Jeremiah's School of Levitation
Upsy-Daisy!
Friday, November 10, 2006
A Tolerant Friday
The word for this week is "tolerant". As always, I thank the rockin' Mona for running the show. Here is my bit, courtesy of a 10-minute sprint.
Of My Desire, I'm Tolerant
There was this thing between me and the girl. It was a wall. No, a real wall. She lived next door, with her mother, and I lived with my wife. The girl came out at 7 am each weekday, to go to her job at some diner, I was sure. She was dressed in a pink skirt, a white blouse, and a tiara and she carried a black leather purse and she chewed bubblegum. I know this because I can hear her alarm clock go off at 5:30 am and I can hear the shower burst on at 5:40 am and then I can hear her sing and then stop suddenly because she didn't want to wake her mother, who was an invalid and who would just scream for her to shut up because that was the easier thing to do, and the most effective. I'd then hear her tromp about, bumping into things, closing doors, sliding her windows open and shut. Finally, I'd hear silence, complete silence, and I'd wonder what she was doing. Was she praying? Was she reading something? Was she contemplating plunging from the window to leave a doll-dressed, beautiful corpse cracked and split on the sidewalk?
One morning, I timed it just right and I pulled away from my wife's sleeping heat and went out to the hallway to get my paper just as the girl came from her apartment. She was glowing in the dull light that managed to get in through the smudged window down the hall. She was demure and had pearl skin and little eyes and her red hair tumbled like a jumble of the letter C, thousands of the letters C. She looked at me as she closed her door and she smiled and then, just as quickly, turned her head and kept walking, the pink skirt bobbing just below the curve of where her legs began.
I watched her too long and she looked back and I glanced down to the paper I held. It was upside down, but I could read the headline:
"Evidence of attack…" the headline said.
I heard her get onto the elevator and the door slide shut, and I went back into my apartment. I was breathing like an accordion.
For a few days, weeks, I caught her out in the hall. I would just lie in the bed, waiting for her routine to finish, then I nearly darted out there to see her, in her same pink outfit, her same red hair, only the paper headline and the color of the light changing every day.
Finally, I got the courage up.
"Hey," I said as she closed her door and I picked up the paper and read the headline. It read "Man confesses…"
"Yeah," she said, frowning.
"You are beautiful in that skirt," I said. I smiled, acted embarrassed, and looked back to the paper.
"Oh. Well, thank you," she said, her voice sharp as a summer morning. "So, now I suppose you think I should fall in love with you?" And she winked and walked away.
I stood there until my feet fell asleep.
I don't go out there early anymore. I keep the wall between us, and I wait until she leaves. As I hear her door close and her feet landing on the hallway carpet as she walks to the elevator, I imagine her pink skirt, bobbing, just below the curve of my straining heart.
Of My Desire, I'm Tolerant
There was this thing between me and the girl. It was a wall. No, a real wall. She lived next door, with her mother, and I lived with my wife. The girl came out at 7 am each weekday, to go to her job at some diner, I was sure. She was dressed in a pink skirt, a white blouse, and a tiara and she carried a black leather purse and she chewed bubblegum. I know this because I can hear her alarm clock go off at 5:30 am and I can hear the shower burst on at 5:40 am and then I can hear her sing and then stop suddenly because she didn't want to wake her mother, who was an invalid and who would just scream for her to shut up because that was the easier thing to do, and the most effective. I'd then hear her tromp about, bumping into things, closing doors, sliding her windows open and shut. Finally, I'd hear silence, complete silence, and I'd wonder what she was doing. Was she praying? Was she reading something? Was she contemplating plunging from the window to leave a doll-dressed, beautiful corpse cracked and split on the sidewalk?
One morning, I timed it just right and I pulled away from my wife's sleeping heat and went out to the hallway to get my paper just as the girl came from her apartment. She was glowing in the dull light that managed to get in through the smudged window down the hall. She was demure and had pearl skin and little eyes and her red hair tumbled like a jumble of the letter C, thousands of the letters C. She looked at me as she closed her door and she smiled and then, just as quickly, turned her head and kept walking, the pink skirt bobbing just below the curve of where her legs began.
I watched her too long and she looked back and I glanced down to the paper I held. It was upside down, but I could read the headline:
"Evidence of attack…" the headline said.
I heard her get onto the elevator and the door slide shut, and I went back into my apartment. I was breathing like an accordion.
For a few days, weeks, I caught her out in the hall. I would just lie in the bed, waiting for her routine to finish, then I nearly darted out there to see her, in her same pink outfit, her same red hair, only the paper headline and the color of the light changing every day.
Finally, I got the courage up.
"Hey," I said as she closed her door and I picked up the paper and read the headline. It read "Man confesses…"
"Yeah," she said, frowning.
"You are beautiful in that skirt," I said. I smiled, acted embarrassed, and looked back to the paper.
"Oh. Well, thank you," she said, her voice sharp as a summer morning. "So, now I suppose you think I should fall in love with you?" And she winked and walked away.
I stood there until my feet fell asleep.
I don't go out there early anymore. I keep the wall between us, and I wait until she leaves. As I hear her door close and her feet landing on the hallway carpet as she walks to the elevator, I imagine her pink skirt, bobbing, just below the curve of my straining heart.
Elliot, 11:05 PM
7 Back at me:
I read the whole thing. Which really is my comment because i am easily bored.
That was a nice bit of writing sir.
That was a nice bit of writing sir.
fabulous writing, yes..
Walls are a beautiful thing, aren't they?
Walls are a beautiful thing, aren't they?
it was indeed good writing. not true i assume?
All: Thanks for the props. And, no Sus, it's not true. At least, not in MY life...
I agree..a wonderful piece of work...and I get distracted easily too.
My heart did one of those achy-thump things at the end of the story. That longing thing, yeah, very nicely done! (I know I've told you this a million times, but your characters are so REAL, I wish you could give me lessons in that!)
Lucia: Thanky!
Mona. Oh, garsh...thanks, Mona. My only guiding principle in creating characters is that you have to be able to imagine yourself doing what the character is doing, no matter how repulsive, weird, or against your priciples it may be. You can't merely understand why someone would behave a certain way--you have to actually belive that YOU can behave that way. Throw away the judgements--it's only fiction! If you can't truly imagine yourself behaving that way, then you can't make the character seem real.
And, as for descriptions, stare at people (when they're not looking, though, I get caught staring every week)! Note and remember the outstanding characteristics of anyone you see. It's okay to mix them up--all 20 people on the bus can become one person in your story.
Mona. Oh, garsh...thanks, Mona. My only guiding principle in creating characters is that you have to be able to imagine yourself doing what the character is doing, no matter how repulsive, weird, or against your priciples it may be. You can't merely understand why someone would behave a certain way--you have to actually belive that YOU can behave that way. Throw away the judgements--it's only fiction! If you can't truly imagine yourself behaving that way, then you can't make the character seem real.
And, as for descriptions, stare at people (when they're not looking, though, I get caught staring every week)! Note and remember the outstanding characteristics of anyone you see. It's okay to mix them up--all 20 people on the bus can become one person in your story.
