*Okay, so this takes place when Annie and Jessie are about eleven years old. I might change that age, though, so don't dwell too much on it.*
Annie
Jessie was going to sleep over, and I was getting my room ready before she arrived. I felt kind of nervous about tonight. I had decided I was going to tell Jessie my deepest, darkest secret that nobody else knew about. Jessie and I were best friends, though, so I knew I could trust her with this secret. I heard my doorbell ring and rolled my eyes; typical Jessie to ring the doorbell when she knew she could just walk right in, like I did at her house. I heard my mom open the door and send Jessie upstairs. There was a gentle tap on my door, and Jessie quietly entered.
“Geez, Jessie, you act as if you’re in a stranger’s house. You don’t have to ring the doorbell or knock before you come into my room,” I told her. She laughed and blushed at the same time.
“Sorry, Annie, I just don’t want to be rude,” she replied. I pulled her into a hug and laughed.
“You are way to polite for your own good,” I shook my head. I released her and she tried to breathe again as I grabbed her things and threw them in a corner of the room. We climbed onto my bed and sat Indian style opposite each other and immediately began a game of thumb war like usual. I won, like usual, and said, “Okay, question for the night: What is your deepest fear?” I couldn’t prevent the slight shakiness in my voice. Jessie didn’t notice, or at least pretended not to. That’s the way she was. She always made sure you didn’t feel awkward or embarrassed. The kid was way too nice.
Jessie looked down at her hands and thought for a while, then said, “I guess my deepest fear is being abandoned. You know, having somebody you really care about just leave you without a thought, like they don’t care. I don’t want to be alone, or…unloved.” I closed my eyes and hated myself for a few seconds. How could I have been so stupid to rip open that subject on her?
“Aw, Jess, I’m sorry I brought that up,” I said and tugged her into another hug. I stroked her hair as she took a few deep breaths. I thought of the day she first told me a few years earlier about how her mom left Jessie and her dad when Jessie was only four. Jessie had been playing in the backyard with her dad, when her mom opened the door lugging out her suitcase. Jessie had watched in confusion as her dad and mom argued for a while, and then finally how her mom just got in the car and drove away.
“It’s okay, I’m alright. Don’t worry about it,” Jessie said, pulling away and smiling. “What’s your deepest fear?”
Jessie
I waited for Annie to answer. She seemed somewhat torn. Annie worried me sometimes, the way she was just so unpredictable. I never knew where our conversations would lead.
“Well, you’re going to laugh at me…” she began hesitantly. That was strange for two reasons: first, Annie was never hesitant, and second, Annie knew I would never ever laugh at her. I raised my eyebrows. “Okay, so you won’t laugh, but you will think I’m weird,” she corrected herself.
“Don’t worry Annie, I already think you’re weird, so you haven’t got much to lose,” I said consolingly. She laughed loudly and shook her head.
“You are a crazy kid, Jessie,” she commented. I looked at her meaningfully, and she cleared her throat hurriedly. “Alright, I’ll stop procrastinating. My deepest fear is that when I die, I’ll be forgotten. That I’ll never get the chance to do something worthwhile and memorable, that you or my husband will remember to put flowers on my grave for a few months, and then I’ll just fade from everyone’s minds and that’ll be it. I’ll be dead, and the memory of me will be dead. It scares me, Jess, it really does. I don’t want to be forgotten, I don’t want a wave to just wash me out of everyone’s minds once I’m gone and am no longer able to personally remind them of my existence. “ Annie was now in tears and I stared at her in surprise. “And I don’t know what I can do to make sure that people are gonna remember me. What can I do to make sure they don’t forget?” Annie folded into my arms and I hugged her as she sobbed into my shoulders. I suddenly felt scared and vulnerable. Annie was always the brave one, she was always the one that hugged me when I got scared and cried. I was worried about what she had just told me, and my throat felt clogged with emotion.
I patted her back and said the only thing I could think of that could comfort her, “Don’t worry, Annie; I will never forget you, I can promise you that.”
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Friday, August 20, 2010
Another excerpt from another new book "The Storyteller"
*I don't really know where in the book this is all happening, but I wrote it and this is it. I feel like the protagonist is one of my best characters yet, she's just so real. It's kind of personal because she's a lot like me in ways, so...yeah...this is it:*
Dear Diary,
So, I've never written a diary before, but my English teacher says it builds character and I need to write entries at least weekly in you. Which basically means that I write in this book or get failed. I think I'll choose the former.
So. Um. Basics about me, I guess. There are three things I love most in the world: Writing, Dancing, and Acting. And they were written in the order of most loved. I know, it's weird that I love writing so much, and yet have never written in a diary. It's just that I normally see the world from my character's lives, and not through my own. So I've only felt the urge to write down what they see and feel, instead of what I do. But that's off-topic. I'll just let you know what I love most about the three things I wrote above.
There’s nothing quite like the feel of a pen or pencil in my hand, the sound of the scribble of lead on crisp paper, and just watching words flow out from my mind and on to that blank canvas. It’s almost like art. You take colors and a paintbrush, and paint the image in your head for all to see. But instead of images, there are words. It fascinates me to no end to have the worlds in my head come to life on the paper. To see the characters who are like my children interact with each other for all to see. But it’s frustrating when I can’t find the words to describe what is truly perfect to me. Because sometimes, there are no words that can truly fit the people and places I create in my mind. And I want so badly to share it with everyone. But nobody can ever see what I see.
Dancing has always been very important to me. It’s much more than a workout and exercise to me. It’s my escape from my life, my time where I can just forget everything that bothers me, hurts me, and stresses me out. So I dance, and I forget. It's a kind of therapy for all of my troubles in life. I use my pent-up anger to add emotion to my movements, my suppressed energy to keep me moving, and just let my mind go blank as I try to concentrate on the task at hand.
Acting isn’t one of my priorities in life, and it’s not half as important to me as writing or dancing, but I still enjoy it. It’s just another way to express my erratic personality. So I'm not gonna write more about it.
When I think about it, all of my favorite activities are a form of storytelling. Writing is the most traditional and usual way to tell a story. With dancing, you express the story through your body movements and facial expressions. Acting is another more traditional manner of telling a story. I guess that just makes me a storyteller. If only I had a good story to tell. I know my stories are interesting to me- when I first write them at least. My over-active imagination creates thousands of storylines and ideas daily. It’s like it haunts me, driving me to the point of insanity than slowly dragging me back again, just so I can write down the words running through my head. Because that’s what it’s like. All somebody has to do is say one word, and I make a sentence out of it, then I make the background of the sentence, then the character who says it, then I have to make a character who responds, then the background of that character, then what they look like, and before I know it, I have the beginning of a story. And my heart breaks to know that I won’t write it.
Wow, it feels so strange to be telling this story. Not that I don't like writing stories or anything. But I'm so used to seeing the world through other people's eyes, telling the story from the way they see and feel it. Now, for the first time in my life, I'm writing things the way I see it. Now, I'm seeing the world through my own eyes. Now, people are reading about me, and not about a character I created. Now, I'm the storyteller not of somebody else's life, but of my own.
Dear Diary,
So, I've never written a diary before, but my English teacher says it builds character and I need to write entries at least weekly in you. Which basically means that I write in this book or get failed. I think I'll choose the former.
So. Um. Basics about me, I guess. There are three things I love most in the world: Writing, Dancing, and Acting. And they were written in the order of most loved. I know, it's weird that I love writing so much, and yet have never written in a diary. It's just that I normally see the world from my character's lives, and not through my own. So I've only felt the urge to write down what they see and feel, instead of what I do. But that's off-topic. I'll just let you know what I love most about the three things I wrote above.
There’s nothing quite like the feel of a pen or pencil in my hand, the sound of the scribble of lead on crisp paper, and just watching words flow out from my mind and on to that blank canvas. It’s almost like art. You take colors and a paintbrush, and paint the image in your head for all to see. But instead of images, there are words. It fascinates me to no end to have the worlds in my head come to life on the paper. To see the characters who are like my children interact with each other for all to see. But it’s frustrating when I can’t find the words to describe what is truly perfect to me. Because sometimes, there are no words that can truly fit the people and places I create in my mind. And I want so badly to share it with everyone. But nobody can ever see what I see.
Dancing has always been very important to me. It’s much more than a workout and exercise to me. It’s my escape from my life, my time where I can just forget everything that bothers me, hurts me, and stresses me out. So I dance, and I forget. It's a kind of therapy for all of my troubles in life. I use my pent-up anger to add emotion to my movements, my suppressed energy to keep me moving, and just let my mind go blank as I try to concentrate on the task at hand.
Acting isn’t one of my priorities in life, and it’s not half as important to me as writing or dancing, but I still enjoy it. It’s just another way to express my erratic personality. So I'm not gonna write more about it.
When I think about it, all of my favorite activities are a form of storytelling. Writing is the most traditional and usual way to tell a story. With dancing, you express the story through your body movements and facial expressions. Acting is another more traditional manner of telling a story. I guess that just makes me a storyteller. If only I had a good story to tell. I know my stories are interesting to me- when I first write them at least. My over-active imagination creates thousands of storylines and ideas daily. It’s like it haunts me, driving me to the point of insanity than slowly dragging me back again, just so I can write down the words running through my head. Because that’s what it’s like. All somebody has to do is say one word, and I make a sentence out of it, then I make the background of the sentence, then the character who says it, then I have to make a character who responds, then the background of that character, then what they look like, and before I know it, I have the beginning of a story. And my heart breaks to know that I won’t write it.
Wow, it feels so strange to be telling this story. Not that I don't like writing stories or anything. But I'm so used to seeing the world through other people's eyes, telling the story from the way they see and feel it. Now, for the first time in my life, I'm writing things the way I see it. Now, I'm seeing the world through my own eyes. Now, people are reading about me, and not about a character I created. Now, I'm the storyteller not of somebody else's life, but of my own.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Excerpt from 'Forgotten'
*Okay, so this idea has been sitting in my head for quite awhile, but I've been so busy this summer that I really haven't had a chance to write anything. Hence, the lack of posts of late. BUt I've decided that it's high time to delight you all with a new post ;) Enjoy!*
Annie's Prologue:
When I was seven years old, I wrote my name in the sand near the ocean. Waves lapped delicately at my name's tip, but went no further. I was sure that I had written it high enough to avoid being washed away. I ran up the slight sandy slope to where the rest of my family was seated, and grabbed my mother's hand to show her what I had written. Upon my return, I found to my horror that the waves had come up further and washed away my name. Annie Shorner had disappeared from the sand. My mother said that such a thing was to be expected, and not to be worried by it.
As she retreated back up the slope, it made me wonder if that's how life was. You go through every day, doing your business, trying to leave a mark in the world. But when you die, you're just forgotten. No one remembers you after a few months. Who cares if you won employee of the month five times in a row? You've done nothing to deserve a prominent place in the memories of all mankind. Only a few select achieve that high honor. And that scared me. It scared me more than anything else to think that one day I would be forgotten, that one day I would be erased from the memories of all. I made up my mind there and then to make sure that I would always be remembered, to make sure that no one would ever forget me. Ever.
I think it was that day that changed me, that day that set my fate to be what I have become. That fear of my name being washed away from the memories of men by a gentle wave made me realize that I couldn't engrave my memory into sand, but into stone. Annie Shorner would not disappear ever again.
Jessie's Prologue:
I sit in this cold, white room and listen to the hushed voices issuing from behind the curtains that hide Annie and her bed. A face peeks out and looks at me.
"Miss, we're going to have to ask you to sit in the waiting room until you're called in," the nurse says. I mutely stand and leave the E.R., walk into the waiting room and plop down into an empty seat there. A woman in a business suit approaches me.
"Jessica Borite?" she asks, her voice stern but trying to be friendly. I look at her blankly and nod. She glances down at a pile of papers in her hand, her lips pursed tightly together. After a few minutes, she looks back at me. "My sources tell me that you were very close with Annie Shorner before she rose to power. Would you care to give us some important information about her, perhaps some details about this whole mess. I'm told you were indirectly involved. We have the best psychologists and professors on her case, and we were hoping you could help us." I remain silent. "You'll be an anonymous source, of course," the lady adds. Again, I say nothing. "Will you say nothing at all?" I confirm her question by doing exactly that. She sighs in exasperation, then walks away.
Who do they think they are, trying to pry into Annie's life, her mind, her heart? They know nothing about her, they don't understand. She wasn't always like this. She never wanted to hurt anybody. None of this is her fault. My heart aches for the sight of Annie's smile again, just to see her how she used to be, when we were best friends. I want to hear her laugh, hear her tell me this is all a big joke to test our friendship like she used to when we were younger. But she's lying unconscious in a hospital, with unfriendly people penetrating her personal bubble, as she would have said. My head aches as I try to think of anyway this all could have been prevented. My whole body aches to feel once more one of Annie's suffocating hugs.
I watch as a man who had been talking to the lady in the business suit walks over to me, a friendly smile on his face. He sits down in the chair besides mine and says, "My name's Justin. Your's is Jessie, right?" I barely nod. "Want to be friends?" he asks cheerfully. I stare at this twenty-something year old using five year old tactics to make friends as if he's gone crazy. I shrug, not really knowing what else to do. He grins. "So. What's your favorite color?" At this, my whole body tenses. I can still hear Annie's six year old voice asking me that same question twenty years ago. Something inside me breaks, and tears start pouring down my face.
Through my weeping, I manage to choke out, "She asked me...that... once, too. A long time.. ago." I wrap my arms around my self and cry and cry, my sobs wracking my entire body. I feel a consoling arm laid gently on my shoulder, and Justin's voice tells me to just let it all out. "We were...six," I begin between gasps, bawling my eyes out, unable to control myself anymore, "that's how...it all...started."
Annie's Prologue:
When I was seven years old, I wrote my name in the sand near the ocean. Waves lapped delicately at my name's tip, but went no further. I was sure that I had written it high enough to avoid being washed away. I ran up the slight sandy slope to where the rest of my family was seated, and grabbed my mother's hand to show her what I had written. Upon my return, I found to my horror that the waves had come up further and washed away my name. Annie Shorner had disappeared from the sand. My mother said that such a thing was to be expected, and not to be worried by it.
As she retreated back up the slope, it made me wonder if that's how life was. You go through every day, doing your business, trying to leave a mark in the world. But when you die, you're just forgotten. No one remembers you after a few months. Who cares if you won employee of the month five times in a row? You've done nothing to deserve a prominent place in the memories of all mankind. Only a few select achieve that high honor. And that scared me. It scared me more than anything else to think that one day I would be forgotten, that one day I would be erased from the memories of all. I made up my mind there and then to make sure that I would always be remembered, to make sure that no one would ever forget me. Ever.
I think it was that day that changed me, that day that set my fate to be what I have become. That fear of my name being washed away from the memories of men by a gentle wave made me realize that I couldn't engrave my memory into sand, but into stone. Annie Shorner would not disappear ever again.
Jessie's Prologue:
I sit in this cold, white room and listen to the hushed voices issuing from behind the curtains that hide Annie and her bed. A face peeks out and looks at me.
"Miss, we're going to have to ask you to sit in the waiting room until you're called in," the nurse says. I mutely stand and leave the E.R., walk into the waiting room and plop down into an empty seat there. A woman in a business suit approaches me.
"Jessica Borite?" she asks, her voice stern but trying to be friendly. I look at her blankly and nod. She glances down at a pile of papers in her hand, her lips pursed tightly together. After a few minutes, she looks back at me. "My sources tell me that you were very close with Annie Shorner before she rose to power. Would you care to give us some important information about her, perhaps some details about this whole mess. I'm told you were indirectly involved. We have the best psychologists and professors on her case, and we were hoping you could help us." I remain silent. "You'll be an anonymous source, of course," the lady adds. Again, I say nothing. "Will you say nothing at all?" I confirm her question by doing exactly that. She sighs in exasperation, then walks away.
Who do they think they are, trying to pry into Annie's life, her mind, her heart? They know nothing about her, they don't understand. She wasn't always like this. She never wanted to hurt anybody. None of this is her fault. My heart aches for the sight of Annie's smile again, just to see her how she used to be, when we were best friends. I want to hear her laugh, hear her tell me this is all a big joke to test our friendship like she used to when we were younger. But she's lying unconscious in a hospital, with unfriendly people penetrating her personal bubble, as she would have said. My head aches as I try to think of anyway this all could have been prevented. My whole body aches to feel once more one of Annie's suffocating hugs.
I watch as a man who had been talking to the lady in the business suit walks over to me, a friendly smile on his face. He sits down in the chair besides mine and says, "My name's Justin. Your's is Jessie, right?" I barely nod. "Want to be friends?" he asks cheerfully. I stare at this twenty-something year old using five year old tactics to make friends as if he's gone crazy. I shrug, not really knowing what else to do. He grins. "So. What's your favorite color?" At this, my whole body tenses. I can still hear Annie's six year old voice asking me that same question twenty years ago. Something inside me breaks, and tears start pouring down my face.
Through my weeping, I manage to choke out, "She asked me...that... once, too. A long time.. ago." I wrap my arms around my self and cry and cry, my sobs wracking my entire body. I feel a consoling arm laid gently on my shoulder, and Justin's voice tells me to just let it all out. "We were...six," I begin between gasps, bawling my eyes out, unable to control myself anymore, "that's how...it all...started."
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