InspirationMoonwalks
New member
So I just finished my latest short story for the Intermediate Creative Writing class I'm in this semester. I was inspired for it--well, stylistically, at least-- in part by a short story I read in the anthology we're reading in the class, a "you" story where actual names and specific details of the person (the person spoken to and speaking) are not revealed, leaving the character development up to what they express to that person and the details they put into that. The specifics (like backgrounds, etc) are meant to be mostly up to the reader and although I had a very concrete idea in my mind writing it, it's pretty much up to interpretation to you, lol. This is what they call a "stand alone" piece, but the plot may or may not be used for a larger work..we'll see. 
Anyway, any feedback/suggestions you want to give would be appreciated! :8-26-03fruits_apple
A couple sits in the corner of the restaurant. Their table is adorned with rose petals and baby's breath. It is Valentine's Day, after all.
It's not that I'm trying to listen in on their conversation. I have no choice. The perky cadence of the female half's dialogue wafts over to the table at which I am sitting, capturing my attention--whether I like it or not--and interrupting my own thoughts.
"So, honey, I added Samantha's half-sister to the guest list...," she volunteers to the man I assume is her fiancé. She smiles at him expectantly.
"Christ, you added another one?" He laments, sighing with annoyance.
He proceeds to lecture his bubbly blonde fiancée on the virtues of a simple, quiet wedding. She protests. It is her first. She has dreamt of this day for 23 years, since she acted out her vision for it with Barbie and Ken. He attempts to be sympathetic to this, but holds firm. He's done this before. Her pretty blue eyes glare at him, calling him insensitive. Heads turn. He chastises her for making a scene and asks the waiter for the check.
At my table, I laugh quietly to myself. It's not that I'm laughing at the fiancée, at her frustration or pain. I laugh because it reminds me of you. And me. Of our dynamic, which to me has always seemed uniquely complicated, but to others--as to myself as the random observer of the feuding fiancés--would likely feel like something they have seen, heard of before.
I confuse you. I know this because you have told me so, on a number of occasions. You once told me that you were amazed, couldn't figure out how someone could be so disarmingly sweet one moment, so intensely demanding the next. You never knew which one you were going to get. I told you, with a clever smile, that this was part of my charm and while that may have come across as teasing, there was a quite serious undercurrent to my words. I could greet you with a candle topped piece of cherry pie on your birthday one day, implore you about a future the next. I knew full well the situation and how it made this course of action brazen on my part, but it still felt right. Isn't this the natural progression of things after "I love you"?
Ah, "I love you." Those three words can really make a mess of someone's life, make the shape of it unrecognizable to them from the one they knew before. You should know. You've often told me since that, in so many ways, you no longer recognize yours since you uttered them to me. There were--and still are--so many reasons why you should've held back, not said them. You are, after all, accomplished, established. And you're bound.
I often told you that this didn't have to matter. This would be far from the first time something like this happened in history. You were, of course, incredulous. Not only would everything you've built up, worked for over the years be lost in the firestorm that would surely result in us ending up together, but it was wrong. You were not raised to do this. Neither was I, I countered, but the meeting of soul mates isn't always perfect in its timing. You argue that you have never believed in "that New Age crap." I smile. You were always the more practical one. Yet I still maintained my belief, my determination to make you and I a full reality. And, perhaps in spite of myself, I still do.
The waiter comes by the table, putting my thoughts on pause, but only for a moment. Oddly enough, he has your eyes, those intense stormy eyes that have, over the course of the past year, made me feel everything from pure ecstasy to emotions matching their shade. I feign full focus as he asks me if I need more time.
'Hell no!' is my first thought. I've already had all the time I can stomach. Though you are the love of my life, we've already had too much godda.mn time! At least in the existence we have known thus far, in the secret life you've held us in and to. In the beginning, I told you it would be enough. And at the time, I meant it. With all my heart. Just to know you, to have you in my life in any shape or form made me the happiest person on Earth. I didn't want any more. How could I? But time, circumstance, and multiple fights and slamming of my door have proved me wrong. I now need more, in the way anyone with any sense of pride or consideration for themselves would.
I then realize he is referring to the menu and I politely respond in the negative. I already know what I want. Like I've known with you, earlier on than I've cared to admit.
He writes down my order and I'm left alone again at the table. Another couple sits directly across from it, ignoring the plates of food on theirs, obviously preferring each other to their meal as they feverishly lip lock.
"Ugh, can't those two get a room?" I hear a cynical sounding woman at the table on the other side lament to the other, whom I presume is her friend. My mind wants to conjure up something equally biting to say about the love birds and their apparent, unabashed bliss, but somehow, I can't find it in me to be so jaded. God knows, I have reason to be! This inertia we're enveloped in would be enough to make anyone a cynic. But instead of bitter, I just find myself whimsical, nostalgic. These love birds recall within me the simpler times between us. When you'd come over and I'd prepare your favorite meal. Sometimes we'd sit, talking and reveling in this rare time alone. Others, the pure chemistry between us would cut this short, much like the young couple at the table.
Initially, I smile at this. But then I cringe, instantly feeling resentful. Of the love birds, for so openly possessing and acting upon the freedom we never had, never could have. And then, of you, for not so much as considering the possibility.
There are about twenty reasons why we shouldn't be together. You told me this the night before you were to fly to Europe, for that business trip. You got through about three of them before my sobbing became too much. You told me you were sorry for my pain. I told you to get out. You told me to take care of myself. I said fu.ck you. You left with a sad face but what I was convinced could not be too heavy of a heart. At least not as heavy as mine.
You came back around about three weeks later. Three weeks of moping, pizza, sweets, and sad love songs on rotation. You told me you were sorry, that you knew that this was selfish and wrong, but you just missed me too much. It was the happiest I've been since, before the new-"newness" of it all wore off, the inertia taking its suffocating hold once again.
The waiter comes back, with my meal. And asks if anyone else will be joining me. I look at him puzzled for a moment, before figuring it out. Ah yes, it's Valentine's Day. Why would I be here alone?
I tell him that I'm waiting on someone else, that they are stuck in traffic but should be there shortly. All lies, of course. Even if I had the audacity to pick up my cell phone right now, call you, and suggest it, you'd never even consider. Not in this place, not in this city, where you are so prominent, where meeting me, on today of all days, would surely start a rumor that would put in jeopardy your career and the life you've built for yourself. Which has never fully included me.
I finish my meal, probably faster than I should, and inform the inquiring waiter that my guest couldn't make it. He smiles at me, a smile that reads all too much like pity. Maybe I deserve it. You're not coming. You never could. And you were never going to.
I pick up the tab, much like I have, so many times, during the course of this past year. Sure, your net worth is much higher than mine and you've shown this with all the gifts you've lavished me with (though always careful to be discreet), but I have paid a much bigger price for us than you. Though you've constantly argued you have more to lose and I fully understand the practicality of this, I emotionally disagree. You'll still have your career, your life with her. I'll be on my own again--it's a matter of when, not if, as you've reminded me of, in one way or another, many times from the start. You've never led me on, I know the score. But that makes the reality no less crushing.
I leave the restaurant, just as hungry as I was before I came.
Anyway, any feedback/suggestions you want to give would be appreciated! :8-26-03fruits_apple
A couple sits in the corner of the restaurant. Their table is adorned with rose petals and baby's breath. It is Valentine's Day, after all.
It's not that I'm trying to listen in on their conversation. I have no choice. The perky cadence of the female half's dialogue wafts over to the table at which I am sitting, capturing my attention--whether I like it or not--and interrupting my own thoughts.
"So, honey, I added Samantha's half-sister to the guest list...," she volunteers to the man I assume is her fiancé. She smiles at him expectantly.
"Christ, you added another one?" He laments, sighing with annoyance.
He proceeds to lecture his bubbly blonde fiancée on the virtues of a simple, quiet wedding. She protests. It is her first. She has dreamt of this day for 23 years, since she acted out her vision for it with Barbie and Ken. He attempts to be sympathetic to this, but holds firm. He's done this before. Her pretty blue eyes glare at him, calling him insensitive. Heads turn. He chastises her for making a scene and asks the waiter for the check.
At my table, I laugh quietly to myself. It's not that I'm laughing at the fiancée, at her frustration or pain. I laugh because it reminds me of you. And me. Of our dynamic, which to me has always seemed uniquely complicated, but to others--as to myself as the random observer of the feuding fiancés--would likely feel like something they have seen, heard of before.
I confuse you. I know this because you have told me so, on a number of occasions. You once told me that you were amazed, couldn't figure out how someone could be so disarmingly sweet one moment, so intensely demanding the next. You never knew which one you were going to get. I told you, with a clever smile, that this was part of my charm and while that may have come across as teasing, there was a quite serious undercurrent to my words. I could greet you with a candle topped piece of cherry pie on your birthday one day, implore you about a future the next. I knew full well the situation and how it made this course of action brazen on my part, but it still felt right. Isn't this the natural progression of things after "I love you"?
Ah, "I love you." Those three words can really make a mess of someone's life, make the shape of it unrecognizable to them from the one they knew before. You should know. You've often told me since that, in so many ways, you no longer recognize yours since you uttered them to me. There were--and still are--so many reasons why you should've held back, not said them. You are, after all, accomplished, established. And you're bound.
I often told you that this didn't have to matter. This would be far from the first time something like this happened in history. You were, of course, incredulous. Not only would everything you've built up, worked for over the years be lost in the firestorm that would surely result in us ending up together, but it was wrong. You were not raised to do this. Neither was I, I countered, but the meeting of soul mates isn't always perfect in its timing. You argue that you have never believed in "that New Age crap." I smile. You were always the more practical one. Yet I still maintained my belief, my determination to make you and I a full reality. And, perhaps in spite of myself, I still do.
The waiter comes by the table, putting my thoughts on pause, but only for a moment. Oddly enough, he has your eyes, those intense stormy eyes that have, over the course of the past year, made me feel everything from pure ecstasy to emotions matching their shade. I feign full focus as he asks me if I need more time.
'Hell no!' is my first thought. I've already had all the time I can stomach. Though you are the love of my life, we've already had too much godda.mn time! At least in the existence we have known thus far, in the secret life you've held us in and to. In the beginning, I told you it would be enough. And at the time, I meant it. With all my heart. Just to know you, to have you in my life in any shape or form made me the happiest person on Earth. I didn't want any more. How could I? But time, circumstance, and multiple fights and slamming of my door have proved me wrong. I now need more, in the way anyone with any sense of pride or consideration for themselves would.
I then realize he is referring to the menu and I politely respond in the negative. I already know what I want. Like I've known with you, earlier on than I've cared to admit.
He writes down my order and I'm left alone again at the table. Another couple sits directly across from it, ignoring the plates of food on theirs, obviously preferring each other to their meal as they feverishly lip lock.
"Ugh, can't those two get a room?" I hear a cynical sounding woman at the table on the other side lament to the other, whom I presume is her friend. My mind wants to conjure up something equally biting to say about the love birds and their apparent, unabashed bliss, but somehow, I can't find it in me to be so jaded. God knows, I have reason to be! This inertia we're enveloped in would be enough to make anyone a cynic. But instead of bitter, I just find myself whimsical, nostalgic. These love birds recall within me the simpler times between us. When you'd come over and I'd prepare your favorite meal. Sometimes we'd sit, talking and reveling in this rare time alone. Others, the pure chemistry between us would cut this short, much like the young couple at the table.
Initially, I smile at this. But then I cringe, instantly feeling resentful. Of the love birds, for so openly possessing and acting upon the freedom we never had, never could have. And then, of you, for not so much as considering the possibility.
There are about twenty reasons why we shouldn't be together. You told me this the night before you were to fly to Europe, for that business trip. You got through about three of them before my sobbing became too much. You told me you were sorry for my pain. I told you to get out. You told me to take care of myself. I said fu.ck you. You left with a sad face but what I was convinced could not be too heavy of a heart. At least not as heavy as mine.
You came back around about three weeks later. Three weeks of moping, pizza, sweets, and sad love songs on rotation. You told me you were sorry, that you knew that this was selfish and wrong, but you just missed me too much. It was the happiest I've been since, before the new-"newness" of it all wore off, the inertia taking its suffocating hold once again.
The waiter comes back, with my meal. And asks if anyone else will be joining me. I look at him puzzled for a moment, before figuring it out. Ah yes, it's Valentine's Day. Why would I be here alone?
I tell him that I'm waiting on someone else, that they are stuck in traffic but should be there shortly. All lies, of course. Even if I had the audacity to pick up my cell phone right now, call you, and suggest it, you'd never even consider. Not in this place, not in this city, where you are so prominent, where meeting me, on today of all days, would surely start a rumor that would put in jeopardy your career and the life you've built for yourself. Which has never fully included me.
I finish my meal, probably faster than I should, and inform the inquiring waiter that my guest couldn't make it. He smiles at me, a smile that reads all too much like pity. Maybe I deserve it. You're not coming. You never could. And you were never going to.
I pick up the tab, much like I have, so many times, during the course of this past year. Sure, your net worth is much higher than mine and you've shown this with all the gifts you've lavished me with (though always careful to be discreet), but I have paid a much bigger price for us than you. Though you've constantly argued you have more to lose and I fully understand the practicality of this, I emotionally disagree. You'll still have your career, your life with her. I'll be on my own again--it's a matter of when, not if, as you've reminded me of, in one way or another, many times from the start. You've never led me on, I know the score. But that makes the reality no less crushing.
I leave the restaurant, just as hungry as I was before I came.