"The king's son has been detained again."
"Again? Poor man. His son is absolutely wild."
"I feel for him. How will Ruben ever become the heir? I do believe Lord Danaro's son, Logan, is the better choice!"
"I daresay he is. He is smart, courteous, generous, and humble - and much more well-behaved than his friend is!"
"Is it not strange how good friends they are? I doubt I've ever seen one without the other!"
"Yes, I heard from Ruben's old nanny, a friend of mine, that he and Logan used to get together every day since they met each other. They may still get together every day now, but I doubt that. Logan has become busier ever since he started advising others."
"He is so kind. And additionally, I do hear that the king has appointed Logan as his advisor. What an honor!"
"Yes, it is amazing! He is the youngest advisor in the history of Alvaria!"
"Oh, I want my daughter Celestia to marry him so much, but it is impossible, seeing as he is so desperately in love with Princess Maya!"
"Ahh, but is she not the sweetest girl you have ever laid eyes on?"
"She is! I do not think I have seen a girl more upright and sweet than she is!"
"But poor boy. She must not think much of him."
"Does she really? She has never shown affection towards anyone except her father and brother, but Ruben especially."
"They are so close, how sweet. If my daughters were like that, my house would be ever so much more peaceful..."
"Well, if Logan ever does marry her, he may very well become king. And what a fine king he shall make!"
"That he shall. He is so humble, like King Elderen. He came into the village yesterday morning."
"Yes, we greeted him on his way back. Did you talk with him?"
"Yes, but very briefly. I do think he is the gentlest boy I've ever met. My dear Allison fell in love with him at first words!"
"Oh, the poor thing. She'll never have him."
"Indeed."
"Well, Logan and Princess Maya may be the happiest couple in the world, if Logan can get us out of this depression, which I think he may be able to do."
"I'm just glad my husband has a steady income and a hefty inheritance. We don't have to worry as others do, but we're still cutting back."
"We must sell our house before the weekend."
"Oh! How dreadful!"
"I agree. It is a horrible fate... I can only imagine what will become of us, unless King Elderen or Logan can get us out of it..."
"Indeed..."
The prologue to my NaNoWriYe (National Novel Writing Year). Preview. :)
Friday, February 27, 2009
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
The Power of 7
It wasn't until those darn aliens liquidized Ol' Granny and her farm that we seriously thought we should do something about the green lil' pests. They’d destroyed our crops an' cattle an' woods for the fun, an' like the generous folk we were--are, 'scuse me, we let 'em get away with it all. But hoo-boy, Ol' Granny was another matter!
'course, what can one dingy little town do against extra-terrest'ral aliens? That was the question runnin' through our minds, an' we came up with the answer.
So May'r Scottsflick (3 years runnin' seed spittin' winner) says, "Now, y'all see we gotta do somethin' 'bout those critters, an' we're gonna get 'em back real well fer Granny's sake!" He stops for a moment 'cause of the hootin' and hollerin'. Then he clears his throat an continues. "So I say we gotta hire some real, purfesshun'l fighters who'll beat 'em up real bad fer us!"
'Course, motivated by this inspirin' speech, the townsfolk cheered an' hooted so loud I'm amazed the green critters themselves didn't hear from way up there. But Miss Courtney Alabama, as smart as she is purty, says, "So who'll be the fighters?"
Everyone stops hootin' and looks at the mayor to see if he's got any answer. And he does. "I knew y'all would ask that," he says triumphantly. "And I have the answer. These letters I'm holdin' in my hands right now is yer answer." An' he holds up some real prim and proper letters with some fancy script that I reckon' no one but the writer themselves can read.
The mayor says, "Now I myself hadn't opened this yet, so I'll do so now an' we'll all so who our myst'ry fighters are."
Everyone watches very carefully as the mayor opens the letters and reads 'em. His eyes widen an' they look as wide an' round as plates. He clears his throat again and says, "We got seven fighters who'll take this job." Then he frowns and adds, "Well, at least I think they're fighters. 'Cause we got a ninja, an accountant, a pirate, a cook, a musician, a lawyer, an' a schoolkid. Heck, are they takin' us seriously?!" he shouts out loud.
Well, when we hear that, we ain't so happy either. Hootin' and hollerin' and shoutin'. Can't they see we got a serious alien ‘infestation problem here?
But purty Miss Courtney Alabama doesn't shout. She thinks instead. That's the type of girl she is. Then, like the schoolgirl she thinks she still is, she raises her hand and asks, "How much are we payin'?"
After checkin’ the mayor responds, "Nothin', I think.”
Well, we all think, if they're comin' fer free, might as well give 'em a chance.
Hoo-boy, if we had even known what we were gettin' into...
-----
So, even tho’ we ain’t quite so excited ‘bout the fighters comin’, we all step out middle of summer to greet ‘em all. ‘Sides, we’re all curious to see what they all’r lookin’ like.
An’ ‘sides that, all the girls are goin’ googly-eyed ‘bout the ninja and pirate, an’ what they look like, an’ if they like girls or junk like that. I tell ya, nothin’ll come out of those girls.
The seven fighters pull up in the most rugged an’ worn an’ broken cart ever. Heck, I hadn’t seen such an old cart since my aunt’s brother’s friend’s uncle’s niece’s nephew’s godmother’s son came to visit.
Hoo-boy. And they hired ‘emselves out fer free?
The ninja climbs out in his ninja-y fashion and walks to the may’r. Least I think he was the ninja, ‘cause he was dressed in all black cloths and shuri-whatever-they-call-it things. An’ I don’t know how he knew he was talkin’ to the may’r, but he did. Must be one of those ninja-y skill things. What I would give to get that!
He holds out his hand an’ says in an Asian-y accent, “Hello. We here to help out.”
“Er,” May’r Scottsflick says, “Right.” An’ takes his hand.
They shake, but it’s pretty clear tha’ none are ‘customed to shakin’. In our ho-dum lil’ town of Mossvile, every person knows every other person, an’ we ain’t got any visitors, so May’r Scottsflick never shakes. An’ I doubt the ninja ever shakes.
The rest of the seven come on out and sure ‘nuff, there is a pirate, looking big an’ tall an’ everythin’ we ‘spected; an accountant, lookin’ pretty accountant-y; a schoolkid, lookin’ like he’s the best in the world an’ only ten years old; a lawyer, lookin’ through his briefcase and mutterin’ to himself; a cook, carryin’ a pot large ‘nuff to hold half the town; and a musician, who looks just like tha’ lawyer, ‘cept he has a twirly moustache. Quite a group, but we’re all thinkin’ that only the pirate and the ninja would be able to fight. ‘course, with that huge pot of his, the cook might be able to do some damage, too.
“I introduce us,” the ninja says. “I Mashimoto Matsumoto. The pirate Pete Smokey. The accountant Nile Morton. The child Jason Mitchell. The lawyer George Smith. The cook Mooky. The musician Andre Vasolinni. We fight for you. We good fighters. We help out against aliens. For money we fight.”
“Fer money?” the may’r and half of the people splutter.
“For one day, a hundred forty dollars. Twenty dollars each,” the ninja says calmly.
Now if that ain’t a ripoff, I don’t know what is. “We ain’t got that much money!” the may’r says.
“We give you one day free. After that pay by half day. Discount ten percent from regular price.”
“Now hold on. When I say we ain’t got that much money, we mean it. If you are thinkin’ of cheatin’ us, we ain’t gonna buy it! We’re poor folk. All most of us got are a couple dollars and the possessions we own. A hundred forty ain’t reasonable for a day!”
“A couple dollars, put together, can equal much,” the ninja says.
“Oh, come on! We ain’t gonna give you anything. Git outta here!” the mayor waves them away.
“Wait,” Miss Courtney Alabama says. “Maybe we should give ‘em a day, ‘cause it is free, and then we’ll see whether they’re worth it or not.”
Now, the mayor, he ain’t an old man. He’s a pretty young guy, barely into his thirties, and all of us know he’s got this tremendous crush on pretty Miss Courtney Alabama, so he’ll always follow her suggestions. Even if they ain’t all right (like the time with the tractor and that old mare). But this time, her suggestions seem all right.
“Okay then,” the mayor says. “We got a one-day deal. After that day, we’ll see if y’all worth what y’all charge.”
The ninja bows all polite-like an’ says, “Thank you.”
‘course, we were all thinkin’ that maybe there wouldn’t be any alien attacks the next day (‘cause we hadn’t had any for more than a month), and then what? A waste of a free day, that’s what! Then of course they wouldn’t hire ‘em fighters.
But as—what would those civilized folk say?—Murphy’s Law would have it all, there would be no sleepin’ that night.
------
It is precisely three o’clock in the mornin’ when we all hear the explosion. Tho’ we ain’t too glad about the untimely wake-up call, we all rush outside to see what damage now. The green critters are obnoxious little pests.
‘Course the seven fighters all got into action. Least the ninja and pirate did. Can’t say much for the accountant and lawyer, who are both uselessly typin’ away on those newfangled computer machines. The cook is cookin’ some sorta soup, and the musician took out his violin and is playin’ some sorta sonata or sonata-opus-whatever. An’ the kid is still sleepin’, imagine that!
Well, at least two of the seven are workin’. The ninja is doin’ some ninja-y stuff and whatever, and the pirate’s doin’ some pirate-y stuff and whatever. ‘Can’t describe much, ‘cause bleary-eyed-ness ain’t such a good state to be observin’ in. So we watch them do their stuff.
Suddenly, the ninja whips out a pistol and starts shootin’ like crazy. Ain’t that the strangest thing? A ninja using a modern pistol like he’s willin’ to stop bein’ so traditional and whatever.
None of the townspeople are fightin’, thank goodness. All of us are like family, and no one wants to see their neighbor bein’ shot to death by those lasers or big guns or slime.
‘Course, if the ninja or pirate or whatever they call themselves die, we can’t care less about them, right? At least we won’t have to pay.
So we’re watchin’ the ninja (Mishamatsu, was’n that his name?) and the pirate (Pete Smokey, that one’s easy to ‘member), and we haf’ta say that we’re actually kinda impressed. Can’t say that we’re wowed, but the two are pretty darn good. At least they haven’t died yet, an’ that’s a ‘complishment in itself, ain’t it?
Suddenly, the aliens aren’t there anymore. We look up, and there aren’t anymore green little blobs anymore. Heck, either the aliens left, or there ain’t any more of them to fight—neither which have happened before!
Guess those fighters aren’t as bad as they seem.
“You like our work?” the ninja says as he and his pirate-y friend return from their alien invasion slaughterin’ work. “You pay for another day?”
Mayor Scottsflick thinks for quite some time. Then, Miss Courtney Alabama, without knowin’ the consequences, says, “Well, they’re pretty good, aren’t they?”
And that seals the deal. “Sure,” the mayor says. And they shake on it.
But all of us shake our heads an’ think of the money we’re losin’…
-----
Something I thought up. And I can't tell whether it turned out well or not...
'course, what can one dingy little town do against extra-terrest'ral aliens? That was the question runnin' through our minds, an' we came up with the answer.
So May'r Scottsflick (3 years runnin' seed spittin' winner) says, "Now, y'all see we gotta do somethin' 'bout those critters, an' we're gonna get 'em back real well fer Granny's sake!" He stops for a moment 'cause of the hootin' and hollerin'. Then he clears his throat an continues. "So I say we gotta hire some real, purfesshun'l fighters who'll beat 'em up real bad fer us!"
'Course, motivated by this inspirin' speech, the townsfolk cheered an' hooted so loud I'm amazed the green critters themselves didn't hear from way up there. But Miss Courtney Alabama, as smart as she is purty, says, "So who'll be the fighters?"
Everyone stops hootin' and looks at the mayor to see if he's got any answer. And he does. "I knew y'all would ask that," he says triumphantly. "And I have the answer. These letters I'm holdin' in my hands right now is yer answer." An' he holds up some real prim and proper letters with some fancy script that I reckon' no one but the writer themselves can read.
The mayor says, "Now I myself hadn't opened this yet, so I'll do so now an' we'll all so who our myst'ry fighters are."
Everyone watches very carefully as the mayor opens the letters and reads 'em. His eyes widen an' they look as wide an' round as plates. He clears his throat again and says, "We got seven fighters who'll take this job." Then he frowns and adds, "Well, at least I think they're fighters. 'Cause we got a ninja, an accountant, a pirate, a cook, a musician, a lawyer, an' a schoolkid. Heck, are they takin' us seriously?!" he shouts out loud.
Well, when we hear that, we ain't so happy either. Hootin' and hollerin' and shoutin'. Can't they see we got a serious alien ‘infestation problem here?
But purty Miss Courtney Alabama doesn't shout. She thinks instead. That's the type of girl she is. Then, like the schoolgirl she thinks she still is, she raises her hand and asks, "How much are we payin'?"
After checkin’ the mayor responds, "Nothin', I think.”
Well, we all think, if they're comin' fer free, might as well give 'em a chance.
Hoo-boy, if we had even known what we were gettin' into...
-----
So, even tho’ we ain’t quite so excited ‘bout the fighters comin’, we all step out middle of summer to greet ‘em all. ‘Sides, we’re all curious to see what they all’r lookin’ like.
An’ ‘sides that, all the girls are goin’ googly-eyed ‘bout the ninja and pirate, an’ what they look like, an’ if they like girls or junk like that. I tell ya, nothin’ll come out of those girls.
The seven fighters pull up in the most rugged an’ worn an’ broken cart ever. Heck, I hadn’t seen such an old cart since my aunt’s brother’s friend’s uncle’s niece’s nephew’s godmother’s son came to visit.
Hoo-boy. And they hired ‘emselves out fer free?
The ninja climbs out in his ninja-y fashion and walks to the may’r. Least I think he was the ninja, ‘cause he was dressed in all black cloths and shuri-whatever-they-call-it things. An’ I don’t know how he knew he was talkin’ to the may’r, but he did. Must be one of those ninja-y skill things. What I would give to get that!
He holds out his hand an’ says in an Asian-y accent, “Hello. We here to help out.”
“Er,” May’r Scottsflick says, “Right.” An’ takes his hand.
They shake, but it’s pretty clear tha’ none are ‘customed to shakin’. In our ho-dum lil’ town of Mossvile, every person knows every other person, an’ we ain’t got any visitors, so May’r Scottsflick never shakes. An’ I doubt the ninja ever shakes.
The rest of the seven come on out and sure ‘nuff, there is a pirate, looking big an’ tall an’ everythin’ we ‘spected; an accountant, lookin’ pretty accountant-y; a schoolkid, lookin’ like he’s the best in the world an’ only ten years old; a lawyer, lookin’ through his briefcase and mutterin’ to himself; a cook, carryin’ a pot large ‘nuff to hold half the town; and a musician, who looks just like tha’ lawyer, ‘cept he has a twirly moustache. Quite a group, but we’re all thinkin’ that only the pirate and the ninja would be able to fight. ‘course, with that huge pot of his, the cook might be able to do some damage, too.
“I introduce us,” the ninja says. “I Mashimoto Matsumoto. The pirate Pete Smokey. The accountant Nile Morton. The child Jason Mitchell. The lawyer George Smith. The cook Mooky. The musician Andre Vasolinni. We fight for you. We good fighters. We help out against aliens. For money we fight.”
“Fer money?” the may’r and half of the people splutter.
“For one day, a hundred forty dollars. Twenty dollars each,” the ninja says calmly.
Now if that ain’t a ripoff, I don’t know what is. “We ain’t got that much money!” the may’r says.
“We give you one day free. After that pay by half day. Discount ten percent from regular price.”
“Now hold on. When I say we ain’t got that much money, we mean it. If you are thinkin’ of cheatin’ us, we ain’t gonna buy it! We’re poor folk. All most of us got are a couple dollars and the possessions we own. A hundred forty ain’t reasonable for a day!”
“A couple dollars, put together, can equal much,” the ninja says.
“Oh, come on! We ain’t gonna give you anything. Git outta here!” the mayor waves them away.
“Wait,” Miss Courtney Alabama says. “Maybe we should give ‘em a day, ‘cause it is free, and then we’ll see whether they’re worth it or not.”
Now, the mayor, he ain’t an old man. He’s a pretty young guy, barely into his thirties, and all of us know he’s got this tremendous crush on pretty Miss Courtney Alabama, so he’ll always follow her suggestions. Even if they ain’t all right (like the time with the tractor and that old mare). But this time, her suggestions seem all right.
“Okay then,” the mayor says. “We got a one-day deal. After that day, we’ll see if y’all worth what y’all charge.”
The ninja bows all polite-like an’ says, “Thank you.”
‘course, we were all thinkin’ that maybe there wouldn’t be any alien attacks the next day (‘cause we hadn’t had any for more than a month), and then what? A waste of a free day, that’s what! Then of course they wouldn’t hire ‘em fighters.
But as—what would those civilized folk say?—Murphy’s Law would have it all, there would be no sleepin’ that night.
------
It is precisely three o’clock in the mornin’ when we all hear the explosion. Tho’ we ain’t too glad about the untimely wake-up call, we all rush outside to see what damage now. The green critters are obnoxious little pests.
‘Course the seven fighters all got into action. Least the ninja and pirate did. Can’t say much for the accountant and lawyer, who are both uselessly typin’ away on those newfangled computer machines. The cook is cookin’ some sorta soup, and the musician took out his violin and is playin’ some sorta sonata or sonata-opus-whatever. An’ the kid is still sleepin’, imagine that!
Well, at least two of the seven are workin’. The ninja is doin’ some ninja-y stuff and whatever, and the pirate’s doin’ some pirate-y stuff and whatever. ‘Can’t describe much, ‘cause bleary-eyed-ness ain’t such a good state to be observin’ in. So we watch them do their stuff.
Suddenly, the ninja whips out a pistol and starts shootin’ like crazy. Ain’t that the strangest thing? A ninja using a modern pistol like he’s willin’ to stop bein’ so traditional and whatever.
None of the townspeople are fightin’, thank goodness. All of us are like family, and no one wants to see their neighbor bein’ shot to death by those lasers or big guns or slime.
‘Course, if the ninja or pirate or whatever they call themselves die, we can’t care less about them, right? At least we won’t have to pay.
So we’re watchin’ the ninja (Mishamatsu, was’n that his name?) and the pirate (Pete Smokey, that one’s easy to ‘member), and we haf’ta say that we’re actually kinda impressed. Can’t say that we’re wowed, but the two are pretty darn good. At least they haven’t died yet, an’ that’s a ‘complishment in itself, ain’t it?
Suddenly, the aliens aren’t there anymore. We look up, and there aren’t anymore green little blobs anymore. Heck, either the aliens left, or there ain’t any more of them to fight—neither which have happened before!
Guess those fighters aren’t as bad as they seem.
“You like our work?” the ninja says as he and his pirate-y friend return from their alien invasion slaughterin’ work. “You pay for another day?”
Mayor Scottsflick thinks for quite some time. Then, Miss Courtney Alabama, without knowin’ the consequences, says, “Well, they’re pretty good, aren’t they?”
And that seals the deal. “Sure,” the mayor says. And they shake on it.
But all of us shake our heads an’ think of the money we’re losin’…
-----
Something I thought up. And I can't tell whether it turned out well or not...
Prompt: Art
His name was Art, Art Goldstein, but he hated art. It wasn't for the love of the... well, art, that made his parents name him such, but rather the love of some distant uncle. Besides, who wanted to see some boring old paintings in a museum? You've seen 'em once, you've seen 'em all. Wasn't that what the saying was?
To be finished at a later date.
To be finished at a later date.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Prompt: Formidable
She was quite the formidable opponent, Jason thought with grudging respect.
“Giving up yet?” Erin taunted.
“Not a chance,” he muttered, and bent down.
“You can’t make that,” she said.
“Yes, I can. And you’ll see.”
“I don’t think so. No one could.”
“I can, and I will.”
“That’s ridiculous. You’d have to ricochet off of the side!”
“I know.”
“No way,” she said.
“Just see.” He bent down and made his shot, as quickly and smoothly as ever.
The black 8-ball slowly rolled into a corner pocket. Erin stood there agape.
Jason nodded. “Told ya,” he said.
Victory was sweet.
“Giving up yet?” Erin taunted.
“Not a chance,” he muttered, and bent down.
“You can’t make that,” she said.
“Yes, I can. And you’ll see.”
“I don’t think so. No one could.”
“I can, and I will.”
“That’s ridiculous. You’d have to ricochet off of the side!”
“I know.”
“No way,” she said.
“Just see.” He bent down and made his shot, as quickly and smoothly as ever.
The black 8-ball slowly rolled into a corner pocket. Erin stood there agape.
Jason nodded. “Told ya,” he said.
Victory was sweet.
Prompt: Apple
She bit into the apple. “An apple a day keeps the doctor away,” she said, “but that really depends on whether you want to see the doctor or not.”
“True,” he agreed. “So, do you?”
“We-ell,” she said slowly, “I guess I don’t mind.”
“Really?”
She paused, took another bite of the apple, and chewed methodically. “Yeah, why not?” she answered finally.
“That’s good,” he said, “because I like seeing you.”
There was a long stretch of silence, and then:
“… Say, do you want to see a movie Friday night at seven?”
“… Sure.”
“True,” he agreed. “So, do you?”
“We-ell,” she said slowly, “I guess I don’t mind.”
“Really?”
She paused, took another bite of the apple, and chewed methodically. “Yeah, why not?” she answered finally.
“That’s good,” he said, “because I like seeing you.”
There was a long stretch of silence, and then:
“… Say, do you want to see a movie Friday night at seven?”
“… Sure.”
Prompt: Clandestine
Is this love?
This clandestine, hush-hush relationship?
You tell me I shouldn’t speak of it to others. Why not? Is our love that forbidden?
I can’t think why. It’s so strange of you to request something like this… but I’ll trust you for now.
You say that I can’t speak of it to others. You say that if I do, you’ll be very angry. You say that it will hurt both of us. Why?
I don’t want to be kept in the dark. I want to know, Love. Why can’t I?
It makes me wonder whether this is love or not.
This clandestine, hush-hush relationship?
You tell me I shouldn’t speak of it to others. Why not? Is our love that forbidden?
I can’t think why. It’s so strange of you to request something like this… but I’ll trust you for now.
You say that I can’t speak of it to others. You say that if I do, you’ll be very angry. You say that it will hurt both of us. Why?
I don’t want to be kept in the dark. I want to know, Love. Why can’t I?
It makes me wonder whether this is love or not.
Prompt: Handrail
Dear Love:
It’s February 14, Valentine’s Day. Do you remember this day? I’ll remember it forever. It was the day we met. You, the cheerleader, the smart and popular girl at school, and me, the quarterback on the varsity football team. It seemed like the perfect match made in Heaven.
I thought so, too. But that was before I met you. I told you that, on Valentine’s Day, remember? And you turned me down. It was the first time I had a taste of disdain from the girl I liked, and you know? That was probably the best thing that happened to me in my life. I’d never had a good chance to mature—truly mature, on suffering and defeat, which you handed to me on a bronze platter—so it was good that you pushed me down. It was good that you told me plainly and clearly, “I don’t like you.” It was good that you told me that my B+ average just wouldn’t cut it. And it was good that you walked away from me.
Because of your words, I improved. I worked hard to impress you, and when it didn’t, I told myself, “I’ve got to work harder.” My standards rose; every day I played football as if it was my last day on earth, and I learned to accomplish my goals that I had set. It was due to you, my dear Loranne, that I rose to the top.
I learned to set goals, and I learned to have enough discipline to accomplish them. I learned to read actively, write well (better than my incomprehensible B- writing), and I learned to play the best football I could; because I knew that every time you passed the field, you’d glance quickly and almost invisibly—but I saw you, because I’d always see you when you walked by. You could say that through this all, my love for you increased.
It was half a year later when I asked you again. I said, “Loranne, I’m not the same person I used to be. I’ve improved. My average is As to A+s now, and discovered that I actually like science, and that I can play football better than I knew before, and—“
And do you remember what you said? You said, “I know.”
We became boyfriend and girlfriend that day. I wasn’t trying to impress you from then on; I’d also learned that if you want the way to a girl’s heart, you have to first impress them, and then love them.
I spent hours upon hours thinking of you. I can remember the many times where a sheet of homework took an hour to finish, because my mind was always on a certain someone. My friends complained that I never spent any time with them, because I was always either thinking of you or on a date with you. We dated a lot.
High school years came and went, and I learned that we had been admitted into two different but top schools. It was a bittersweet time for me: you and I would be separated, but we would also be able to pursue our individual interests. For me, science. For you, writing. But we stayed in touch a lot, remember? I think I must have written ten letters the first week of college. All to you. I don’t remember sending them all, but you knew how much I missed you anyway. You sent me a letter, a single letter which I’ll cherish forever, and it wasn’t long but what was unsaid spoke more to me than your words. “I miss you”, right? We both missed each other.
And then I got that letter.
Middle of my sophmore year, I received a letter informing me of your death. It was the worst letter I've ever gotten. I remember opening it with eagerness, because almost all of my letters came from you, but instead of your neat, tiny handwriting, I saw a typed letter with cold, detached words which said that you--you, Loranne--were dead. At first I didn't believe it, but as I continued to read, I realized that this was no joke. Apparently some drunk driver had crashed into your car, and you and some of your friends careened off of the side of the road and into a gorge on the side. It was then that I began to cry hysterically.
I didn't sleep that night, nor the next few days. For the next week, I drifted through life, still reeling from the shock, and quickly declined. I can't even express how devastated I felt. That news shattered my heart into a thousand pieces of ice, and I numbly watched days go by from behind a glass window. My grades fell. I stopped playing football. And I rarely smiled.
It wasn't until some friends convinced me to move on with my life that I began to live again. But I'm still not fully recovered, you know? Hadn't we been each others' handrails? Supporting the other when we stumbled? Why did you have to die, then? What would be my life, then? You were my life, my whole being! How am I supposed to move on without you?
I still don't know the answers to those questions. You've always been my handrail--supporting me when I was weak. And I've tried to be yours. You know how much I love you.
I guess that just, your grip wasn't tight enough...
Love,
Terrence
It’s February 14, Valentine’s Day. Do you remember this day? I’ll remember it forever. It was the day we met. You, the cheerleader, the smart and popular girl at school, and me, the quarterback on the varsity football team. It seemed like the perfect match made in Heaven.
I thought so, too. But that was before I met you. I told you that, on Valentine’s Day, remember? And you turned me down. It was the first time I had a taste of disdain from the girl I liked, and you know? That was probably the best thing that happened to me in my life. I’d never had a good chance to mature—truly mature, on suffering and defeat, which you handed to me on a bronze platter—so it was good that you pushed me down. It was good that you told me plainly and clearly, “I don’t like you.” It was good that you told me that my B+ average just wouldn’t cut it. And it was good that you walked away from me.
Because of your words, I improved. I worked hard to impress you, and when it didn’t, I told myself, “I’ve got to work harder.” My standards rose; every day I played football as if it was my last day on earth, and I learned to accomplish my goals that I had set. It was due to you, my dear Loranne, that I rose to the top.
I learned to set goals, and I learned to have enough discipline to accomplish them. I learned to read actively, write well (better than my incomprehensible B- writing), and I learned to play the best football I could; because I knew that every time you passed the field, you’d glance quickly and almost invisibly—but I saw you, because I’d always see you when you walked by. You could say that through this all, my love for you increased.
It was half a year later when I asked you again. I said, “Loranne, I’m not the same person I used to be. I’ve improved. My average is As to A+s now, and discovered that I actually like science, and that I can play football better than I knew before, and—“
And do you remember what you said? You said, “I know.”
We became boyfriend and girlfriend that day. I wasn’t trying to impress you from then on; I’d also learned that if you want the way to a girl’s heart, you have to first impress them, and then love them.
I spent hours upon hours thinking of you. I can remember the many times where a sheet of homework took an hour to finish, because my mind was always on a certain someone. My friends complained that I never spent any time with them, because I was always either thinking of you or on a date with you. We dated a lot.
High school years came and went, and I learned that we had been admitted into two different but top schools. It was a bittersweet time for me: you and I would be separated, but we would also be able to pursue our individual interests. For me, science. For you, writing. But we stayed in touch a lot, remember? I think I must have written ten letters the first week of college. All to you. I don’t remember sending them all, but you knew how much I missed you anyway. You sent me a letter, a single letter which I’ll cherish forever, and it wasn’t long but what was unsaid spoke more to me than your words. “I miss you”, right? We both missed each other.
And then I got that letter.
Middle of my sophmore year, I received a letter informing me of your death. It was the worst letter I've ever gotten. I remember opening it with eagerness, because almost all of my letters came from you, but instead of your neat, tiny handwriting, I saw a typed letter with cold, detached words which said that you--you, Loranne--were dead. At first I didn't believe it, but as I continued to read, I realized that this was no joke. Apparently some drunk driver had crashed into your car, and you and some of your friends careened off of the side of the road and into a gorge on the side. It was then that I began to cry hysterically.
I didn't sleep that night, nor the next few days. For the next week, I drifted through life, still reeling from the shock, and quickly declined. I can't even express how devastated I felt. That news shattered my heart into a thousand pieces of ice, and I numbly watched days go by from behind a glass window. My grades fell. I stopped playing football. And I rarely smiled.
It wasn't until some friends convinced me to move on with my life that I began to live again. But I'm still not fully recovered, you know? Hadn't we been each others' handrails? Supporting the other when we stumbled? Why did you have to die, then? What would be my life, then? You were my life, my whole being! How am I supposed to move on without you?
I still don't know the answers to those questions. You've always been my handrail--supporting me when I was weak. And I've tried to be yours. You know how much I love you.
I guess that just, your grip wasn't tight enough...
Love,
Terrence
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