This is part one of what will probably be a five-part work. I literally just finished this, so it's about as first as a draft can be. Feel free to offer any criticism, especially on dialogue, as that's probably where my writing is the weakest.
*Side note: I originally had this posted with the dialogue first, but changed it in the hope of drawing the reader in more. Besides that, nothing else is different.
Leap of Faith
On Saturday mornings, I go to a creative writing class taught by a former teacher of mine who has since retired, Mr. Ryan. The class is organized by the local parks and recreation department and is held in the basement of the city hall, in a dark room with a single round table and a small dry-erase board. The class itself consists mostly of fifty-something housewives, retired couples looking for something to do together, and a few affected young men--an assembly of people that, were it not for a collective love of writing, would never be found in a room with one-another.
I’ve been coming here for a few years now, and am one of three people who have stayed in the class for that length of time. Besides me, there’s Beatrice Evans, an old woman whose writing centers around the death of her husband, Rick. Rick, “in his infinite wisdom,” as Beatrice liked to say, decided one summer day five years ago that he was going to start mowing his own lawn, rather than pay the neighbor what he considered to be an unnecessarily large sum of money. He did well enough until he got to the back yard, which sloped downward at a 30 degree angle. When Rick slipped and rolled down the hill, the mower followed close behind, eventually running over and shredding his leg. He lay there for an hour, yelling for help until he bled to death no more than 20 feet from his house. Beatrice, who was stationed in front of the living room television, never heard a thing.
The other regular, a high-school senior name Johnny, has been coming since his freshmen year. Johnny, who calls himself an anarchist, writes dark poetry about the wrong-doings of the American government. The strange thing about Johnny, however, is not that he’s an anarchist. It’s that he is the smallest, quietist anarchist you’ll ever meet. He’s about 5 foot even, weighs about a buck fifty, and has a frail voice not unlike that of a bird. His size, combined with the black denim vest with a large anarchy symbol on the back that he wears every day, makes him look oddly mismatched, as though he’s a mind trapped in the wrong body.
The rest of the class is normal enough, and their writing varies from almost tolerable to utterly awful. There was a time when, in my youthful naivety, I came here for input and criticism. After a year’s worth of questions like “Why should I care about this character?” and “Did you earn this cliché?”, however, I stopped giving a shit what these people think. Now I just come here for material.
Today’s class begins like any other—Mr. Ryan, a balding man in his sixties, quiets the class and moderates what he calls a “group critique.” Each of us brings in a piece we’ve written, and we spend a half hour or so reading and commenting. Some time ago I stopped writing seriously for the class. For the most part I just throw something together an hour before the class meets. Then, when the time comes for them to critique my work, I listen quietly as they rip it to shreds, all the while smiling to myself at their imagined superiority. Besides my weekly trip to the Laundromat, this has been my main source of entertainment for the past two years.
After group critique, Mr. Ryan usually answers any questions we might have and tries to address problems we’re having. Today, however, he has something different planned.
“Ladies and gentleman,” he announces loudly. “We have a professional writer in our ranks.” The class begins glancing around at each other wildly as I groan and bury my face in my hands. Mr. Ryan however, oblivious to my anxiety, continues. “Our very own Ethan will be traveling to Los Angeles, California, where a movie will be made based on one of his stories. Now, in light on this information, I’ve decided to throw a party in his honor. I have flyers with information for you on your way out. Now how about a round of applause for Ethan!”
The class claps politely while I stare at the floor. I can feel their gazes, can see their faces wide-eyed with surprise in my mind’s eye. When the clapping ends and I hear chairs scraping the floor, I stand up and make my way to the door. Just as I’m at the threshold of anonymity again, however, Mr. Ryan pulls me aside.
“I hope you don’t mind, Ethan.” His eyes convey a level of sympathy, as though he realizes too late that I might not have wanted fifteen minutes of fame. “I just thought it would be nice.”
“How did you find out?”
“Your mother called me. She’s very proud.”
I’m not sure what to say to this, so I just stare at him for a moment before turning back towards the door.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Ethan.”
I stop in the middle of the doorway, causing a pileup behind me.
“Not yet it isn't.”
Outside, Beatrice and Johnny approach me together as I search my pockets for my car keys. They look ridiculous—an eighteen-year-old anarchist and a white-haired widow walking side by side, wearing identical looks of envy and neediness. After a few hollow congratulations, they hand me copies of “their best work” and make me promise to read them and show them around. I tell them I’ll do what I can. When they’ve each gone their separate ways and I’m a few blocks away, I rip each piece in quarters and throw them out the window.
*****
I decide to call Scott first. Of all the people I’m going to have to talk to within the next few days, he’s by far the one I’m least worried about. He’d always been able to deal with things by letting them slide right off, or else by drowning them in grain alcohol. And from what I’ve heard, for the three years since I’ve last seen him, it’s been primarily the latter. It’s still pretty early though, so I’m hoping he won’t be completely shitfaced just yet. He picks up on the second ring--music is blaring in the background, and when he answers I can hardly hear him.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Scott?”
“Yeah, who’s this?”
“Hey man, it’s Ethan.”
“Ethan? No shit?! What’s up man? Shit I haven’t seen you since...since…”
“Since Danny’s funeral,” I finish for him.
“Yeah, yeah.” Silence falls between us. I’ve been getting a lot of that lately, but it’s something I won’t ever get used to. It’s enough to make me wish I was deaf—an all-encompassing silence has to be better than the occasional awkward ones I can’t seem to escape. This one is particularly upsetting, however, because it’s not like Scott to be completely quiet for more than a few seconds.
“So what the fuck, man? What have you been up to? Wait, let me guess—writing angst-y poetry while listening to Bright Eyes, right?”
Amazing. He’s exactly the same. Like nothing ever happened. Like I hadn’t abandoned him and everyone else when they needed me the most.
“Elliott Smith, actually.”
“Yeah, I guess that makes more sense.”
Another silence.
“Listen, Scott, I’m leaving for LA tomorrow night.”
“Yeah, I heard about that. You’re a big writer now.”
“Nah, man it’s just an indie movie.”
“Oh, ok.
Just an indie movie. Got you out of this shithole, didn’t it?”
He had a point.
“Yeah, well. Listen I don’t want to keep you, so I’ll just get right to it—the script I wrote—it’s about me, and Danny, and everything. It’s about all of us.“
“No shit?! Guess you took the phrase ‘write what you know’ literally, didn’t you? Well let me guess: I’m in it?”
“Yeah.”
“And you need my permission before you can make the movie.” Strange--I don’t remember Scott being this perceptive.
“Yeah. Well, kinda. I don’t
have to get permission from you. It just makes things easier and keeps the producers happy.”
“Oh, well as long as the producers are happy.”
“Look, Scott, you don’t have to do this. I can write you out of the movie. I wouldn’t feel comfortable unless you tell me its ok.”
“No, no. It’s cool, man. It’s just, you know…”
“Weird?”
“Yeah. I mean, it’s been a long time.” Neither of us speaks for a moment. The music--some kind of generic hip-hop that sounds absurdly out of place as the backdrop to this conversation—thumps off in the distance.
“Hey you haven’t talked to Alissa yet, have you?”
“I’ll get around to it.” In fact, I’ve been trying to work up the courage to talk to her for the last few months. But every time I thought I’d be able to do it, I’d imagine her staring at me in horror at the funeral, and what little courage I had would be instantly wiped away.
“I figured you’d say that. Well good luck with that. It was hard for her, what with Danny, and then you…”
“I know, Scott, believe me. I don’t expect it to be easy.”
“Didn’t think you did. Why else would you talk to me first? Get the easiest out of the way fast, was your thinking?”
“Something like that. How’d you know you’re the first person I’ve talked to?”
“When I heard you were leaving I figured you’d finally be making the rounds. Since I hadn’t heard anything about you talking to anyone else, I assumed you hadn’t. Small town, E—word travels fast around here.”
“Yeah, I know. Better than most.”
“I’d imagine.” Silence, but this time it’s laced with an air of mutual understanding rather than awkwardness. “Well hey; I’m having a little get-together at my house. You should come by—have a few beers, shoot some pool, talk about old times. It’ll be fun.”
“I dunno, man. Is everyone gonna be there?”
“Yeah probably. But look at it this way: you can talk to everyone at once, rather than drawing it out. Do it like a band-aid—one swift painful movement and it’s all over.”
“As appealing as that sounds, I think I’ll pass. It’s too much, you know?”
“Yeah, I understand.”
“Plus I need to get some sleep. Long day tomorrow.”
“I’m sure. Well, get some sleep, and I’ll see you in another three years.”
“Sure. Can you do me a favor and keep the whole movie thing to yourself? I want to talk to everyone personally.”
“I’ll try, but you know me—a few shots and I’m an open book.”
An image of Scott weeping openly over a half-empty bottle of 151 immediately jumps into my mind.
“True enough.”
The line goes quiet again and I know there’s only one thing left to say, but for some reason I can’t form the words.
I’m sorry. Just say it. I’m sorry. My mouth opens and closes silently before Scott interrupts my internal struggle.
“You don’t have to say it, bro. I know you didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”
Except maybe myself.
“Yeah. Listen thanks, Scott. Take care of yourself.”
“You too, buddy. It was good to hear from you.”
![Leap of Faith, Part 1 [1900 WORDS]](http://www.writingforums.com/iconimages/short-stories/leap-faith-part-1-1900-words_ltr.gif)
