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Eden - A failed dream
I tried writing a short story for the first time about two years ago. Eden was a very broad idea I had for a rather eccentric girl named Sarah. She was meant to be an optimist to an almost ludicrous degree. Eden is a small town and far from perfect; her life there is very difficult. However, Sarah constantly deludes herself with daydreams in order to cope with her problems. I used her romantic interest, Wesam, to move the story forward in a tragic direction. It's nothing more than a sophomoric statement on youthful idealism. After about 20 pages, I realized that I lacked the skills to develop an effective story and so I abandoned it completely. I haven't tried writing another short story since...and I doubt I'll ever try again; they are far beyond my abilities as a writer.
I found Eden again as I was browsing through some of my old work and before I discard it as garbage, I thought I'd post a few excerpts here.
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In my life, interludes of extreme isolation are ordinary episodes enough, but lately, the lethargy of solitude has begun to affect me more and more. I have much to do to inhibit the listlessness in my mind and the restlessness of my body; my seclusion feels increasingly confining. One would think that living in such insufferable tranquility might be utterly boring and it's true that seasons pass without surprise for me now; winter becomes spring and spring becomes fall without much revelation. Nevertheless, to fight off the emotional burden of loneliness, I would escape from my house to get fresh air and run outside in the woods at least once a week.
My improvised running trail is on an abandoned dirt road that winds through the woods of dead trees in the empty neighborhood of my home. At dusk yesterday, I ran towards the sunset and jogged deeper and deeper into the dark, poorly sheltered forest. Out of breath and tired, I reached the end of the road three miles into the woods where the trail's edge ended at a dangerous drop-off into a deep, overflowing and freezing river. I sat at the edge of the drop-off in silence and felt completely cut off from the rest of the world. I watched the full moon rise in the clear, purple night sky as I breathed in the bitterly cold air. I looked down at my dangling feet that were high above the river and listened to the forceful water crashing through its course.
I looked up and the entertaining view was breathtaking; the lifeless prairie's subdued beige hue contrasted well with the deep pink and purple sunset colors in the sky. The horizon was adorned with the golden autumn moon and it was slowly climbing higher and closer to the eternal constellations. The stars were glittering during the first sign of twilight, but the beautiful sunset was merely the prelude to the night's magnificence. God must have consecrated the moon and stars; the ancient majesty of their beauty inspired a hopeful promise of peaceful light in the threatening dark. Like a hopeless romantic, I allowed my memories of Wesam to completely conquer me: his words, kindness and laughter all tortured me and burned an unforgettable impression on my heart. Is there any greater feeling than to recognize the designs of our own dreams in the mind of another? I tried my best to forget the unrivaled pain of unrequited love; his recent generosity was reason enough for hope. Could I ever arrest his attention as much as he has imprisoned mine? For answers, I tried to comprehend the language of my destiny within the sparkling heavens. Regardless of their everlasting beauty, the pretty patterns are made by nothing more than mere coincidence and consequently, are only mysteriously meaningless. With resignation, I returned my gaze back to the disappearing sun.
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I rolled down my window as I was halfway to Eden; my speed was moderate and I took pleasure in the leisurely pace. The October morning was lovely and I wanted to enjoy it was much as I could. I experienced a symphony of scents in the refreshing breeze: tart buffalo berries, sweet plums, and wet trees. I noticed how the weather was unseasonably warm and subtly humid. However, the prairies looked far from what they would in a bright and typical spring in Eden. Autumn was definitely here; all of the rich tones of cherry, chocolate and gold colors filled out a gorgeous mosaic across the landscape before me. Cottonwoods, oak trees, grapevines, wildflower shrubs and various berry bushes lined the scenery along the prairies and I loved the view. The medley of fall colors were exquisitely vivid under the glow of sunrise.
I arrived at The Grape Vine and entered through the side door.
"Hey, you made it! Have a seat and I'll be right with you." Julie said.
Julie, the sole proprietor, was a middle-aged German woman who opened up The Grape Vine about a decade ago. Mrs. Kruger's cafe has been a home away from home to me since I was old enough to appreciate coffee and tea. Her specialty drinks are very popular in Eden and the atmosphere she provides is both comfortable and stylish. She attributes the success of her business to her ingenious creativity. The diversity of the beverages she offers is great, with over a hundred different options. When I have the opportunity, I absolutely love to come here to unwind and visit with her.
I had a window seat near the corner of the cafe. The purple drawback curtains were at my elbow and I looked down at the smooth, black oak under my hands. In the center of each round table was a small, brown basket that was full of individual packets of cream and sugar. Also before me was a scented votive candle. Its dancing flame had freed a faint perfume of sweet lilacs that felt warm against my face. I look around me and notice I'm the only one here; I glance near the entrance and notice the "Sorry, we're closed" sign on the front door.
......
No one would suspect that Julie sacrificed style for simplicity when they evaluated the decor of her cafe. As an avid artist, she decided to make the place pleasing to the eye with her paintings. As she showcased her art, she had firmly established the interior design of her cafe and won over her customers with both her specialty drink making and paintings. Although her ulterior motive was to enhance the sales of her business, she had at last found a way to display her art and finally embrace herself as a painter.
Personally, I thought she was very artistically talented, with her mix of unique colors being her most splendid achievements. She made portraits of iconic people she admired throughout history. The subjects of her portraits included Ernest Hemingway, Jackie Robinson and Jacqueline Kennedy. My favorite is of F. Scott Fitzgerald. Her composition has an abstract expressionist quality that has unusual bluish-violet hues complementing the haunting, gray smoke swirls around her subject. Her impasto technique with oil paints to achieve the significance of the writer's tortured pathos is remarkable. Fitzgerald has his head down as he sits at a small table with a drink and a cigarette; the table he sits at is littered with torn and crumpled pieces of paper as he struggles to write another literary masterpiece. Fitzgerald seems more like a Gothic hero than an American writer of the Jazz Era. You can really see the frustration and isolation of Fitzgerald and overall, it's just an intriguing and profound example of expressionism. Art was something I always took an interest in and Julie was always happy to converse on the subject.
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