Character-Driven Short Story

Another assignment I did last semester for creative writing.

Based on my actual friend Shelby/times with Shelby.
Pics are of her.

Not the Car

Shelby never wears anything but dresses and skirts, and her elegant feet are always trapped vertically and contorted in her beloved high heels. She prefers to drive in heels. She does everything in heels. She has a habit of constantly tapping the heel of her shoe whenever she is on tile, confirming with each tiny ding that these shoes were far more expensive than yours. Her platinum blonde hair is never up, just down, rolling to her chest in soft waves, or jetting straight down her back, depending on her mood.

She stands tapping her heels at the Starbucks counter inside Barnes and Noble. I’m there too. I’m Shelby’s friend. Against all odds, I might add, because Shelby is everything I’m not. I’ve been at Barnes and Noble waiting for her to show up. By the looks she’s getting, I guess I’m not the only one happy to see her. She’s too busy chatting up the barista as he makes her latte that she’s forgotten she’s tapping her heels again. I consider telling her to stop, but I suddenly don’t feel worthy of approaching her. I’m saving the table. Her boyfriend Sean stands next to her in his white suit, the one she told him would match her dress perfectly for this outing. Standing next to Shelby, even in Barnes and Noble, makes you feel like you’ve been invited to a dinner party and forgotten to dress up.

She continues to talk to the barista. She talks with every stranger like this, perfectly timing a perfect conversation, oblivious to her ability to make his day just by discussing a book.

“I love that author,” she says to him, “His commentaries on existentialism fascinate me.”

But no one, not even her boyfriend Sean in all his white-suited glory has the heart to tell her. But everyone knows that no one is really listening to her, only trying to look down the v-neck of her dress. This tall barista succeeds easily.

You don’t have to go into Shelby’s closet to know that she spends an awful lot of time and money on her undergarments. She’s the kind of girl who not only lives at Victoria’s Secret, but Victoria herself probably whispered her secret into Shelby’s ear. Because it’s obvious that Shelby knows something that we don’t. Namely, how to glide through life on torturous shoes and still smile without getting red lipstick on her teeth.

I’m still waiting for her so I watch the barista guy smile like he has a clue what she’s talking about. But my guess is—he’s really thinking about what’s underneath her dress and rhinestone bra. Several images probably cross his mind but none will include a 143 IQ. But that is what’s hidden under Shelby’s sparkly lingerie, pink dresses and gold jewelry.

Shelby was named after the car that her dad was obsessed with when she was born. And like the GT Mustang, she has been an object of lust in the eyes of all men. Those fortunate enough to get behind the wheel are often too rich for their own good. Just like Sean. She’s kept him around for eight months because he’s a good accessory.

Shelby and I played Barbies as kids. She played the brand new, evening-gown blonde. I played the brunette whose hair had been scissored to the skull and whose face had teeth marks from the dog. As a consolation prize, she gave me a Ken doll. After all, hers didn’t need one. Even then she explained to me, “Barbie never needed Ken.”

“But who was going to stand next to her in a matching outfit each time she saved the world?” I wondered. Sean is her Ken doll at the bottom of the toy box. She doesn’t care for him. She’s even, on occasion, tried to hook me up with him, much to my repulsion. But his tie matches her Prada bag, so she’ll dig him out when there’s a party.

At the end of the day, she would much rather be with someone like the guy at Starbucks. Someone into music, who wears square glasses and has an antiestablishment plan to revive the hippie culture. That’s Shelby’s dream guy, the one she talks about when I’m sleeping over and we’ve run out of things to say while staring at her ceiling in bed. That’s always been Shelby’s dream guy. They never made a Ken doll with shabby hair and a tye-dye t-shirt.

I bet right now she’s imagining Mr. Barista in tye-dye. She is imagining him and her running off to Africa to cure AIDS orphans. She has this obvious, contagious, love for humanity.

So Shelby talks to everyone. And she thinks everyone takes her seriously. She thinks she can tell them she’s on the Dean’s List at medical school and they’ll believe her. Worst of all, she thinks the renegade latte boy has pure intentions. So she flirts at the counter, tapping her high heel on the tile floor. But the latte boy only sees a Mustang GT with Sean, the lucky owner.

Shelby leaves behind a cloud of exhaust that he must choke on while he watches her peel out his sight.

Shelby doesn’t realize that she is a classic. She doesn’t know she’s a ’65 model with standard Koni shock and an engine painted black. All she knows is how much she’s worth.

But Shelby is not the car. Shelby is the intelligent nursing intern. She is the friend who drives to the airport at 2am, without complaining, to pick me up. She is the daughter who stuck around to help her mom and dad. She is the brain surgeon who settled for being a trophy girlfriend.

But to me, most importantly, she is the friend that grasped my hand and whimpered as she got her sexy tattoos. She is the little girl who didn’t want her evening-gown Barbie to get married. She is the friend whom I have seen without any makeup.

And I know that even though she doesn’t mind being the car, she is, most definitely, not the car.

A Lie Is Like

Ok so I just wanted to tell a funny story that happened yesterday when I was in Vegas with my parents.

We were going to a clinic on Tuesday morning, so after checking out of the Mandalay Bay Hotel :), we had breakfast at a McDonalds. It was only 7am or so, and the only other people in there besides the 3 of us were 2 old men. One was considerably older.

I went to the bathroom after ordering and when I came out and began to sit with my parents, I hear the considerably older man say "....and she has on a negligee and is all horny. and this guy is like 'oh no i'm (bad word!)"

And I am just like oh my gosh.
AWKWARD.
slash weird.

But it gets better. The older old guy then starts lecturing the other guy. My parents and I are basically forced to listen. And we're trying not to laugh. My dad whispers, "I guess there's some drama going on this morning..."
From what I could gather, the younger old guy wants to buy a boat, and his wife is against it. His buying the boat could end the marriage. So he's thinking of just buying it and hiding it so she won't know. (Genius plan, by the way. If it's a bathtub boat.)

But the older guy, in his scratchy, old man voice, starts telling him why it's bad to lie.
However, he does so to the tune of ridiculous comparisons and every cliche in the book.

Example: He says, "A lie is like a (insert stupid inanimate object here) (insert far-fetched connection here.)"

Some of my favorites were: "A lie is like a stop sign. You can look at it and stop, or you can choose to ignore it and go out into the intersection and get t-boned!"

"A lie is like a bear trap. You can play on it, but eventually it's gonna slam shut on your leg."

and the ever-relevant: "a lie is like a boat with no water under it." I can't remember how he explained it but it was absurd.

His cliches were equally entertaining:
"Once you tell one lie you have to tell another."
"When you tell the truth, you don't have to remember what you said."
"The truth will find you. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but it will find you!"
"When you tell a lie, you dig yourself a little deeper."

Unfortunately, we had to leave before his lecture was over and we didn't find out if this other guy had changed his mind.

But when we got in the car, my parents and I were just rolling our eyes and laughing at that guy.

My dad started mocking him and in an old man's voice was saying, "You gotta rob Peter to pay Paul. A lie is like a cell phone. If you flip it open, you gotta answer it....unless you hang up. But lying is like hanging up because you can't face the truth."

It was funny.


Oh and we had a lovely 1 1/2 days in Las Vegas. It was not crowded at all---yay bad economy :)
We got to shop and look at the cool hotels. The 3 of us never really hang out. When I was a kid I always wanted to be an only child. :) I mean now, of course I couldn't live without the other kids but it was cool to pretend for a while.

Latest Writing

Ok so my writing instructor for my independent study is helping me make a lot of summaries and excerpts to send to magazines.

NOTE- it's not the whole story, obviously. It is an excerpt, and then a summary.



I can't think of a title yet, so if any of you can think of anything, let me know. Feedback is needed as well. Thanks!






He pressed her up against the locker and kissed her once more before the bell rang, grabbing a handful of her spiraling brown hair. They pulled apart in time for the crowds that came bursting out of their classroom doors. Soon, they were walking separate directions, caught in the sea of all the other members of Walsh High School. After school, she pulled him aside.
“Ander,” she whispered harshly, “that was close. We can’t make out in the halls. I’m going out with Jameson.”
“You’ll be in science class tomorrow, right?”
She smiled. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
When science class rolled around the next day, Daphne smiled at Ander at her desk. When the other students filed in, they broke their gaze.
“Daphne?”
She looked up. “Yes Mr. Garrison?”
“Can you please read page twenty-two?”
She nodded. Twenty two. His age. “Mr. Garrison” was still much easier to say than Ander, even after two months, she decided.

“I should have never taken a job in a small town,” he tells himself continuously. As the new Physics teacher, twenty-two year old Ander Garrison from New Jersey was not prepared for the Southern-Baptists, Neo-Nazis and scandalous affairs in Trembles, Alabama. Nor was he prepared for a student with the intelligence and beauty of senior, Daphne Borrows. After witnessing Daphne’s abusive relationship with her quarterback boyfriend, Ander’s advice and comfort turn to something more.

Daphne has never seen anyone like Ander before. His blonde hair and crystal blue eyes are something only the movies have. In his classroom and in his arms, Daphne finds a trust she’s never experienced. Something about Ander is pure and genuine.

The two begin a secret, fearful affair in a town where secrets are deadly.

Does love have laws? Can a school, a town, prohibit an adult student from dating a teacher? Can a man’s love cost him his job? His reputation?

Justified?

Riding public transportation for a semester+ has given me a lot of grief, despite it's convenience.

Normally, the light rail is a marvelous place for people watching. Sometimes, though, I am outraged by what I see.

Well...one particular thing outrages me.

Sometimes the light rail is PACKED. During rush hour and such. And there are people who have to stand in the aisles and hang on to the bars and handles and such.

Standing isn't what bothers me. At least not in and of itself.

What bothers me is that on the packed light rail, men are sitting while women are standing.
In my world, that would never happen.
In my world, every man would give up his seat until there were no more women standing.

I will always teach my sons to do this.

No, I don't think women are weak and need to be seated. I just think that the principle of the matter is that women having "equality" has taken them off their pedestal. Christian men--you CANNOT let this happen!

A little hope came back to me the other day.

A young, 8 foot tall muscular guy with tattoos and a bandanna was standing and holding the handle above him. A girl around my age was standing in front of him, holding onto a handle too.
The guy leans forward to the guys in the seat. He says, "Hey, can I ask you guys something kinda crazy?"
They look up.
He says, "can one of you give your seat to this young lady? She has a foot cast on."

A GIRL in a FOOT CAST and she was standing.
One guy did stand up and apologize and let her have his seat.
So that was cool.

But the girl seemed so surprised--too surprised. That was discouraging because women in our culture have adapted to being treated "equally."

Women SHOULD be treated differently! I wish people would stop thinking chivalry is sexist. Women contribute to this idea. We as women need to EXPECT to be put on a pedestal.

Men: be chivalrous.
Women: expect and embrace chivalry.
Parents: teach your sons chivalry and teach your daughters what to expect.

As the hot guy on the light rail proved, there are still people out there doing the right thing.

Bonita Hermosa Linda

"Having a beautiful mother is like having a famous mother. If you're going to survive, you have to make your own way."

I read that quote in Vogue. I can't remember who wrote the article, but it was great, and one of the few times I actually related to that magazine. haha.

My mother, for most of my life, has always been on the attractive side.
I remember when I was in Kindergarten. I was on the bus, and the bus was pulling up to the stop. My mom was waiting for me there in the car.
My friend named Emily said "is that your big sister?"
and I said "no, that's my mom."
And Emily said "tell her I think she's very pretty."

I don't know why, but I never forgot that day. I told my mom as soon as I got in the car. I don't remember how she took the compliment, but I do remember that I began taking a lot of pride in my mom's looks.

I was in Kindergarten, so she was around 22. And so she was stunning at that age, as most of us are. (Maybe myself excluded, though I have a couple years before I am 22, so I'll let you know. Maybe in 2 years my body will adhere to the dietary torture I've been putting it through and I too will be a hot mom.)

But the thing is, my mom's youth has always set her apart from all the other moms. And my mom's beauty has, I think, given people an excuse to like me.
I don't mean to sound like a martyr, but it's true. I see it with my brother too.
In any other case, I would not be liked by certain peers if I was not associated with my mom or my brother or my hot friends, hot sister, etc.
Something about being associated with someone beautiful gives you a consolation card.

I've always been captivated by beauty. Now that I am older, I constantly analyze how much better off good-looking people are. We try and look for exceptions, but we can't deny the majorities.


My roommate is a cosmetoligist and her goal is to "rid the world of what we call beauty." I love her perspective and how she sees things.

I guess my (lifelong) rhetorical questions are--how universal is beauty? I mean, do certain rules always apply? (young and thin seem to be the main ones)
What is it about physical appeal that is so...well...appealing?
Why did God give us the ability to discern who is pretty?
Or did we, over time, warp what "pretty" is?


One of my major novel ideas (still working on it, it'll be a LONG time) has a theme of beauty and how it helps (or hinders) people in life. Any comments/imput would greatly improve my story!

Short Story

Disclaimer: I wrote this in ten minutes.

The Factor

Determining factors. That’s what the psychologist keeps talking about on the stand. In polite, big-worded terms, she’s trying to tell them why I did what I did. I appreciate her trying, but as she’s said in our sessions, the mental illness argument is weak on my part. I could have lied and pretended to be traumatized by some oppressed memory, but why bother? I am seventeen and on trial for murder.

I wish my lawyer and the other lawyer and the judge would stop calling me Mr. Jacobson. They don’t need to kid themselves. The whole reason this thing is such a mess is because I am a kid. I am a kid who murdered a kid. And since I’m a kid, they don’t know what to do with me now. They only talk about factors that would provide an explanation for my actions. I feel like I’m in a boring class. They’re never going to reach a conclusion. I keep taking a drink from my water glass because I’m pretty sure this is going to be the last time I have pure water. I want to look at my mother. I want to turn around. She bought me this tie. She has a right to see it on me.

The defense still has nothing. And why should they? I am not angry. I did not have an abusive home life. I am not unpopular or picked on. I have both parents at home and they love each other. They love me. I am not neglected. I do not have a reason to seek revenge. I am not from a poor environment. I do not have a history of torturing animals. I am not caught in an unrequited love triangle. I’m not gay or depressed or hiding some emotional secret. I am not insane. I know the difference between right and wrong.

In the musical Wicked, Glinda asks, “Are people born wicked? Or do they have wickedness thrust upon them?”

The fact that I am a teenage boy who watches musicals should have ruled out any chance for me to be a murderer. But it didn’t, because we are still sitting here. I am listening to everyone talk about me and for me. I am not going to testify because my lawyer thought “it would not be the best choice.” He’s probably right. Even I can’t give a reason. If I’m not angry or mentally ill or in love or abused or any of that—then why? Why did I kill my friend, my classmate? Why did I slit his throat with a knife and then hold him down under water until he went limp? Why am I sitting here waiting to see what happens next?

Only one person during this long process gave us a reason, and that was Father Morrison. He’s a priest who oh-so-fortunately forgave me for my sin. And he told my parents—my lost, desperate, mourning, conservative, suburban parents that there is only one true reason why there is evil, and that is Satan.

Unfortunately, the Satan defense doesn’t stand up too well in a court of law. In a system that makes one swear on a Bible before testifying, bringing up an evil realm is simply not acceptable. So help me God.

But after looking over how perfect and normal I really am, everyone would be quick to blame something unseen. And even if that factor was acceptable, even if the devil did make me do it, that doesn’t change anything. Because I did do it. And I’m still waiting for them to just get it over with so I can go to the bathroom. Of course I’m going to jail but can they just make a stop on the way? I’ve had almost six glasses of water in here.

I wish they’d stop wondering why I did it. I wish I could go on the stand and tell them all, “I don’t know. I just did it.” And I would look at John’s family and tell them I’m sorry. I’d apologize to my parents, my lawyer, the jury, and the world for burdening them. And I’d go to juvy honorably. But I’m not allowed to say anything. My testimony can hurt the case, a lost cause as it is.

Finally, the jury has reached a verdict. I have to stand up. All of a sudden, time has flown. I no longer need to pee. I just want them to keep talking, to delay this all. I see Father Morrison out of the corner of my eye. But he’s on the other side—the prosecuting side. My heart beats faster. I forget about the jury for a while. I begin to wonder why Father Morrison is over there. Did he accidentally sit on that side? Surely it’s not hard to tell which is which. Was there no room on my side? Ha! Yeah right. No one came to support me. Maybe it’s like a wedding. When you are friends with both the bride and the groom, so you just pick a side and it doesn’t really matter. You pick the person you’ve known the longest. Father Morrison is probably just trying to stay on God’s good side, even though he has friends in low places. He’ll sit with God today, and then take Satan out for a beer tonight.

I’ve missed the long charge that they’ve repeated. All I hear is “guilty.” My mom starts crying as the judge orders something new. I can turn around now. But I can’t look at my mom. So I look at Father Morrison. He’s smiling. He’s hugging the relieved parents’ of John and he’s smiling.

As the cops take me out of the courtroom, I lock eyes with Father Morrison. The man who had a determining factor for my actions. The man who told me I’m forgiven. And he’s smiling.

"We can't know..."

I'm reading a book right now called "Life of Pi: A Novel" by Yann Martel. (You should read it if you get a chance.)

Here's a quote that really captivated me.

"I'll be honest about it. It is not atheists who get stuck in my craw, but agnostics. Doubt is useful for a while. We must all pass through the garden of Gethsemane. If Christ played with doubt, so must we. If Christ spent an anguished night in prayer, if He burst out from the Cross, "My God My God, why have you forsaken me?"then surely we are also permitted doubt. But we must move on. To choose doubt as a philosophy of life is akin to choosing immobility as a means of transportation."

Read it a few times if you have to.
But it made me smile so much. Because I am in a religious studies class, heck, I'm in a school filled with agnostics. And the biggest problem I have with agnostics is that they are content to "not know."

Agnostics are okay with being on the fence, even though it would take the pain off of their butts to just jump down to one side.

When we choose apathy, when we stop searching, when we settle for the untrue, overused cliche that "there are things we may never know," we stop growing.

I believe that God can be proved.
I believe he can be proven scientifically, spiritually, intellectually, even physically.

Do I believe that he can be proven in an hour-long TV special by Kirk Cameron?
Maybe.

I, for one, see agnostics as people who are too smart to be atheists, but too happy with living for themselves to give in and admit there is a God.

Agnosticism is very trendy these days.

We must be careful not to endorse agnosticism as a religion or a philosophy. It is a personal choice to stand back and "see what happens." It is a tragic belief that a creator wants nothing to do with us personally.

Maybe if we start making up our minds, life would be more abundant.

Maybe if we realize that we can know the mysteries, science and religion would make amends.

Maybe it's time to stop settling.