I just wanted to start off this week with a little
note: I like to write in first
person. It's not for every piece, but in
my less than humble opinion, nothing draws you into a character more than
hearing their thoughts. You get their
insecurities, anxieties and doubts all spelled out in front of you, and you
realize that many of their fears are things you've thought about, too. (I do like third person, too. The novel I'm trying to publish right now is
in third person. This is not third
person bashing, just first person promotion.)
So, please do not assume any of my first person posts are
autobiographical. Unless I specify that
it's a memoir, at the very least I've exaggerated the story, if not made it up
completely.
(I think this comes up now because my response to this
week's prompt is in first person … but it's a guy. I'm not a guy … but I thought it would be fun
to see if I could write one. So, here
goes …)
Now, for the prompt of the week: "It was my favorite song."
Remember, it does not have to be autobiographical. J
**********************************
My response:
"Life is a highway … I wanna ride it … all night long!"
I could feel the vibration of the speakers coming up through
the seat as I pulled up to the stoplight.
I tapped the faded leather of the steering wheel with the heel of my
hand and sang out the last three words, feeling the answering rumble rise from my
own chest.
Friday night. My own
truck (if a little battered). A full
tank of gas. What could be better?
I glanced over at the car stopped to my right. It was a little blue hatchback, older even
than my Chevy. Waves of blond hair
caught my eye as they swayed back and forth, moved by the gentle breeze from
her open windows and the subtle bobbing of her head … to the beat of the song
coming out of my own speakers.
"If you're goin' my way, I wanna drive it … all night
long!"
Her voice rang out clear, even over the thudding of my own
sound system.
She tossed her hair back over her shoulders as she sang
along to my favorite song, oblivious to my gap-eyed stare. I recognized her. She was the new girl, just moved to town from
Illinois, or Iowa, or some nondescript Midwest state. She'd looked different in my geometry class,
her hair pulled back in a pony tail, her brown creased, and her lips pursed,
like she was sitting on a pinecone. I
hadn't bothered to look twice. Maybe I
should have. She was gorgeous.
And she was singing my favorite song.
I moved my hand to the armrest on the door and pressed a
button.
"There ain't no load that I can't hold,
This road's so rough, this I know …:"
She froze, then slowly turned her head towards the window
between us as it sunk down into the door.
I flashed the widest smile I could manage while singing,
"I'll be there when the light comes in,
Just tell 'em we're survivors!"
Her cheeks burned red.
She glanced away, and for a moment, I thought she was going to roll up
her own window. Then she turned back to
me and met my gaze with a sparkle in her eyes.
"Life is a highway, I wanna ride it … all night long!"
Our voices rose into the night air together, neither one of
us caring about the other cars around us.
My confidence rose, and I motioned with my hand, pointing at her.
"If you're going my way … I wanna drive it … all night
long!"
Her laughter bubbled up and stopped her singing, but she
kept her eyes locked on mine until the chorus came around again.
"Life is a highway, I wanna ride it …"
The light turned green, and she saw it. She turned back to me and sang out, "All
night long!"
Then she hit the gas, and her little hatchback laid rubber
on the asphalt. I left a pair of
matching black stripes in my lane as I sped off after her.
“Don’t you know I’m not your ghost anymore…”
ReplyDeleteThe music floats through the open window, borne upon the cool, slightly salty breeze of the crowded coastal city outside. The woman who sings the words doesn’t sound angry to me. Her raw voice holds a note of defiance tinged with sadness, I think, as I gaze across the narrow space between twin apartment complexes. The seventeen year old girl with acne scars and red, wet eyes stares back from her window, but doesn’t see me. She’s been playing this song since three a.m.
“You lost the love I loved the most.”
I turn my back to the soggy teenager. She doesn’t matter. Three days and she’ll be weeping over someone else. My eyes rest upon the long auburn strands that lie in a glorious tangle over the pillow. I used to run my fingers through that silky, glossy hair.
“I learned to live, half alive…”
But I never did learn to live without her. I told her so, time and time again. I begged her to take me back.
“…and now you want me one more time.”
That’s just it. I breathe in, wishing I could still smell the scent of her shampoo, like rain on summer leaves. She didn’t want me again. She found someone else. His dark head rests near hers. Their hands nearly touch. Though the early pre-dawn light is weak, I can clearly see the twin bands on their fingers. She married him, not me.
“Who do you think you are, running ‘round leaving scars…”
The word pricks at my own scars, the ones no one ever saw. They circle me like invisible razor-sharp wire. But somehow, she saw them. She saw me, when no one else did. But she still left.
“Collecting your jar of hearts, tearing love apart.”
I return to the small bureau where I’d placed the tiny glass jar. I don’t know how I was able to move it from the kitchen to the bedroom, but I succeeded at last, fed by my anger, by the rage that grew, moment by moment, fed by all the strong emotions that now roil through me. She’ll see it and know I was here. It will be my calling card.
“You’re gonna catch a cold from the ice inside your soul…”
The song is for him. Her soul is warm, loving. He is the one I want to destroy. I tried to do it last night. I joined their celebration, secretly rejoicing when I saw the spark of fear in his eyes. I smiled, greeted them warmly, offered my sincere congratulations, while placing a casual hand on his shoulder. The tiny needle on the inside of my ring should have held just enough of the poison to kill him. But it didn’t. I don’t know what happened. I know he felt the sting. I saw him stiffen, read the dawning horror in his eyes. As I stepped back, jubilant, I tripped. I broke my neck as I fell from the raised platform where the happy couple stood.
He didn’t die. I did.
“So don’t come back for me. Who do you think you are?”
'I’m yours, always,' I whisper in her ear. She murmurs in her sleep. He fidgets, uneasy in his slumber. I smile as I turn back to the jar and place the tiny heart-shaped ruby pendant inside. I’d given it to her last year. She’d returned it to me. But it was meant for her. She will keep it. And she will know, from now on, that the ones who truly love us never leave.
Wow, why is everything I write lately so disturbing? :-\
ReplyDeleteEven if it's a little dark, it's still amazingly written. In the first paragraph, the first time through, I thought the teenager didn't see him because she was so wrapped up in her own life. Then when he says he wishes he could smell his beloved's hair, it still hadn't occurred to me that he was physically incapable of smelling her hair because he was dead. Wow. :-)
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