A work of fiction, the art of expression is one that I can no longer successfully accomplish. The sojourn that is my life has led me to an existence has led me to a reality that relies on the ability to bluntly express what I think is. A fictional piece requires the author to search his imagination and with flowery diction and descriptive interpretation convey a picture –often on that is mobile. I now only know how to state is. An actor never lies. He simply states someone else’s reality. If the person is a work of fiction, that does not make his reality any more of less real. But you, my dear loyal reader, have not asked for my dissertation on life and the art of telling lies acting. You have asked for a story, and a story, as poorly written as you will think it is conveyed, is what will follow.
This obviously isn't the entire first prolouge and first chapter... it's just the portion I decided to post today.
His honey-kissed chestnut eyes stared at me through the glass. The rhythmic air from his flaring nostrils and gaping mouth fogged the window in a melodic sequence. His palm peeled away slowly as he turned to face forward, in order to avoid letting me see his eyes say goodbye. I knew that the day would one day come when Koren would look at me, and without words, tell me goodbye. The day was always, as I envisioned in my mind, tomorrow. Today tomorrow made its premature arrival. We would not have another chance to play Little Sally Walker or Down by the River. He would never again call me up to the tree house that we begged my father to help us build. We would never again ride the roller coaster in the theme park that we affectionately named chez-deux. That theme park has long since been demolished and as Koren’s train faded into that black hole of a tunnel, I felt as though my world was crumbling around me.
We never had an argument. Not one. He knew all of my secrets; I, his. When he lost his virginity, the only person who knew before me was old what’s her face. When my mother’s covert operation turned fatal, he would not trust anyone else with the delivering the news to me. Ours was the epitome of an intimate relationship. We’d told each other secrets in dark corners, knowing that the other would forever be the keeper of those cognitions. Judgment was nonexistent in our realm. Never judged—no matter what. In a few hours, my secrets will be seemingly light years away, and his will stay here, with the undeniable faith that none will ever be divulged.
Sydnei placed her cordless telephone on the charger that she’d finally made time to plug in. “Ash, I know you aren’t there. I just called to tell you that I made it. It rained full blitzes and hail Mary’s the whole way, so it took me an extra hour, but… oh I know you hate when I leave these long messages on your answering machine, so call me I’ll tell you all about the drive. I miss you already. Love you for life.” The date and time on the phone blinked 01/01/00 12:02. She had called a week in advance to have her telephone, water and lights ready for her arrival. As she put the phone down, she looked across her barren apartment and realized that her four-hour-drive from
While Sydnei would have enjoyed nothing more than to begin unpacking the things she felt would make her new place her own—at least her prized collection of compact discs—she knew that extra hour on the road had cut into her schedule. She tossed her cash, lipstick, ID and keys, into her Mary Rambin C.L.I.C.K bag; grabbed her guitar and headed back out into the rain.