The following short story is recommended for a mature audience only.
I sat in the strange little box and waited. This was my parents idea because I was not the ideal child they had always dreamed me to be, the perfect reflection of themselves, gleaming with awards and trophies, stepping towards my career as a doctor or lawyer. Instead, to them I was in the gutter, slinking towards a future at McDonald’s if I was lucky.
“What are your troubles my child” a voice said through a thatched divider in another small box. I was not religious and the fact that I was being forced into confession seemed highly contradictory. It seemed so cliché that the youth in trouble is thrust towards the religious saviour, that God or a divine light is going to fix all the problems, and possibly take away my hormones.
“Well, I guess to put it very plainly, I had sex.”
I could hear the voice contemplating what was the right thing to say, and I was trying very hard to hold back growls of laughter, realising this would be more embarrassing for him, really.
“Go on” he finally said in a wavering tone.
“I guess it wasn’t just the fact that I had sex, it was due to the fact that it was at school and someone caught us and filmed it. Then after the whole school had seen it, so did the staff, the principle and then it was reported to my parents, which I really hope they didn’t watch.”
I wasn’t sure at the reaction I would get, but he gasped, literally. Maybe he had a photographic memory and it was the mental image that scared him the most. It wasn’t something that I was proud of, who wants to have their private moments broadcast to everyone you know, I guess if you have a career in the pornography industry that is different. It could have been my ticket into that world, but I did not want to, and although I wasn’t wishing I could take back what happened I was still embarrassed. Maybe it was the constant yelling of my mother telling me I was filthy and unclean and was going to burn in hell.
I sat in silence in the small little box. Not sure what I was supposed to say, and if he was still even there or had died of shock.
“Why?” was all he said.
“Because I wanted too. Haven’t you ever felt a desire, okay maybe a bad example. Haven’t you ever really wanted to or felt compelled to do something?”
“Young lady, there are things in life that God grants us, and there are those gifts that we should wait for and savour.”
I thought about this for a while. If I did not believe in God then how could the normal rules apply. Especially when I looked at the human race as beings in a constant search for pleasure and fun. I guess I should just get this over with quickly and drop the big bomb.
“I was pregnant as well, and had to have an abortion. My parents don’t know that part, but I guess they fear something like that could have happened and want me to be cleaned, cleansed and sins forgiven, do you think that could be done, at least just for their peace of mind?”
I heard the door to the little box open, I was sitting alone in my own little world. Just me and God, no middle man to receive the transmission.
I have been wanting to write a book for over ten years and I will admit that I am disappointed that I haven’t made a huge amount of effort in that time to make it a reality. I am going to change that. I found that previously I always had an excuse for why I hadn’t worked on it; lack of inspiration, needing to practice more, scared of how to actually go about doing it, etc. I could continue to create a million more reasons to block myself, but if I want to really following my dream of being published again and having my own book it’s time to be serious.
I am creating a children’s book. It has two primary characters a boy and his toy giraffe. The book explores how we use imagination and how as we get older we also loose it. Rather then create just a simple story that is light and fluffy I want to try and create something that has a deeper voice, perhaps with a greater moral visibility.
So far in the process I have created the first written draft of the structure of the story as well as began creating the rough ideas for what the boy character will look like. Once I have created several more drafts I will then began setting out the style of the book and organising for an ISBN and publication. There will certainly be a physical book but I am considering an eBook version as well, which I would have to research into a bit to find out the structure (but will not use excuses).
I am excited about this because I am finally allowing myself to move forward.
Have you ever created your own book?
Have you ever wanted to create a book but been confused as well?
I am currently studying intimacy and dating on the internet. While my University work requires that I think about this topic critically, I wanted to post on my blog a creative response to this via poetry!
Meet me on the Internet Cafe
Look at us out there existing
two souls tangled
between virtual woe
can we converse, trust
backup the tale we have sold
Will our true personality
become a placement
for more intimate feelings to devolve
Are we absent again
in this man made universe
everything we have owned
Is there a time limit on reflections
archived, rewritten or saved
does my digital shadow follow me
or like Peter Pan’s become displaced
Distance is no enemy
compressed to 1s and 0s
everything a cell
living, breathing, alone
Can we commute again
with confidence and decorum
will my status be updated
to lease or for hire
will I be again walking
on this expanding
Little bird, little bird
What are you trying to say
Are your wings tied
Your feet tangled
In a mess of gloomy grey.
Little bird, little bird
What song are you trying to sing
Does it have lyrics
Or is it a wordless hymn.
Little bird, little bird
Why do you fly away
Will I see you again
My window is open
Waiting for that day.
For Writing Sunday I will be writing a poem inspired by the image below that was found using the search word Artist on istockphoto.com! I need to write more, I annoy myself that I love it so much, yet do so little. The less I do, the worse I become with using language. *kickstarts the pen*
I am the artist
the one who observes the world.
I remain hidden
misunderstood and obscured.
Is there fate in darkness
under the veil of a wicked spell
tormented, beaten and skinned.
Has my mask fallen
who is waiting inside
the figure does not matter
to these blind eyes?