Post by SomethingAboutTheStars on Mar 9, 2012 22:14:48 GMT -5
Yay! My favorite parts from here out! Oh, also, could you please read and comment on this short story that I wrote? It'd mean a lot to me. And I hope you love this part as much as I do. (; Huge chapter, but well, in my head, it's worth it. Ah, I'm sounding so awfully conceited. Excuse me whileI go punish myself.
thegreysonchanceforum.com/index.cgi?board=fiction&action=display&thread=1029
I get up from my stool. Stephen’s not working today; he and his dad are off playing baseball somewhere. The café is kind of boring without him, but today it’s different, and it’s what’s making me pace back and forth. Greyson is going to meet me today. The scene is so familiar. It’s feels kind of like fate. I’m sure he has something that can help me. Why else would my manager lead me to him? Maybe I didn’t decode it correctly. I haven’t told him about the code yet. At least, the last part about him helping me. I told him I followed a paper trail left for me, and it led me to him. It’s partially the truth.
People are looking at me; I’m restless and drawing attention to myself. But I don’t really care. I pace back and forth, up and down the counter. And soon, I can’t take it anymore. I’ve arrived two hours early of our meeting time, and now I realize that it was a bad decision. The time is so slow. I try to keep my eyes away from the ticking clock on the wall. But as usual, I can’t control myself and look over. The minute hand is frozen solid. Not moving. It’s like someone decided to stop time.
I take my notebook and tuck it under my arm. I can’t take this. I walk quickly to the bathroom. For a small little café, the bathrooms are nice, they don’t smell repulsive. Because most people are thinking of the stereotypical bathroom, they avoid it. So I’m alone. I leave my notebook on counter and splash cold water on my face.
Calm down, I try and tell myself.
What’s ridiculous, I can’t even figure out why I’m so jittery. Greyson and I have been on a date before. We actually have been on multiple. We wrote together, he played piano for me, I read for him, we saw a movie and laughed at its cheesiness, we went to a movie and cried at it. We bought records together at the Spotlight. He told me he loved me. It may just be that I’m afraid of Greyson rejecting to help me, that I’m going to lose the last tie I have to my manager. I dry my hands on the paper towel and brush another across my face. It helps I don’t wear makeup. I’d look like crying Barbie doll, black eyeliner running down my face like tears.
Other thoughts. Other thoughts. I try and steer my mind away from anything that doesn’t connect back to Greyson. I’m suddenly really hot. The bathroom has suddenly gotten warmer, like someone had taken a shower. I wipe my hand across my forehead and find there’s sweat. I shiver, the sudden warmth confusing my body. I start to feel like I can’t breathe. There’s a buzzing scream in my ears, like I’m sick.
And then I start freaking out.
I hear the alarms that I thought were in my head before. My hand reaches out to grab the handle. It’s hot, and I jerk back. I panic even more. How will I get out? There’s probably nobody out there. They’ve probably all evacuated. There’s no windows. I cough.
Fire. Fire. Fire. I use my foot to push down the handle and once it’s down, I quickly throw myself against the door. I’m not fast enough. I try again. This time, I fall through the surprisingly open door. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.
I struggle to my feet and wobble towards the front. A horrifying thought dawns on me. I breathe in deeply, only to cough and gag. But I hold the next deep breath in and run back to the bathroom. I use my sweatshirt sleeve to yank open the door. My notebook is still there. I snatch it up and run back out.
Tears are streaming from my eyes. One drops on my notebook and I imagine it sizzling. Sizzling. Water. I brush my fingers against my eyes, getting rid of the tears. And then I see a pitcher of water sitting on the edge of the counter. Panicked, I dump my notebook in the pitcher. My head is hurting. I sway, and accidently knock over the pitcher of water. My notebook falls across the floor.
I start walking towards the kitchen; I know there’s a door over there. I can get out. But heat, heat is everywhere. And as I get closer to the kitchen, more heat flares against me. Smoke is everywhere. My eyes are limited to the colors orange and black. Black and orange. Smoke and fire. I’m backed against a wall. The smoke, the smoke is so overwhelming. I’m overpowered and I slide to the ground. I want to scream for help, but when I try, I can’t even hear myself. I’m burning. I’m drowning.
Heat. Fire. Flame.
Greyson told me he loved fire once. He showed me the matches and they flickered on our fingers tips quickly before the fire was too hot and we had to drop them to the ground. The matches burned out on the ground. We left the park, walked out towards a bridge and lit fire beneath it. Seeing the flames illuminate the swear words and the gang signs and the hearts plus me and you on the concrete. And a kiss that seemed to ignite the winter snow like it was coal dust.
Heat. Fire. Flame.
He told me he loved me.
I think I die smiling.
I hear the commotion before I see it. I’m walking down the street on my way to meet Lorence at her favorite place—the coffee shop. She told me how they made the best hot chocolate. I asked her if she liked coffee and she made a face. I laughed and apparently it was contagious, so she started laughing too. Her grey eyes were sparkling then. It’s funny, she hates coffee. I love the stuff. But she tells me a writer is a tea person at heart; and I have to agree. I love a good mug of black tea.
I turn the corner; sure I have the address wrong when I see what’s going on. I’ve been to the coffee shop before, but with everything in the way it doesn’t even seem like the same building. There’s fire trucks and ambulances and police cars. People are bunched in the sidewalk. Policemen are on surrounding the edges, warding off any onlookers.
One tries to stop me as I tried to push my way through the mass of people. “Not too close,” he warns me.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“There was a fire in the kitchen,” he says gruffly.
“Is everyone out?” I try and crane my neck around him to see what’s going on.
“We think so.” It hurts me. He’s emotionless.
“My girlfriend might be in there. I need to know!” my voice is rising, and attention is being drawn to me. I don’t care. “You can’t just think! You need to be sure!”
Someone comes over. She’s an older woman, but still looks young enough. “I’ve got it, officer,” she says softly. She takes my arm and pulls me away.
“What’s your problem, boy?” she asks.
“My girlfriend, she might be in there, they don’t know, they don’t know,” I’m panicking.
“What does she look like?” The woman is staying calm, which doesn’t help me.
Words start pouring from my mouth.
“She’s about my height, no, a few inches shorter. She’s got grey eyes. Her hair is dark brown, and it’s long, about a few inches below her shoulders. It’s wavy. She always wears this necklace.” I feel tears starting to pool in my eyes. I yank my bullet necklace from beneath my shirt and show it to her.
She closes her eyes. “Anything else?”
“She likes wearing a dark blue jacket. The sleeves and edges are fraying; it has holes in the thumbs. She spends a lot of her time at the café. When she orders something, it’s never coffee. She likes hot chocolate. She always has a black notebook covered in white writing. It’s a moleskine.”
“Yes. I know her. She’s always here. She’s friends with the manager and his son.” The woman takes me through the crowd.
“Where is she?” I keep asking. “Where is she?”
And then I hear someone saying the same thing.
“Where is she? Where is she?”
I pull away from the woman and walk to the person talking. “Who are you talking about?” I ask, trying not to be too pushy.
“Not everyone’s out. She’s not here.” The person talking is a little boy. He’s wearing a red hat and a black winter coat. His blonde hair sticks out from beneath the hat. He’s tugging on a woman’s skirt, who I assume is his mother.
“Sh, hush, Max,” the woman says. She’s looking towards the café.
“Excuse me, ma’am, who is he talking about?” I say.
She turns her attention to me but asks her son, “Max, who are you talking about?”
The little boy turns large blue eyes towards me. “The girl with the notebook,” he says.
Fear shoots through me, and there’s something heavy in my stomach, like stone. It feels like my heart. I can feel it pulsing, beating. In my stomach, in my throat, in my clenched fingers. Everywhere but my chest. I want to scream and cry.
“How do you know?” I ask him, trying to sound soft and light.
“She went back towards the bathrooms and didn’t come back. She didn’t come outside.”
I’m panicking. Spots are dancing in my eyes. Lorence. She can’t be in there. No. I thank the boy and his mother hurriedly and then try and push my way to the front. I’m a row before the front and then I hear someone telling the crowd the fire is contained and out. It was small; they didn’t need to do much to put it out. They say that the only damage done will be to the bathrooms and the kitchen. People are breathing sighs of relief and I hear murmuring of how lucky someone named Mike is.
I can’t take it anymore.
I run as fast as I can. I shove my way through the crowd and have a feeling of drowning, pressed back by masses of people. Their presence is choking me; they won’t let me through to find her. I need to find one person. Her name is ringing in my head. Lorence. Lorence. Lorence. I break the front line and somebody’s hands grab onto my arm, but I shake them away. More people start trying to hold me back. I escape them easily. She’s the only thing on my mind. Lorence. She can’t be dead.
I burst through doors and run parallel to the counter. I slip where the counter ends. Slowly I peel myself off the ground and I find I had slipped on a puddle of water. I see that there’s something else I fell on. It’s a notebook. A black moleskine, decorate with different inspiring words written in white. I know immediately it’s hers.
I look around. I can’t tell if it’s an illusion, but I see a firefighter carrying something out. It looks like a person. Like a girl. With long, dark brown hair. I start running after them, calling Lorence’s name, and then somebody grabs me from behind.
I’m screaming her name again and again but she can’t hear me and the fireman won’t turn around so I can see her face. I can’t even tell if it’s her, but there’s a gut feeling that it is. She’s flickering. So weak, like a match. I’m her spark. There will be nothing left for me if she’s gone. I’ll be lost in darkness.
thegreysonchanceforum.com/index.cgi?board=fiction&action=display&thread=1029
Chapter 17
Lorence
I get up from my stool. Stephen’s not working today; he and his dad are off playing baseball somewhere. The café is kind of boring without him, but today it’s different, and it’s what’s making me pace back and forth. Greyson is going to meet me today. The scene is so familiar. It’s feels kind of like fate. I’m sure he has something that can help me. Why else would my manager lead me to him? Maybe I didn’t decode it correctly. I haven’t told him about the code yet. At least, the last part about him helping me. I told him I followed a paper trail left for me, and it led me to him. It’s partially the truth.
People are looking at me; I’m restless and drawing attention to myself. But I don’t really care. I pace back and forth, up and down the counter. And soon, I can’t take it anymore. I’ve arrived two hours early of our meeting time, and now I realize that it was a bad decision. The time is so slow. I try to keep my eyes away from the ticking clock on the wall. But as usual, I can’t control myself and look over. The minute hand is frozen solid. Not moving. It’s like someone decided to stop time.
I take my notebook and tuck it under my arm. I can’t take this. I walk quickly to the bathroom. For a small little café, the bathrooms are nice, they don’t smell repulsive. Because most people are thinking of the stereotypical bathroom, they avoid it. So I’m alone. I leave my notebook on counter and splash cold water on my face.
Calm down, I try and tell myself.
What’s ridiculous, I can’t even figure out why I’m so jittery. Greyson and I have been on a date before. We actually have been on multiple. We wrote together, he played piano for me, I read for him, we saw a movie and laughed at its cheesiness, we went to a movie and cried at it. We bought records together at the Spotlight. He told me he loved me. It may just be that I’m afraid of Greyson rejecting to help me, that I’m going to lose the last tie I have to my manager. I dry my hands on the paper towel and brush another across my face. It helps I don’t wear makeup. I’d look like crying Barbie doll, black eyeliner running down my face like tears.
Other thoughts. Other thoughts. I try and steer my mind away from anything that doesn’t connect back to Greyson. I’m suddenly really hot. The bathroom has suddenly gotten warmer, like someone had taken a shower. I wipe my hand across my forehead and find there’s sweat. I shiver, the sudden warmth confusing my body. I start to feel like I can’t breathe. There’s a buzzing scream in my ears, like I’m sick.
And then I start freaking out.
I hear the alarms that I thought were in my head before. My hand reaches out to grab the handle. It’s hot, and I jerk back. I panic even more. How will I get out? There’s probably nobody out there. They’ve probably all evacuated. There’s no windows. I cough.
Fire. Fire. Fire. I use my foot to push down the handle and once it’s down, I quickly throw myself against the door. I’m not fast enough. I try again. This time, I fall through the surprisingly open door. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.
I struggle to my feet and wobble towards the front. A horrifying thought dawns on me. I breathe in deeply, only to cough and gag. But I hold the next deep breath in and run back to the bathroom. I use my sweatshirt sleeve to yank open the door. My notebook is still there. I snatch it up and run back out.
Tears are streaming from my eyes. One drops on my notebook and I imagine it sizzling. Sizzling. Water. I brush my fingers against my eyes, getting rid of the tears. And then I see a pitcher of water sitting on the edge of the counter. Panicked, I dump my notebook in the pitcher. My head is hurting. I sway, and accidently knock over the pitcher of water. My notebook falls across the floor.
I start walking towards the kitchen; I know there’s a door over there. I can get out. But heat, heat is everywhere. And as I get closer to the kitchen, more heat flares against me. Smoke is everywhere. My eyes are limited to the colors orange and black. Black and orange. Smoke and fire. I’m backed against a wall. The smoke, the smoke is so overwhelming. I’m overpowered and I slide to the ground. I want to scream for help, but when I try, I can’t even hear myself. I’m burning. I’m drowning.
Heat. Fire. Flame.
Greyson told me he loved fire once. He showed me the matches and they flickered on our fingers tips quickly before the fire was too hot and we had to drop them to the ground. The matches burned out on the ground. We left the park, walked out towards a bridge and lit fire beneath it. Seeing the flames illuminate the swear words and the gang signs and the hearts plus me and you on the concrete. And a kiss that seemed to ignite the winter snow like it was coal dust.
Heat. Fire. Flame.
He told me he loved me.
I think I die smiling.
Greyson
I hear the commotion before I see it. I’m walking down the street on my way to meet Lorence at her favorite place—the coffee shop. She told me how they made the best hot chocolate. I asked her if she liked coffee and she made a face. I laughed and apparently it was contagious, so she started laughing too. Her grey eyes were sparkling then. It’s funny, she hates coffee. I love the stuff. But she tells me a writer is a tea person at heart; and I have to agree. I love a good mug of black tea.
I turn the corner; sure I have the address wrong when I see what’s going on. I’ve been to the coffee shop before, but with everything in the way it doesn’t even seem like the same building. There’s fire trucks and ambulances and police cars. People are bunched in the sidewalk. Policemen are on surrounding the edges, warding off any onlookers.
One tries to stop me as I tried to push my way through the mass of people. “Not too close,” he warns me.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“There was a fire in the kitchen,” he says gruffly.
“Is everyone out?” I try and crane my neck around him to see what’s going on.
“We think so.” It hurts me. He’s emotionless.
“My girlfriend might be in there. I need to know!” my voice is rising, and attention is being drawn to me. I don’t care. “You can’t just think! You need to be sure!”
Someone comes over. She’s an older woman, but still looks young enough. “I’ve got it, officer,” she says softly. She takes my arm and pulls me away.
“What’s your problem, boy?” she asks.
“My girlfriend, she might be in there, they don’t know, they don’t know,” I’m panicking.
“What does she look like?” The woman is staying calm, which doesn’t help me.
Words start pouring from my mouth.
“She’s about my height, no, a few inches shorter. She’s got grey eyes. Her hair is dark brown, and it’s long, about a few inches below her shoulders. It’s wavy. She always wears this necklace.” I feel tears starting to pool in my eyes. I yank my bullet necklace from beneath my shirt and show it to her.
She closes her eyes. “Anything else?”
“She likes wearing a dark blue jacket. The sleeves and edges are fraying; it has holes in the thumbs. She spends a lot of her time at the café. When she orders something, it’s never coffee. She likes hot chocolate. She always has a black notebook covered in white writing. It’s a moleskine.”
“Yes. I know her. She’s always here. She’s friends with the manager and his son.” The woman takes me through the crowd.
“Where is she?” I keep asking. “Where is she?”
And then I hear someone saying the same thing.
“Where is she? Where is she?”
I pull away from the woman and walk to the person talking. “Who are you talking about?” I ask, trying not to be too pushy.
“Not everyone’s out. She’s not here.” The person talking is a little boy. He’s wearing a red hat and a black winter coat. His blonde hair sticks out from beneath the hat. He’s tugging on a woman’s skirt, who I assume is his mother.
“Sh, hush, Max,” the woman says. She’s looking towards the café.
“Excuse me, ma’am, who is he talking about?” I say.
She turns her attention to me but asks her son, “Max, who are you talking about?”
The little boy turns large blue eyes towards me. “The girl with the notebook,” he says.
Fear shoots through me, and there’s something heavy in my stomach, like stone. It feels like my heart. I can feel it pulsing, beating. In my stomach, in my throat, in my clenched fingers. Everywhere but my chest. I want to scream and cry.
“How do you know?” I ask him, trying to sound soft and light.
“She went back towards the bathrooms and didn’t come back. She didn’t come outside.”
I’m panicking. Spots are dancing in my eyes. Lorence. She can’t be in there. No. I thank the boy and his mother hurriedly and then try and push my way to the front. I’m a row before the front and then I hear someone telling the crowd the fire is contained and out. It was small; they didn’t need to do much to put it out. They say that the only damage done will be to the bathrooms and the kitchen. People are breathing sighs of relief and I hear murmuring of how lucky someone named Mike is.
I can’t take it anymore.
I run as fast as I can. I shove my way through the crowd and have a feeling of drowning, pressed back by masses of people. Their presence is choking me; they won’t let me through to find her. I need to find one person. Her name is ringing in my head. Lorence. Lorence. Lorence. I break the front line and somebody’s hands grab onto my arm, but I shake them away. More people start trying to hold me back. I escape them easily. She’s the only thing on my mind. Lorence. She can’t be dead.
I burst through doors and run parallel to the counter. I slip where the counter ends. Slowly I peel myself off the ground and I find I had slipped on a puddle of water. I see that there’s something else I fell on. It’s a notebook. A black moleskine, decorate with different inspiring words written in white. I know immediately it’s hers.
I look around. I can’t tell if it’s an illusion, but I see a firefighter carrying something out. It looks like a person. Like a girl. With long, dark brown hair. I start running after them, calling Lorence’s name, and then somebody grabs me from behind.
I’m screaming her name again and again but she can’t hear me and the fireman won’t turn around so I can see her face. I can’t even tell if it’s her, but there’s a gut feeling that it is. She’s flickering. So weak, like a match. I’m her spark. There will be nothing left for me if she’s gone. I’ll be lost in darkness.