I wrote today...
So I've been feeling kind of guilty lately about not really trying to write as much as I used to--I mean original stuff. I really wanted to do NaNo this year (but when I look back at what I was doing November, I was like "Well, hello, chemistry IAs and huge projects in almost every class." So it would have been a failure. Also I have no novel ideas at the moment, apart from the Cain story, which is still floating around and I'm still carrying around that notebook changing things and not writing it). Well, anyway, today I resolved that I would write, come hell or high water. And I conveniently skipped the football game tonight to go chill in the bookstore and ended up later on lurking in the back of my car for an hour writing this.
I think it's the shortest short story I ever wrote.
Fishing
She parks the car on the edge of the river, headlights darting momentarily across the water to catch fireflies of light in the ripples. Notebook in hand, she settles down on the hood of her car and surveys the setting with approval. Yes, certainly appropriate. There are the trees, their long branches dipping down to trail in the current, leaves rustling like soft voices in the wind, casting dappled patterns of moonlight on the long grass. It’s evocative, picturesque, cinematic-and therefore should be at least moderately inspiring. Words, she thinks, will have to show themselves sooner or later. The paper, the pen in hand will be the trap; this scene is the bait.
Well, she thinks, so what happens in a place like this?
A suicide-terrible and romantic. The young girl, so pale, so tragic. The tragedy isn’t important, there are a million and one ways to inspire a suicide. For effect there should probably be a white dress. This girl, whoever she is, wades out into the river and-no. Wading is not right. Slogging through the water as the hem of her white dress dirties, weighs her down until she collapses with exhaustion? Or maybe a yellow dress, that’d be an interest irony of sorts, less traditional than white. A cheerful color, sunshine, and moonlit waters dragging the flower of youth down. It’s really only the slogging part that’s the problem, not the sinking, the exhaustion, blonde hair pooling around her like liquid strands of the moonlight that shines in such a loving manner on the dreadful scene.
Christ, that’s morbid, she thinks. And also cliché.
World War II era. A young man, blonde, glasses, in an aviator jacket with his childhood friend who he’s wanted to marry since the first grade. But she doesn’t know that, of course. They are sitting on the banks of the river they used to play beside, and he’s telling her he wants to do this, he wants to go to war, he feels it’s his duty to be the hero. She says nothing but finds this hopelessly naïve and charming and completely idiotic. He confesses love, naturally, and they share some romantic fumbling before he leaves her standing bereft and forlorn with the moonlight in a halo on her dark hair. Off he flies to war and gets injured in the line of duty saving the life of some important commanding officer, so they ship him home, where he finds his sweetheart’s become a Commie, or something equally heartbreaking to the sweet young man.
Yeah, that’s not much better, she thinks. She can’t understand why these ideas come to her-these are the stories she’s meant to tell? Or perhaps she’s being too harsh. After all, there’s nothing deeply wrong with either of them; with some thought and creativity they could be fairly decent, fairly original. But they don’t strike her the right way. Maybe there’s something else to catch out here tonight.
Whispered voices, the gentle splash of the pole cutting through the water. On the raft, a dozen kegs of bootlegged rum-this is Prohibition, after all. If they’re caught, they could face jail, or heavy fines, but there’s massive profit to be had, so they journey on through ropes of Spanish moss and the iron lattice of tree branches. Except there’s been a mistake somewhere, and this rum is made with industrial alcohol that wasn’t cleaned up quite right, so what these casks are carrying is liquid death. And where is it all headed? To the river-front speakeasy of the local gang, hidden on the docks, where in a fit of debauchery the whole tribe of criminals will get absolutely wasted and accidentally kill themselves.
Hmmm, she thinks. Hmmmm.
Overhead the moon drifts slowly towards the horizon; the shadows on the water spread. She taps the pen once, twice against the paper and stares into the water as though trying to gauge the depths.
Notes: Okay, my problem with this set in when I reached the ending. I had no idea how to resolve it. As a matter of fact, I'm not really sure how this idea happened, except I was screwing around trying to think of something to write (and yes, I was as a matter of fact sitting by the river near my house. I went there because I had to kill time before I could plausibly show up at home and look like I had gone to the football game. But I was in the backseat, not on the hood) and this idea just sort of...showed up. And I took it and ran with it, and I actually liked it until it came time to conclude. I cannot think of a really good way to end this. What I did use seems like complete crap to me, and obviously needs to be elaborated or it doesn't fit with the rest of the piece, and it's just too abrupt and maybe not clear enough? I don't know. I don't even know if this counts as a decent story, but I wrote, so I guess it was good to at least put pen to paper.
Edit: I think I agree with my friend Kit, so the actual last line of this draft has been removed, because it works better without (she also calls this a prose-poem, which I guess I can see, I don't know). But I'll include it here, just in case:
"And above the soft sound of the wind and the endless symphony of the crickets, her sigh can be heard."
I think Kit is right, it works better without that as a last sentence.