Never, Really - Writers Forum

pagemaster42391 · 08-01-2006, 05:49 PM

Title: Never, Really
Words: 1,014
Notes: The greater part of it, truth.

It's four-thirty in the morning. That's the thought that chases round and round my head as I fall back on the cold, hard, oak wood floor, the coolness of the boards seeping through my thin shirt and into my back, numbing what I'm feeling right now. It's four-thirty in the morning, and we're sitting on the kitchen floor, eating grapes in the dark while "Phantom of the Opera" plays in the background. I can just barely see part of the screen from here, where I lay on the floor, my dark hair spilling all around me. It's being reflected in the mirror, but I can see it, though I can't say exactly what I see. I'm just so tired right now. The pain has come back, seeping into my heart, into the newly restored chambers that I'd thought were abandoned forever.

I close my eyes, letting the coolness of the floor seep into my skin and through me. The cold is comforting in its own way; I haven't been cold in so long now. My two friends are talking, laughing, sitting on the kitchen floor in the dark eating grapes and drinking soda at four-thirty in the morning, and I'm merely drifting, for this long moment, drifting to another place, feeling as though I don't quite belong here, knowing that I don't. I can sense their unease with me these days, the cautious way they tiptoe around me, knowing that something is different, and I wonder if I can bring myself to tell them. My eyes close, and underneath the closed lids, it's as though the stars of that place I called home for a week are blossoming. I smile, just a little bit, at the thought.

It's four-thirty in the morning, and when I should be careless and ready to have mindless fun, all I can think about is how much I've changed, and how in a mere twenty-eight hours, I'll be coming face-to-face once again with the one who enacted that change.

I didn't think he was any different from the others, to be honest. He was energetic, frighteningly so - I was terrified of him and looked on him condescendingly that first night in the place I came to call home - but I thought he was like a handful of others I'd met in my life, a handful of others who just bounced through life with enough energy to keep a car going when gas prices brought it to a halt. We spent the greater part of that week together, and I realized with a start, halfway through the week, that I loved him.

It wasn't that kind of love. It was just as though suddenly, I had an older brother who knew exactly when I needed a hug and when I shouldn't be left alone, when I needed to laugh and when I needed someone to cry on, for the first time in well over a year. It was just as though, quite suddenly, he knew my heart inside and out, as though he'd walked into its chambers and glanced around at the dirty, clammy, small cave and said, "This won't do at all."

For the first time in well over a year, I loved again, unconditionally, irrationally, with a love that filled my whole being.

I thought myself a magnificently crafted wreck before that week: a shattered, splintered being radiant and resplendent in her darkness. He barged in and ruined it all, shoved aside the broken heart and the billowing darkness and tugged out the last ember of radiance that I hid in my cold, hardened heart. He blew on it until it burned his fingers, until it gave out life, until it turned into radiance so brilliant and shining that he could place it safely within me again and watch as the darkness fought its final battle and lost to the new light. It was that night, when he wrapped his arm around me, my feet weary with walking amongst so many others, and I gave in and let him embrace me, that the radiance spilled out of me in rays of light and the darkness receded, withering, to the last vestiges of my soul.

The light behind my eyelids fades, and I feel the cold, hard floor underneath my back again, pressing its cold tendrils into my skin. At peace again, I look forward to seeing him tomorrow, when I can greet him and show him that I am more alive than I've ever been, that I tend the brilliance well when he is away.

I open my eyes, fingering the strands of my hair, and sit up slowly, my back aching. It was as though mere seconds have passed while I've thought of the weeks gone by; still, my friends are inanely chattering on: about what, I cannot remember. Every beat of my heart hurts, every dull thump it makes causing me to remember him, and the others that worked in the background, the people I love so very much who I knew for only a week. I haven't felt pain like this in months, perhaps a year or two; I've been numb, withdrawn from the world, withdrawn from love. Still I hesitate, knowing that more pain could be on the way when I confide in them this, when I tell them of this change, that they possibly - quite probably - won't accept me anymore.

As painful as it is, I know that through this trial, I will survive. As painful as it is, I make myself smile with the new radiance that spills from my heart, and I know that I'd never really lost the spark. As painful as it is, it was always there, within the fragments of my torn and splintered heart, still alive, still waiting.

It's four-thirty in the morning, and I know that never, really, was there a better time to tell them why I'm different than now, as we sit on the kitchen floor in the dark with "Phantom of the Opera" playing in the background, eating grapes.

Arin · 08-01-2006, 08:19 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by pagemaster42391

I thought myself a magnificently crafted wreck before that week: a shattered, splintered being radiant and resplendent in her darkness. He barged in and ruined it all, shoved aside the broken heart and the billowing darkness and tugged out the last ember of radiance that I hid in my cold, hardened heart. He blew on it until it burned his fingers, until it gave out life, until it turned into radiance so brilliant and shining that he could place it safely within me again and watch as the darkness fought its final battle and lost to the new light. It was that night, when he wrapped his arm around me, my feet weary with walking amongst so many others, and I gave in and let him embrace me, that the radiance spilled out of me in rays of light and the darkness receded, withering, to the last vestiges of my soul.

When I first read this paragraph, I thought you were being overly dramatic and wordy. But the second time I read it, I realized that it actually is quite beautiful.

I think this is a very good piece, and beyond that it is extremely engaging---you include the reader wholly in the experience. I can feel the lateness of the hour, I can feel the floor and the pain of the heartbeats.

A few comments, though: You tend to get wordy. Find ways to condense your sentences, realize that less sometimes is more. The paragraph above is detailed, but don't overdo it. For example: It was just as though, quite suddenly, he knew my heart inside and out, as though he'd walked into its chambers and glanced around at the dirty, clammy, small cave and said, "This won't do at all." You don't need to list all those adjectives, it just clutters the sentence. And I suggest putting a semicolon after "out" to keep the sentence from overreaching itself. Another point brought up is that you repeated "chambers" from the first paragraph. Vary your descriptions and metaphors to keep the story fresh.

So, in short: condense and vary! This piece is already good and has the potential to be even better.

RachelA · 08-01-2006, 08:22 PM

Hi there,

You have some beautiful imagery in this piece. I love the way you have shown us a fresh way of looking at a very well-used and over-analysed subject.

My favorite lines were, "I thought myself a magnificently crafted wreck before that week: a shattered, splintered being radiant and resplendent in her darkness."

"At peace again, I look forward to seeing him tomorrow, when I can greet him and show him that I am more alive than I've ever been, that I tend the brilliance well when he is away."

"It was just as though, quite suddenly, he knew my heart inside and out, as though he'd walked into its chambers and glanced around at the dirty, clammy, small cave and said, "This won't do at all.""

These come close to genius as they struck a chord with me. I like the way you keep repeating what time it is throughout the piece, representing these thoughts going round and round in her head.

The only thing I would critique about this is that the ending seems a little weak. After such interesting imagery, it sort of fizzes out there and it needs to finish with a bit more of a bang.

Other than that, I really liked this. Well done.

pagemaster42391 · 08-01-2006, 11:30 PM

Arin:

Thank you for your honest critique; my teachers have always said a great fault of mine is that tendency to get wordy too often, too much. At any rate, it's good to hear it from an outside source, and thank you for the praise as well.

RachelA:

I also thank you for your critique and praise; I like the first line you listed, myself, but that's just my fondness for the word "splintered," which I don't understand at all, but it's there. Ah, I would finish it with more of a bang - perhaps I'll write a variation - but the way it ends is how it happened. Things are never quite so exciting in reality, are they? Aside from that, thank you for your review.

Min Min Light · 08-01-2006, 11:40 PM

I have so little to say that I'm not sure I'll be of any help, but... Brilliant! I rarely get to read such beautiful nonfiction.

pensive32 · 08-02-2006, 12:38 AM

This was really excellent because of the activeness throughout the piece. While I was reading, I could literally feel "the coolness of the floor", the numbingly tired existence of 4:30 in the morning, and "the brilliance" work though my body... Great work, especially since you included the soundtrack of "The Phanton in the Opera."

The only thing I would change is the ending, and maybe include some interaction with the narrator's roomates?

pagemaster42391 · 08-02-2006, 03:43 PM

Min:

Praise is always helpful; I'm glad you enjoyed it.

Pensive:

Thanks! I'm working on a new ending now since that seems to be a point that most people agree is weak.

Glfralin · 08-02-2006, 07:43 PM

You have a beautiful way of putting words into pictures for the reader. The things I worry about is that you use too many similies and metaphors until it becomes repetative. You never let the reader know what the change is except a change in attitude and why the friends are likely not to accept the main character after. Maybe you leave us in limbo for a reason, but I feel that the end is unfinished, or not given a new beginning to the character. This story is about new beginnings, changes, and relationships. It would be nice to let the reader in on what they are exactly.

pagemaster42391 · 08-02-2006, 10:51 PM

Glfralin: Hmm, I see what you mean after trying to re-read it from an outside point of view. Thank you for your advice.

I've taken what you've all said into consideration, and produced a new draft. Let me know what you think (better, worse, horrid, wonderful? I want to know).

Title: Never, Really
Words: 1,547
Notes: Editted!

It's four-thirty in the morning. That's the thought that chases round and round my head as I fall back on the cold, hard, oak wood floor, the coolness of the boards seeping through my thin shirt and into my back, numbing what I'm feeling right now. It's four-thirty in the morning, and we're sitting on the kitchen floor, eating grapes in the dark while "Phantom of the Opera" plays in the background. I can just barely see part of the screen from here, where I lay on the floor, my dark hair spilling all around me. It's being reflected in the mirror, but I can see it, though I can't say exactly what I see. I'm just so tired right now. The pain has come back, seeping into my heart, into the newly restored caverns that I'd thought were abandoned forever.

I close my eyes, letting the coolness of the floor seep into my skin and through me. The cold is comforting in its own way; I haven't been cold in so long now. My two friends are talking, laughing, sitting on the kitchen floor in the dark eating grapes and drinking soda at four-thirty in the morning, and I'm merely drifting, for this long moment, drifting to another place, feeling as though I don't quite belong here, knowing that I don't. I can sense their unease with me these days, the cautious way they tiptoe around me, knowing that something is different, and I wonder if I can bring myself to tell them.

They won't understand the change.

They won't understand why I can't let myself in on their inane jokes anymore. Constantly, they're joking. Simple things are good, simple things are pleasant, but the jokes aren't simple, they're senseless. They mean nothing to me, and worse, they mean nothing to the friends who speak them.

They won't understand why I refuse to do something I know is wrong anymore. They won't understand why I can't be pushed over, made to have a good time doing hurtful things, like I used to be able to. They won't understand why I refuse the things that would hurt me; one night, they say, will do you good.

They won't understand why I had to stop swearing so much, why I've returned to the good-girl language; they won't understand why I'm not ready to throw my life away for a good fight or a cold Guinness anymore.

They won't get it when I tell them why I've changed; they won't understand the relationship, or the things that happened. They'll be ready to judge it all, to throw it out as just a game.

I fear that they will never understand, that they will never find what I've found.

My eyes close, and underneath the closed lids, it's as though the stars of that place I called home for a week are blossoming. I smile, just a little bit, at the thought. It's four-thirty in the morning, and when I should be careless and ready to have mindless fun, all I can think about is how much I've changed, and how in a mere twenty-eight hours, I'll be coming face-to-face once again with the one who enacted that change.

I didn't think he was any different from the others, to be honest. He was energetic, frighteningly so - I was terrified of him and looked on him condescendingly that first night in the place I came to call home - but I thought he was like a handful of others I'd met in my life. He just had to be a handful of others who bounced through life with enough energy to keep a car going when gas prices brought it to a halt. We spent the greater part of that week together, and I realized with a start, halfway through the week, that I loved him.

It wasn't that kind of love. It was just as though suddenly, I had an older brother who knew exactly when I needed a hug and when I shouldn't be left alone, when I needed to laugh and when I needed someone to cry on, for the first time in well over a year. He figured out my past in a mere two days – something I'd have never thought possible, as I pride myself on being complicated – and figured out my weak spots in less time. I expected him to press them to his advantage. I expected him to hurt me with the knowledge, just as everybody else who'd gained it had. When he didn't, all my study of the human nature was for nothing; he didn't suffer from the flaw of wanting power, or wanting greed, or wanting acceptance. He just was, and I couldn't comprehend it.

It was just as though, quite suddenly, he knew my heart inside and out, as though he'd walked into its chambers and glanced around at the dirty cave within and said, "This won't do at all."

For the first time in well over a year, I loved again, unconditionally, irrationally, with a love that filled my whole being.

I thought myself a magnificently crafted wreck before that week: a shattered, splintered being radiant and resplendent in her darkness. He barged in and ruined it all, shoved aside the broken heart and the billowing darkness and tugged out the last ember of radiance that I hid in my cold, hardened heart. He blew on it until it burned his fingers, until it gave out life, until it turned into radiance so brilliant and shining that he could place it safely within me again and watch as the darkness fought its final battle and lost to the new light. It was that night, when he wrapped his arm around me, my feet weary with walking amongst so many others, and I gave in and let him embrace me, that the radiance spilled out of me in rays of light and the darkness receded, withering, to the last vestiges of my soul.

The light behind my eyelids fades, and I feel the cold, hard floor underneath my back again, pressing its cold tendrils into my skin. At peace again, I look forward to seeing him tomorrow, when I can greet him and show him that I am more alive than I've ever been, that I tend the brilliance well when he is away.

I open my eyes, fingering the strands of my hair, and sit up slowly, my back aching. It is as though mere seconds have passed while I've thought of the weeks gone by; still, my friends are inanely chattering on: about what, I cannot remember. Every beat of my heart hurts, every dull thump it makes causing me to remember him, and the others that worked in the background, the people I love so very much who I knew for only a week. I haven't felt pain like this in months, perhaps a year or two; I've been numb, withdrawn from the world, withdrawn from love. Still I hesitate, knowing that more pain could be on the way when I confide in them this, when I tell them of this change, that they possibly - quite probably - won't accept me anymore.

As painful as it is, I know that through this trial, I will survive. As painful as it is, I make myself smile with the new radiance that spills from my heart, and I know that I'd never really lost the spark. As painful as it is, it was always there, within the fragments of my torn and splintered heart, still alive, still waiting.

It's four-thirty in the morning, and I know that never, really, was there a better time to tell them why I'm different than now, as we sit on the kitchen floor in the dark with "Phantom of the Opera" playing in the background, eating grapes. They laugh at first – I expect them to – but then, as they fall silent, as I talk myself hoarse and tell them exactly what it is that I've done to regain some semblance of humanity, they listen.

They might not change, but the least I can do is try.

I don't know where I'm going anymore, what I'll be doing a year from now, five years, a decade. The days are gone when I was convinced of where I was headed, when I was consumed with the longing to lead a martyr's life. The days are gone, too, when I wanted to be miserable, just to hold on to what I thought made me unique.

"But really," Sarah says slowly, reaching for more grapes, "that's, uh, great, dude. But really, are you seriously saying that you do not want to see Clerks II?"

"Because you need to see it," Trish adds mildly, snatching the grapes away from Sarah. "Seriously."

It is a mark of my determination that the next day they drive away in Sarah's car and I drive away in mine, angling for home as I slide an old tape into my beat up car's tape player. I spend the journey listening to the scratchy recordings of Simon and Garfunkel, and when I get home to find those other friends waiting for me, the ones who watched the change, I begin to grin.