#26, fiction- amber field

Back in her house, her hand shook as grandma tried to fish out a cigarette. Mom took the cigarette out of her hand. And grandma called her wicked. We took grandma to the backyard. I offered to help mom. But she asked me to stay with grandma. I put the sunglasses on grandma’s face. Her lines were so deep it scared me. It looked like cuts without blood, just dry wounds, already crumbling.

Dearest friends,

I woke up in the middle of the night, panting, and extremely saddened by the image I had in the dream. I dreamed about a young girl amid a brown, wide, desert field, looking at her own father, with yearning, with desperation. The main plot of this story came from this dream. But I wish I could manage to tell you how it felt like to see her in the dream. As far as I know, I can’t even get close.

            I started this story on April 3. I finished it in two days. I was very excited during the taking of it. For I felt I was writing for something, or someone. And I can’t really be sure if that emotion is essential to this story. I felt like I was writing something real. And it felt so good.

            A few weeks ago, I handed the story to someone who claimed to have worked as an intern at a publishing house in New York. Perhaps because I used to be a straight A student, I didn’t really know how to handle the situation when my own submission was marked like a Pollock imitation (somehow, it felt worse to have feedback than no feedback at all). At one point, she might even hint that being a writer might be off limit for me.

            I was discouraged a lot. But luckily, I was at the end of the procedure of another short story. And the finishing-up reminded me what I’m writing for, so I picked up my shit and carried on. I am not writing to be a writer. I am not writing to be anything at all. I am writing for these little figures in me, tiny broken pieces held loosely together. And I’m writing to carry them forward. Every time I finish a story, a piece would fall off, and when there’s nothing left to burn, it’ll be time for me to go.

            But I was reminded that a story should be able to touch people. And I know I should try harder. I am and I will.

Preview- Turning signals

Anna said she would join them. But she’s out all night. So the next day, Carla and Paulo went out by themselves. Carla took Paulo to downtown Manhattan and Brooklyn Bridge. The day was clear and sunny, the blue too rich behind the sun washed structure. They walked past a photo shooting on the bridge. And they stopped to gaze at the Statue of Liberty yearning for new comers out from the graying sea.

            Paulo complained about everything, the walking, the bagel and coffee they had in the morning, the subway, and the bikes on the bridge. But Carla remained cheerful. It’s nice to have someone around.

            Paulo stopped at a store and bought a bottle of beer. The clerk wrapped the beer in paper bag. Paulo said he didn’t need it. But the clerk did it any way. Out of the store, Paulo threw out the brown paper bag and finished the beer in what seemed like a minute. Finally, Carla got depressed.