living in his parent's house, in the basement. His "place" was in disarray, he couldn't bring himself to unpack the shit from his actual apartment, where he lived with his ex-girlfriend.  And early in our talks, we spoke of breakfast and cooking.  I can cook.  I cannot bake.  And in talking about breakfast, I mentioned I hated eggs, which he likes.  He said he could make a mean batch of banana nut waffles.  So, a week or two after conversations began, I started picturing it.  

And I thought about it maybe once or twice in the first week or so we'd talked, and not again until last March with my sister.

Basically, she says she plotted marriages with each of these guys she was interested in. And I told I never thought of things like that. When in actuality, I had. I think the point of this was that we weren't living with them, but staying at the house for vacation or something along those lines.  

I took this from a private blog of mine, so elements from still exist, just not the guy's name.

Parts from the original post will be in purple.

I'd come up the stairs, where he was sitting in the kitchen talking to his mom in boxers and a t-shirt.  The putrid stench of eggs hung in the air, and glasses of orange juice sit on the table. He smiles at seeing me, and gets up from the table, and gives me a gentle kiss on the mouth.  I sit in what was his seat, and he asks me if I want anything.  I reply with an "I'm not sure."  He laughs, and suggests that he can make me some banana nut waffles.  I nod, indicating I am okay with that.  He sets to start prep for them.  I sit at the table, across from his mom, and I glance out the window at the summer leaves blowing in the wind.  He is hard at work, mixing batter, and pouring it into the waffle iron.  I sip at my water, and smile at him working diligently to make me breakfast.

"Do you want some bacon, babe?"

"No, I am fine with just the waffles." 

He flips out a finished waffle, and places it before me.  He brings over his plate with margarine and maple syrup.  And we eat breakfast.

I think when I pictured this, we were married.  But I never once planned a wedding.  I might of thought what it might be like if we were to get married, but I never put plans into motion.  I never thought of the color scheme, time of year (at the time I was very interested in getting married in August), or anything like that.  In that one respect, I kept myself from being hurt any further.  Because had I planned something like that, it would have destroyed me far worse than the breakup already had.

I hadn't thought of the banana nut waffles since we spoke of it all those months ago.

Huh...funny.

A Little Addendum

I mentioned in my post yesterday about my short story that when I got the initial inspiration for the essay/paragraph part, that a pair of eyes captivated me.  What I don't mention is that these elusive eyes, which are brown in the story were actually blue.  Like every other morning or night of my life since 2005 (not any more, but back then), I was seeing the eyes of the selfsame guy who I sent the finished product off to those months later when I revised and lengthened it.  He doesn't know this, and probably never will, since he knows nothing of this blog, and we haven't spoken since October 2009.

The first sentence speaks volumes.  It's what I saw, felt, and heard that morning after the thunderstorm.

The morning air was dewy, an inconsequential trace of the storm that had raged outside hours before.  The trees dripped with wetness, and the birds chirped a quiet song, as if singing louder may cause the storm to rage once more.  


And you have to go down a bit further to find the crux of how you know it's me talking about him. Obviously, because I wrote this, I know where it is.  And because you don't, I am going to put it in here.


What angers me more than anything is that you haunt me night and day.  In the moments where I finally think you’re going to leave my mind altogether, your eyes pop into my head.  Those eyes: a shocking brown, which rendered me helpless anytime I gazed into them.  You’re everywhere, it seems...

...If I could say anything to you, it would be I’m sorry.  I’m sorry for being that wretched person that day, for saying things I knew would hurt you, and not even caring about the possible outcome.  You ought to know I say things before I realize what I’ve said.  With that said, I know that nothing in the world will ever change what happened.

Anyway, I just thought I would set that all out, so I can move on.  

My friend and I were going through a rough patch at the time this was written.  He decided to be a good friend and looked into local colleges for me to attend, since when I quit my job at the same time he did in January 2008, I was strongly contemplating going back to school.  I was conflicted by his actions, because I kept reading vibes from him online that he was into me in a non-friend capacity again, which he wasn't. I said some nasty things, and he essentially stopped talking to me.  I lasted two weeks without talking to him, before I extended the olive branch, apologizing for my attitude.  So the above sentence is my way of apologizing again for my lack of comprehension in reading his actions.  That, and the sentence about his haunting me.

He really did honestly haunt me night and day.  When I was left alone with my thoughts, there he was, popping in through flashes in my memory.  Although I didn't think of him as a romantic interest anymore, he was still very much a fixture in my life.  His emails were, at the time, my lifeline.  I thought at one point that I couldn't function without hearing from him, and I felt this way when he broke things off after we'd gone out those couple of times.  "If I couldn't have him as a boyfriend, I would have him as a friend, no matter how much it hurt me."

Obviously, since it's been over two years since we spoke last, I am just fine without hearing from him.

So there's a little side story into the inspiration for Last Words.

I'm Just Thinking

About this story I wrote over three years ago.

I remember that morning I wrote the paragraph that I have since expanded and made into a short story.  I woke up early that morning, and I just remember that it was so quiet outside.  Summers in New Hampshire were always noisy in the morning, between the birds and squirrels going berserk outside my bedroom window (at least it seemed that way at the time).  It was a warm, balmy morning. I think it was June, maybe July.  The night before a nasty thunderstorm raged outside.  You'll notice I use the same words in the first few sentences.

I had this urge to write down words, because these pair of eyes just jumped out at me.  It was still early enough that no one else but me and the family cat were up, so I pulled out my faithful laptop, and wrote what ended up being this incredibly poignant paragraph. It's more of an essay, I suppose.  At the time, I was just writing this thing that popped into my head, and when it was finished, I was pleased with it.

I often went back and reread it, because it just struck a part of me.

I moved in October 2008, two or three months after writing it, to rural Oregon.  There really wasn't much to do except sit in my room, watch TV, or wile away the hours on the Internet.

November 6, I was having my normal day of boredom, and I decided to read this essay/paragraph again.  Out of nowhere, I am suddenly stricken to further this story.  I get names and faces in my mind, and so I go with it.  I spent eight or nine hours straight writing this story.  The only breaks I took were for dinner, and to pick my youngest sister up from school.  When I first finished it, it was 19/20 pages long.  After I woke up November 7, I quickly ran through it, and cleaned it up.  I couldn't let just my eyes go over it, so I sent a quick message out to this guy I had gone out with very briefly, who I knew was always open to my sending my writing to him.  I sent out this story, very roughly edited, and I gave him no timeline to read it, since he had a job that demanded a lot of his time (and probably still does).

I got an email back from him around 5 PM Pacific Time (which would have been 8 PM EST), thanking me for giving him no timeline, since he was a busy guy.  I replied back that he should take his time, I will be patient.  I was clearly lying, because I was DYING to know what he thought, since he was honest about what he thought, and I trusted him.

No more than an hour later, I find another email from him. Thinking he's sent a duplicate message by accident (which had happened before), I thought nothing of it when I opened it.  What I found inside made me giddy.

I just finished reading your story. I was hooked and ended up reading it straight through with only a short intermission. I CANNOT believe that you wrote that in only eight hours and edited it to perfection in only one hour! I thought it was incredible. You've got an amazing talent for writing and storytelling. This is also really improved over the last story you sent me in terms of cohesiveness and pacing, and having a clear plot line. Bravo! I can't tell you how impressed I am. I hope I'm not the only person you're gonna show this to, I think a lot of other people would really enjoy reading it too. OK, hopefully you'll get this tonight, it's not too late but I know you generally retire pretty early. Take care and keep up the good work,

Giddy is not the word I'd use to express what I felt right then and there.  I was over-the-moon.  I didn't harbor any romantic sentiment for this guy any more, but I could have kissed him if he'd been right there in front of me.  The other story he speaks of is a horrid atrocity about two ex-friends forced to sleep in the same cabin, and end up falling in love.  God, it was horrible.  I sent him an email detailing how happy I was he liked it.

It could also be unusual to read, since I don't normally write in chapter form, and I decided to convert it to Chapter form since it's going on Kindle, and I wanted positive reviews of it, and not hear about how it appears to be run-on sentences.

There's also a sequel, which is around 90 pages, by far the longest thing I have ever written.  It needs severe tweaking, so I am working on it.  

But Last Words and Moving On (tentative titles) are my babies, and the two pieces of my writing I am the most proud of, so I want everyone to read them and love them.

I might just post a preview of Moving On in the future, and see what response it garners.  It might not be much, since only two people have left comments on this site.

Seventh Grade Art Class

This is based on a true experience.  The sick girl is me, around 13 years old in Art Class.  

The room is cold.  She is visibly shaking, as her teacher looks critically at her papier-mâché skeleton.  This girl is frightened unlike she’s ever been.  The teacher turns her figure back to its creator.

“Would you call this a satisfactory piece of art?”

“Yes, I think so,” the girl weakly replies.  “I worked really hard on it,” she stammers.  Her heart is pumping strongly.

“Have you really worked hard on it, Miss?  You’ve missed a lot of my classes, and this skeleton reflects you lack of artistic ability.  You didn’t paint the nails holding your skeleton to the stand.  You can see the wires beneath the newspaper, so clearly you should have put more around it.  The face is poorly drawn, and I have much more criticism where that comes from.”

The girl is standing there, shaking like a leaf, fighting the burning of tears welling in her eyes.  Her teacher points evilly at the skeleton she worked very hard on.  She feels a deep-rooted cough rising into her lungs.  The girl begins explaining to her Art teacher why she’s been so absent, just as that barky cough makes its crude presence known.  The teacher wants none of her excuses, and barely passes her artwork with a 68%.  She sends the girl off with her skeleton for Día de los Muertos, which the girl promptly trashes upon exiting the classroom.

“Goddamn bitch of an Art teacher,” she mutters, heading for her locker.