Untitled Story

Chapter One:

Whitney is barbaric. She stands about eight feet tall, wears animal print with every outfit, and sports a uni-brow. With teeth like that she will never get promoted and it is likely that she’ll never get married to Richard. Her glasses are too large for her face, her hair is a frizzy black mess, and she always has snot hanging out of her nose. Whitney is not pretty nor is she desirable, perfect, or charming. This is exactly the kind of pep-talk I give myself while I defile the engagement picture that arrived in today’s mail.

            “Laura, sweety, that wall has got to be cleaned up!” My voice, mocking that of my mother’s, resonates through my bedroom. She doesn’t understand why I collect these pictures and plaster them on the wall by my window: the window that overlooks the veranda where I have tea on Sunday afternoons with my very own prince charming. I glance out my luxurious window with the hopes of fading away in my fairytale, only to be distracted by the neighbor stopping to pick up the present his poodle left on our lawn.

            “At least he isn’t leaving it there today; I guess the note on his windshield got her point across.” My mother is opinionated and graceful, but not at all afraid of confrontation; her neighbors love and fear her. I wouldn’t doubt it if my father left over the complexities of that woman’s personality. If I had finished my psychology degree I could probably conclusively tell you that my mother was certifiably crazy in some way, but I don’t finish most of the things I begin.

            “Laura, sweety, it’s time to go!” This time the tart voice yelling at me is actually my mother. I have the forethought to finish tacking Whitney and Richard’s photo to my wall-o-shame before tossing the announcement in the trash, picking up my duffle bag, and heading downstairs. Ellen-Grace, my mother, decided that we needed a mother-daughter weekend to ‘bond and do other amazing things.’ My mother might be insane, but she is an optimist while she does it. The plan for the weekend is to drive to Portland and attempt to relax while we shop.

            I step into the garage just as the motor-driven door comes screeching to a halt above my head. The trunk of our Camry is already open and full of dandy girl-tastic treasures. I throw my duffle into the mix and glance at Ellen-Grace as a small thump follows the thud of my bag landing at the top of the heap.

            I stare down the glare I’m receiving. “Can you go one day without breaking something?” My mother asks. I grin, “It is very unlikely.” I turned towards the passenger door of the car in an attempt to avoid the conversation I knew would last the hour drive from Hallowell. I have been told that I am bitter since being stood up on my wedding day. Andrew texted me as I stood in the foyer of our church and told me he had changed his mind. I think I was more upset that we are in such a degraded society that it was considered ‘socially acceptable’ to share such heavy news  with me this way, more so then the fact that I would not be getting married as planned.

            As expected my mother is still talking as she settles into the driver’s seat and properly closes her door. I try to ignore her as she turns to me, but I was raised better than that.

“..moreover, you need to grow up. It has been almost a year. Laura Margret? Are you hearing a word I’m saying?” My blank stare generally answers these kinds of inquiries better than my words ever could, so I let my glossed over eyes do the talking – it doesn’t dissuade her. “You are 25 years old, Laura. I’m not going to be around forever,” oh boy, that again. “You need to start venturing out into the world and making friends. It is time for you to start dating. You are afraid of getting hurt after what Andrew did and I understand that, but it’s time to take some risks.”

I guess I feel like this deserves a response, because my I can’t keep my mouth shut. “Andrew didn’t hurt me nearly as badly as everyone assumes that he did. I’m pretty convinced he didn’t show up because he knew I didn’t plan on staying. Did you notice that I chose rhinestone blue Converses to adorn the dainty, perfectly pedicured feet below my wedding dress?” My sarcasm never amuses her. She scowls, I grin, and we pull out of the driveway.

Since childhood I have found it a pleasure to glance out the back window of our car as we drive away from our house. I always pictured it like they show it in those sentimental made-for-TV movies, and imagine that someone is standing on the curb waiving us off. The scenario of our departure changes a little each time we go, but overall there is usually someone who doesn’t want me to leave; this time Andrew is standing in front of our canary yellow home leaning on the weathered fence with tears glistening in his eyes. I enjoy picturing him in pain. It is here that I have the realization that I might actually be bitter about his choice to leave me alone in that church.

My vision fades as the sunshine of our home falls behind the corner as we turn to head towards the bustling thoroughfare of Water Street in Hallowell, Maine. I turn back around and watch the Kennebec River float into view behind the green trusses of Russell’s Gems. I throw my hands up as we coast down the steep hill towards the river and my mother throws her right hand up to protect her face from my flailing. “It’s a roller coaster of doom!” I scream as we bounce over the train tracks. My mother glares at me and hoarsely whispers my full name; I let her believe I felt that a good indication to behave.

“Just remember, this was your idea lady.” I often pretend to feel threatened by her attempts at discipline. I haven’t had an incentive to follow the rules since I left home to go to college at 21, but I believe it is better to feed the mama bear honey rather than tease her with vinegar. Isn’t that how the saying goes?

Chapter Two:

“You are lost.”

“No, I know exactly which road I should not have taken.”

I stare at my mother in disbelief. How can we be related? I may not believe in things like GPS and Smartphones, but I never get lost. Having a firm hold on where I am and where I am going is a gift I have had since childhood. Ellen-Grace has the internal compass of a poorly decorated cub scout and the pride of a lion.

“Do you want me to drive?” I inquire, already knowing the response.

“No, we are almost there.” She grimaces as she leans forward to see the road signs she is passing at well below the speed limit. “How far is Lewiston from Portland?”

“How long have you lived in this state and you don’t know that? Pull over, I’m driving.” I had to put an end to this foolishness. The problem with insisting that I put an end to the foolishness just encourages it to continue; I don’t know why I try.

“No you are not. If you had renewed your license on your birthday three months ago I may consider it, but now you are stuck where you are while I turn around.” I never meant to imply that my mother was the only reason I couldn’t resolve the foolishness. I firmly believe in laws like the ones that exist in Florida –at least I think it’s Florida- where you only have to renew your license once in your life and generally by then you are dead, or worse, retired. Things like license renewal mean that the local government can check up on you to make sure you are driving where they licensed you to drive. I am not a fan of Big Brother.

We pull into an empty lot amongst a spray of Firs. I brace my feet against the dash board as my mother creeps her way around a large rock and back onto the vacant road. As is the case with many things, Ellen-Grace did not find my blatant over-reaction humorous. She glares at her windshield and ignores my antics.

As we find our way back onto I-95, I rest the right side of my face against the cool glass of the passenger side window and zone out to the whoosh of the sea of Evergreens whipping past me. 

History Determined

            I could hear my sneakers tapping against the ceramic tiles beneath my feet as my legs quivered with anticipation. Keys clanged against the industrial bench at each downward tremble of my foot and I visualized falling coins as I listened to the sharp pattern of taps. The office door creaked open, letting a girl about my age in with a small child, and then slammed closed with enough force to disrupt the smooth rhythm of my keys. A little girl, less than three years old, burst into a whaling fit at the shock of a sudden sharp noise and her young mother consoled her. They walked away from me; choosing to rest comfortably in the corner near a tattered bookshelf. A bearded, teen-aged man sneezed and the pale face of the little girl glared at him through the straw-like hair that lay tattered and matted over her glossy brown eyes.

I leaned forward to rest my elbows on my knees, checked my watch, and ran my fingers into the dark curls of my unkempt hair. I felt the grease and dirt settle under my nails as I gripped down and pulled clumps of texture into my fists. Things were not going the way I envisioned them; I knew it would be difficult, but I had not anticipated the majority of the events since arriving. At 16, I should not have to worry about these things, and I should not have to be sitting here. The weight of the world continued to press down and my eyes grew damp, so I forced them shut with frustration.

            “Raleigh.” A voice belted out from behind a pane of bulletproof glass fifty feet in front of me. I raised my head and drew in a ragged breath before standing to stride the tiles and accept my judgment. “Through the door.” The voice cut me short as the stout, homely woman behind the counter pointed to my right, indicating a steel-frame security door. A click followed a raspy beep, and I pulled hard on the handle. The hallway beyond the metal door was poorly lit, missing every other light or so, and a gust of wind urged me forward as my exit vacated behind me. I could not force back my frustration now and fear filled my eyes and burned down my face as I searched for an indication of where to go.

            “Raleigh Nolan?” a sweet voice cooed from three doors down, “this way please.” I paced my steps towards the now vacant door and the tall redheaded woman that had just been standing in it. Her hair had flowed down in loose curls around her green eyes and pale, freckled skin. In just a brief moment, I noticed the deep blue of her blouse and the way it made her eyes explode with color. I drew in my breath again, and held it, as I rounded the corner through a weak wooden frame into a small office.

“You look a lot like my mom.” I stated, walking hesitantly towards a chair at the far end of a linoleum-wrapped plywood desk. “She’s not very tall though.” I took a seat and shoved my fists into my eyes, scrubbing away my emotion. “How tall is she, your mom?” The coo flowed across the desk and settled the nerves tensing up in my face and arms. I relaxed slightly against the back of the stained plastic chair and winced at the moans in the material as it struggled to hold under my weight. “I don’t know exactly. She is not as tall as you.” Her face was softer than the other ones; she seemed to care why I was here.

“Raleigh, do you know why you are meeting with me today?” I realized that she was not being nice to me; she was actually treating me like a child. The tension revitalized my body and I pulled my legs up onto the chair and embraced them as I made every effort to avoid glaring. “You all think that I’m a strange runaway and that I’m crazy. You people seem determined to prove that I’m insane.” As difficult as it was to hide my abhorrence at the situation I found myself in, it was significantly more trying to keep that distain from my trembling voice. “Now, you know that is not true.” She seemed offended by my accusations. “Then why am I here?”

The thin metal hubs protecting the bottoms of the poles supporting her chair seared back slowly, stripping away my resolve as it went. The warped sapphire plastic resounded in protest as the chair connected with the wall and the woman stood.

Her soft eyes fell onto a tan folder and she flipped through a few pages before glancing back at me shortly and then returning to her worn memorandums. “There are no records of you before the last three months. You simply appeared out of nowhere claiming to have a secret mission; a mission you refuse to share with the federal government. In a time when terrorist threats are a serious concern in our country I am sure you can see why this is a concern.” Her eyes lost their warmth and their green venom filled me as she stared me down across the desk. “Tell me your story, Raleigh.” I returned her gaze and met her icy glare with my own. “No.” “Why?” “It is not for you to know.”

The tan cardstock of the folder sent an echo through the vacant hall outside when she slapped it against the cracked linoleum. “Just tell me who you are!” Her patience began to show signs of slipping; I was not a stranger to this. “Tell me who you are, we will find your parents, and then you can go home. Why is that difficult to understand?” I imagined my emerald eyes glistening, sparkling and shining in an intimidating fashion. “It is not for you to know. You would never understand.” A tear caressed the outer side of my cheek as I allowed my emotions to slip through unabated for the first time since the commencement of this encounter. “Nothing that I tell you will seem real or plausible; nothing I say will change that you are keeping me here.” “There is only one way to know for sure. You are a brilliant boy, I can tell just looking at you, but in all of your brilliance you have neglected to understand the only way out of here is to talk.”

So, I talked. What story would I tell? Surely, the truth would be unimaginable. Perhaps I would win them over with charisma, but it was more likely that they would lock me deeper into this impenetrable hole until I faded away myself. 

Beacon

This is a short story based on a novel I've been working on for about 10 years. Feedback is more than welcome.
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Haden's eyes were a fierce blue and seemed almost frozen behind the soft black hair that fell over them. There was a faded scar over his right eye from a rare clumsy moment. His delicate pale skin was almost translucent and emphasized his sharp features. He was average height and solidly built, but even so, looked somewhat malnourished. Raven, being his twin, could be described in a similar way. The only differences in their appearances were those that were related to their individual genders. She was feminine and petite in opposition to his more masculine build. He liked to believe that being larger meant that he was older, but the truth was that they had no way of knowing who was born first. Their bond was as tightly woven as their images. They seemed to compliment each other perfectly. For his brash and lude ways she evened him out in being mild, intelligent, and completely inoffensive. Raven found it a comforting thing to rely on the sturdiness of her brother. He was her rock and she, his wings.

Her journey to mend the past brought her home. Tarbert, Ireland, was where it began all those years ago and where she now needed to be to make peace with her brother. The drive from Dublin was long and gave her far too much availability for thought. The only distraction to her wearied mind was the erratic rains that fell over her vehicle as she ventured southward. She was getting close now and, as the rain had let up for the moment, rolled down the window to let the cool, damp breeze float in to help clear her mind.

She pulled into a small lot a few yards away from the coast. She sat in her car for a moment just breathing and taking in her day. It had been a long drive from Dublin to the small town of Tarbert, in the middle of nowhere. The years spent here were few but they still resounded inside her head. Memories of a grotesquely happy childhood crept up as she caught sight of a large rock standing off in the vast green field before her. The ocean sat to the left of her and she rested her head on the steering wheel while she gathered her thoughts. Raven's hands gripped tightly around the aromatic leather of her make-shift resting place; she closed her eyes and made an effort to repress the emotions that held her there.

In the box Raven sought this cold November morning, she knew, was a picture. She did not have to hold it in her hand to see it clearly. Only two years before did she feel impressed to imprison her memories in that old tin box and bury them. The photo showed a boy and a girl, more than siblings, twins. These children sat on the warm rock in mid-July being no more than 4 or 5 years old. Their age was uncertain as their parents were not present very long after to recall for them the memories they could not posses themselves.

The Sun was just barely coming up over her right shoulder and she pulled away from the wheel. Raven did not need the journals to tell the story of their life; Vivid memory never left her side. Haden had done many things during the war years that neither of them were proud of. At first, when it started fourteen years ago, he made an honest attempt at hiding such things from her. As time passed the effort was far more straining than he could stand and he leaned on her to support their survival.

Haden's criminal activity started small; he had stolen supplies from the general store the first morning after the late night invasion of their home. They were six and he justified taking those things with a need to eat. Raven was more concerned about the lifeless body of Sunny, the owner of the shop, then with her brother's petty thievery. She did, in the end, steal a stack of notebooks herself, with no justification at all.

Onward the memories flowed as the rising Sun shot it's rays deep into her sheltered vehicle. She recalled the first men on the road that the pair had met as they ventured towards the safety of information. They were unaware of the purpose of it all and sought knowledge in Dublin. For close to three years these men treated the twins like their very own children, but the need showed itself eventually for the group to go their separate ways. It wouldn't be for many years until Raven realized the heaviness of their leaving. Haden had presented the three barbaric men with enough alcohol to lull them into an ill-fated slumber. Her brother had done a good job of removing evidence from his person of his betrayal; the only evidence was of blood that clung to the dampness of his shoes.

In an attempt to rid herself of the heat that found her as the Sun rose to mid-sky she turned on the ignition and blasted the air conditioner. Still the images seeped from her mind and spilled over into her reality. Year after year Haden did what he felt was best for his sister. His innocent sins were violations of what little laws were left in their precious Ireland, but with nobody present to stop him in this deceased land of murderers and thieves, they continued to barely survive.

She opened her car door and stopped for just a moment to take in the smell of the ocean. Turning off the ignition and stepping onto the dirt, she closed the car door and walked on towards the sea. Raven made her way down the stone steps to the ocean. She was back in Ireland for a short time to try and mend some part of her broken heart. She remembered playing here as a child with her brother. She could almost feel him near her now, though she knew he was very far away. She stood for a moment with her long coat flapping in the strong breeze, arms wrapped tightly around her for warmth. Her long black hair was in a lose ponytail and she ignored it as it flew around her face. The ocean pulled up close to her sneakers and splashes of water made their way to the denim of her pants. The grass behind her seemed to move with the sea and the sand was the engulfed by water.

The taste of salt met her lips as she pondered where life had taken her. As a child she stood in this same place knowing everything she wanted to be as an adult. She looked back now with a small pang of guilt for letting down the little girl inside of her. Nothing could have prepared Raven for the scattered life she would find herself a part of.

Her sight was again set upon the sea as her mind continued to wander. Pulling back a few steps she took a seat upon the cold stone. She pulled her jacket in tighter as a strong breeze swept right through her bones. Taking a moment to look around before letting herself cry, she finally dropped her head into her arms and let out years of pain, regret and guilt.

As the Sun began to set, Raven found herself being startled awake by a flashing light. She was still on the stone steps by the sea and her eyes seemed to burn as she opened them. She remembered now where she was, that she had been crying. Again, a flash of light blinded her, causing her eyes to burn even more. When the light passed she looked down at the water; the sea had returned to it's normal level and was now several feet from the steps she sat upon. Across the vast emptiness of the water, on Tarbert Island, stood a glorious lighthouse. Tarbert Light, she knew, was a beacon of hope for many.

Knowing that it must be late for the lights to already be on, Raven stood and headed back to her car. It had been a long day and she needed to go up to the old house. It was a good distance away up the old dirt road, but one she'd have no trouble finding in the dark.

She had returned here a few years prior but had only walked around to the backyard. On this journey she found it quite important to make her way into the house. Having parked her car at the front of the driveway, Raven sat for a moment mustering courage. The last time she was inside this structure she was six years old. That time seemed so long ago and so rudely misplaced in her mind.

She replayed her fight with Haden from just the week before as she continued to wait for courage to arrive. After the war had ended the government had ordered all record of it destroyed. A clean start, they felt, was just what Ireland needed after close to twenty years of bloodshed. Though Raven was only a record keeper for the last twelve years of the conflict she did not see safety in destroying the record of the past. She had escaped the trivial pursuits of the government and hidden away her journals and emblems of her childhood in the place where it all began for her. Haden did not see so clearly the need to keep the record of his misdeeds. If her intention had continued to be publication, he wanted her aware that it would devastate him. Hard evidence would destroy what he had regained in the two years since the end of the conflict.

After the moments had turned into something that more resembled a half an hour, Raven shut off her car, grabbed a flashlight and opened the door. The grass was overgrown, but it was as green as she had remembered it. It took some effort to find her way past the four or so feet of grass that made it's way a good deal past her elbows. She reached the front door and was so distracted pulling wet grass out of her hair that she barely thought about the impact of entering her home. Once inside she marveled at the scene before the circle of her flashlight. Though 14 years of dust dulled the tangible memories of her past she noted that barely anything was different than she had previously recalled.

Making her way down the front hall towards the kitchen she was startled by a stern crunch under her foot. Brushing aside a thick layer of dust she picked up a fraction of what she recognized as a dinner plate. Placing the glass back in it's original place, with clear signs of being disturbed, she made her way around the corner into the kitchen. Things had surely changed in this room since the last night she sat at the table eating pork and potatoes. The table was sideways and far away from it's original position in the breakfast nook. Many other things were clearly out of place as well, but none of that mattered once she saw what she had entered the house to see. The dust on the floor was so thick that details were difficult to make out and so she had no way of telling which outline was her father, and which was her mother. She dared not go closer as she knew her stomach could not take much more of this image.

Turning to leave she found strength unavailable in her knees and she fell to the floor. Remembering now the sounds of gunfire that cold November night as she clung to her tree in the back woods. The fear and denial finally found her and her mind filled with it. Long amounts of time lapsed as she struggled to regain her composer. Raven was very much unaware of the time and it was clear that the strength to complete her task was quickly leaving her. With one last thread of determination she pulled herself to her feet and quickly found her way back out the front door.

Raven pulled her car to the back of the house and aimed the lights towards a small corner. The "X" on the wall was severely faded but still recognizable. She took a small shovel from the trunk of her car and dug beneath the marking on the wall. After a short time she found what she had come for. She sat a few feet away from her crude hole and held a small rust colored box in her hands. Here they were. All twelve years of the war recorded with her hand in these small notebooks. The tin box that housed the journals was rusted through in places, but the paper was, for the most part, intact.

The fire started out small and due to the dampness of nightfall and all of the days rain it stayed reasonably undetectable. One by one the pages were added to the embers, removing stain after stain from their past.

A deep numbness filled her as she released Haden from the bondage she had captured him in. His final betrayal was more a reflection of how she had ruined him. She watched the fire smolder, feeling as though she had finally done something right for him. Haden's soul, at last, would be free. Her fate was not so certain as she envisioned the long years that waited for her, ones that would be deeply empty without her brother.

The fire was nothing but cold ash by morning and Raven shoveled the remains back into her pretty tin box, placed it in its original hiding place, and forever buried the ashes of the past.

And so it ends.

Nirvana

To die, means to have once lived.
A life, with nothing left go give.
A heart, that will never fit.
A soul, to buried to forget.
A time, that is flying past.
A love, that is bound to last.
A world, that is letting go.
A space, with neither friend nor foe.