PRACTICE
Write about leaving (e.g. a young adult leaving for college, a wife leaving her abusive husband, a writer leaving for a great trip).
Write for fifteen minutes. When you're finished, post your practice in the comments section. And if you post, please be sure to leave feedback for your fellow writers.
Photo by Adrien Sifre (Creative Commons)
Today, I'm leaving for Paris. From the bottom of my heart, thank you to all of you who supported my Kickstarter project. It was funded successfully last night. We would have gone to Paris anyway, but you enabled me to write something I'm passionate about. Thank you for helping me be a writer. The next time we talk, we'll be in Paris!
Here's my practice:
The leaving is unglamorous. The smell of bleach from cleaning the bathroom, the kitchen. The gritty way your clothes feel on your skin after rushing from task to task: Target—check. Dry cleaners—check. Bank—check. I save packing for last so my hanging clothes don't get as wrinkled.
I wonder if Hemingway was stressed before he went on one of his thousands of trips? Did he get stressed by details? Or did he float seemingly on a cloud of literary ease? Do you think he got constipated while he traveled, too?
Let's agree to zen-like peace from now on. The trip starts now, this moment. In fact, we aren't leaving. We've already left. Let's agree to take everything in, to let it change us as deep as it may, the religion of the road. All the work is done now (whether it is or isn't). Now is the time to watch life unfold.
I imagine how the road will be. Wide, the sunlight golden as we saunter toward Atlanta going 75. Hartsfield-Jackson is pleasant enough on a Friday early in the afternoon. We board. We have a seat empty between us where Mars can sit. When we arrive it will be midnight our time but dawn there. We will have coffee and a warm croissant. Mars will sleep on my shoulder.
I'm ready. It's time. Let's go.
Bon Voyage!
Have a great time!
The checklist is so clear in my mind now; no need to write anything out, barely a need to run through the list in my mind before I begin. My hands and feet know exactly where to move to find each article of clothing, every piece of gear. My bed becomes my staging area. And slowly, the surface of my queen bed gets filled. Each stack unto its own category- workout pants and shorts in one, workout tanks and tees in another, beside those you’ll find long sleeve thermal shirts and a few sweatshirts, to the left a stack of long underwear bottoms. And then we get into my lifestyle clothes: always at least one pair of jeans, and a dressier pair of pants, but leggings have taken over a leading roll and of course the mandatory tall boots that go with them. Sweaters and a few dressier tanks with accompanying cover-ups, it’s winter after all, make up the remainder. It’s been 13 years of this. 13 years of packing a few weeks worth of gear, filling my bags with hopes and dreams, expectations for the days to come, the results to hopefully ensue. Somewhere, time elapsed, somehow the little girl that started this journey at 14 is now a full-grown woman. Parts of me feel that I’ve aged little and parts feel that an entire lifetime has gone on. But here I am again, ready to leave, to venture out, fear tamed, but alive, tugging at my heart, pleading now that perhaps I stay. But I can’t stay. There is still more out there for me to have, there is still fight left in my 27 year-old heart, so I push aside the thoughts of the aspects of my life that haven’t been filled. The empty place in my heart for the man of my dreams and I fill it instead with what I have yet to do on my skis. Someday this will get old. Someday I will be old. But for now, it’s time to go.
Organized, excited, reflective, restless, lonely, hopeful. Lots going on in just a few words. I can relate to bed-as-staging-area. I like the character’s reflection on how the passing of time has affected her.
“Someday this will get old. Someday I will be old. But for now, it’s time to go.” that’s great!
Antonio feels sad because he has to tell the people he loves that he’s leaving Argentina, and going to America. Antonio feels heavyhearted because he has to tell the people he loves, and who rely on him for their livelihoods that he’s leaving Argentina, and going to America. He has to make a change. They will resist. They will try to talk him out of it.
They will say that leaving will not make it easier. He will feel the same pain, the same loss, maybe more. They all lost her two years ago. They all miss her – a father, a brother, a husband.
The father-in-law and the brother-in-law will bring up the global economic depression already in it’s third year, and that he probably has it much better in Argentina than he will in America. He owns a shop, has a job, has family.
They will persist. With what money, they will ask. He will tell them that he is selling his carpenter’s shop. He will offer it to them as a courtesy as he knows that they can not afford to buy him out. Not today, anyway.
They will insist that he wait, that now is not a good time. But he already sold his shop, already has the money, already has his plane ticket.
His house is also sold, and no longer belongs to him. His suitcase is packed, hidden in a back room. Three wool suits, three cotton white shirts, three ties, and a few other personal items. Another case holds a few select carpentry tools that he cannot part with. He’ll also be taking the carved mate gourd that they are passing around now, sitting in his almost bare kitchen, and listening to Carlos Gardel on the radio.
The gourd is special. He carved it for her. It has the sun and the moon, the stars and the sky. When he holds the warm bulb he feels as if he is holding her warm hand.
His father-in-law and brother-in-law will feel offended and betrayed. They both have tempers, and he feels a little afraid. But he will drink the last mate, and then say goodbye.
He goes to the back room, gets his cases, and leaves them in a stranger’s kitchen with Gardel singing “Adios Muchachos” on the radio.
Really like this. The tone is so evident and the voice, to me anyway, is one I could stick with for a while.
Great writing, very understated emotion. The more you read this story, the more it reveals. Thanks for sharing it.
The door shut in the same way it always did. The same metal clink, and the same whine as the wood scraped against its lopsided frame. The keys felt the same way in my hand —sharp and cool and heavy. The blue Honda started with the same sputter, and the path down the driveway was so ingrained in mind that I didn’t even have to look to avoid the trashcans still out, now horizontal thanks to the wind.
The highway was empty at this hour of the morning, just like I’d knew it’d be. Just like always. My eyes hadn’t changed as they took in the brilliance of the frozen sunrise, and my hands hadn’t changed as they clutched the chilled steering wheel. My knuckles were still pointed and hands still arranged at ten and two. I still sat too far up in my seat, and I still preferred NPR, even after all your protests.
Everything was exactly the same, and perhaps that was the great tragedy of it all. That hope left no noticeable mark, and that she made no great exit when it came time to leave. There would be no grand exit for me either. There would be no last words or great to do—that’d never been our style. Even that hadn’t changed, after all these years.
Perhaps that was why this tragedy seemed so much less Shakespearean. That after all the years and months and minutes, you hadn’t changed either. Not even a little. Not at all.
And if I thought anything would change when I finally left, I was wrong.
Nice work. I enjoyed the way you reflected on your habitual way of being and wove this into a story of leaving your love. Realising, it seems,that something’s we can never leave.
Somehow it felt to me that perhaps a series of ‘leaving’ relationships has at last made you realise we are all so very habit driven ( even in the seat of our Honda) and you may be on the verge of making some changes.
A turning point; leaving as a time for deeper change.
Thanks for sharing.
It’s an experience I would never wish on my worst enemy. The not knowing if you are
going to live to see another day. The scanning of the parking lot to make sure
the person you are running from is not lurking around the area or near your
car. The looking over your shoulders, every time you are taking a walk, when
you are in the mall or at a restaurant. The constant feeling that someone is
watching you everywhere you go. The not so co-incidence of that person showing
up everywhere you are.
My ex-husband is stalking me. Stalking has been my life for the last eight years. I’m
on my forth restraining-order. It’s a part of my everyday existence. It’s
something I live with everyday.
I was told in the early stages of the stalking he was jumping my fence looking through my windows, checking my mail. Neighbors were concerned for my safety. I was not
approach directly, but the president of the association approached me to see
what was going on. I had no idea it had come to what he was telling me. My
anxiety level increase and the fear intensified. Will I live to see another
day?
To make matters worse, he bought a house in the back of my neighborhood. Yes, he
purchased a house in the back of my neighborhood. Each time I see his car I
panic and fear creeps up within my soul. The not knowing is constantly in my
mind. No one should have to live their lives this way.
So it seems that only one of you actually left!
This feels like a prologue for a story that could trace what it really takes to leave someone. The anguish, fear and final resolution to leave everything that you know and are familiar with. To move on to a different place. To be propelled in to a bigger life changing story of ‘leaving’.
Thanks for sharing.
He opened his eyes to see the sun peaking in the window .It was the start of a new day. A day they have been dreading for a time now. He could feel the familiar weight on his chest, but something was different. There was a wetness; a pool of it. A bead of the cool moisture traced across his chest and fell to his side. He looked down to see his wife’s head across his chest. He suspected that she didn’t sleep at all the night prior, weeping.
She didn’t want him to go, but understood why he had to. This was something that he had to do. He kissed her on the top of her head; her black dreads covered him like black twines of rope. She looked up to speak, tears still in her eyes.
“Don’t beg me to stay,” he said cutting her off. “All we have here, is because of what I must do.”
“Just promise me you will fight to return to me,” she said. He looked her in her amber eyes and promised to return to her. His love. His wife. They embraced again. He moved to sit up on the side of the bed, his heart pounding in his chest. He had to prepare for what was to come. War. He mentally prepared what he would say to his men. He thought about the march. 3 days to the castle. However long to siege it and take it.
He was distracted by his wife walking across the room in the nude. “How can a man leave for war, when he has all the peace he needs at home,” he said with a smile.
“Because your king demands it,” she retorted.
He chuckled. He had said the same words to her before the last two battles. They still ring true. His king raised his war banners. He looked across the room. His armor lay on the floor, in need of a proper shinning. He ran his hand through his tight black curls. It may be months. It may be years. But this would be his final battle weather he died on the battlefield or not. He was too old, too broken to continue to live this young warrior’s lifestyle. A final debt to be paid less to a king, but more to the crown that he wore. The crown that gifted him his lands for his bravery in battle and made his blood now noble.
One. Last. Battle.
Definitely a good tension here. I have a feel for these two characters even with only a few paragraphs given
Oh wow, Thank you. To think this is just something that I thought up as I waited for my frappe at McDonalds, lol.
I want so much to know if he returns from this one last battle. I’m intrigued! Good stuff.
This morning has not gone as planned.
My alarm clock didn’t go off. I left the flat iron too close to my makeup, and everything melted together into one great big swirled mass. I couldn’t find the clothes I laid out last night– turns out, the dog took off with them and chewed them up. And I was up all night worrying, so thanks to the purple shadows under my eyes, I look like a raccoon.
What a wonderful first impression I’m going to make on everyone.
It’s all right. Everything will be fine. This is what Mommaw tells me as she packs my lunch of fried bologna.
I hate fried bologna. But Mommaw puts some Oreos in my lunch bag to make up for it when she sees the expression of disgust on my face.
Was this how Mama’s first day of high school was? She lived in this same house, went to the same school, ate the same weird food Mommaw cooks, and put up with the same badly behaved mutt. But in photos, she’s so calm and collected– how did she put up with this?
I step out the door and breathe in the cold air. It smells like rain and someone burning trash– a horrible combination, if you’ve ever smelled it before.
As Mommaw drives me to the elementary school where I am to catch the bus, she prattles on.
I listen with half my brain and worry with the other half.
I might as well be leaving for college, ‘cause that’s about as much as I’ll be home these next four years. We leave town at six in the morning and the bus brings us home by four thirty in the afternoon. For us mountain kids, our childhood is over after eighth grade. No more playing in the big field behind the little school or catching crawfish at lunchtime. We’re expected to act like adults now, ‘cause we’re on our own.
I don’t want to leave home. I want my ripped-up jeans and muddy boots. I want to stay here forever.
But I have to graduate high school, their dress code don’t allow ripped-up jeans or dirty shoes, and if I stay home forever Mommaw’ll drive me stir-crazy.
I see the other ten freshmen from my town on the bus. They’re just as nervous as me.
“I’m scared,” Maggie confides in me. I smile.
“Just wear our school colors with pride,” I tell her, looking around at the red and white all around us. Apparently, the others had had the same idea.
It’ll be all right, as Mommaw says. My friends and I will make it. After all, we have each other.
Leaving the freedom of youth. Scared about the new. And sometimes our fear manifests in such frustrating ways: melted make-up, chewed up clothes, sleepless night and raccoon eyes.
This was a great little story. Twixt between the old and the new. ‘Leaving’ as the platform between know and unknown.
Well done. Thanks for sharing.
I really dig the characters in your essay, and the whole build up of things. Initially your main character seems so alone as if she’s about to face the world all by herself for the first time. The fact that the mountain kids can find assurance in each other is kind of a nice twist.
The caged look written on Zevi’s face scared Nita a little. The piercing blue of his eyes-Siberian husky blue-against the shaggy blackness of his hair made her think of some wolf-dog hybrid. He was not pure wild, but there was enough wildness in his veins to surge up at once and make him revolt. Any time he felt restricted or confined, the loyal, relaxed Zevi she knew became a growling beast, warning her away.
“He’s not the kind of guy you tame,” her father had warned her. “He’s not going to sit there, blow kisses at you, and let you play with his hair. He was born free, and he will never let anyone change that.”
Nita had laughed. Why would she want to marry a guy so she could play with his hair? Now she felt like crying. Had her father said “Zev just doesn’t like to be touched in general,” it might have gotten through a little clearer. Sure, he wouldn’t stop her from running up to him and kissing him when he came home from work. But he would never do the same for her.
He stood aloof from her, the half wild one on the hill, watching the world and staking out his territory. He tolerated her, accepted her, and provided for her. But closer the date of their wedding approached, the more Nita felt that Zevi just didn’t love her.
“Do you love me?” she felt like asking. He would probably just throw her a strange, what-kind-of-a-question-is-that look and keep wearing down the carpet. Nita stared down at her engagement ring. It sparkled happily, utterly unconscious that it looked like a tear-filled prism.
Zevi stopped. He tilted his head to one side almost as if he was sniffing the direction of the wind like a real wolf. Slowly, he walked up to her. “Nita, I have some things I have to finish. They will take a while.”
“I know,” Nita said. “Don’t go fast for my sake. Finish what you need to finish the way you need to finish it.” She forced herself to say those words calmly, even though her soul throbbed inside. She looked straight into Zevi’s eyes. For a moment, he held her. He cupped the back of her neck with his hands and tucked her head under his chin. One deep, shuddering sigh passed through them both.
When he released her, the winter came. The flowers of hope that had begun to work their way out of the soil in the spring and that had bloomed through the summer and even held out during the autumn withered in the cold of isolation. Nita’s tears froze inside of her. But spring always comes again, no matter how long it takes.
Awesome description. I especially enjoyed the paragraph describing Zevi– it was vivid, like I could really see him.
There is so much you leave to my imagination with the vivid description of the writing. I sense Nita leaving Zevi a moment at a time in the writing. Awesome!
This is an excerpt from my most recent WIP. It’s about a teenager who comes out to his homophobic parents. Freaked out, they send him off to a healing camp:
The night before we left for camp, I stared at the huge suitcase plopped on my bed. If I had let mom help, we could have used a smaller one. She could fit a miraculous amount of clothes into a lunch bag. But I didn’t want her help, I just wanted to be alone. Besides, it would feel weird, her helping me get ready for the place I despised most. That would be like her preparing me for the gas chamber. So I packed by myself, throwing underwear, shorts, shirts, and socks across the room, trying to make them in the suitcase. I figured I might as well make a game of it.
When the suitcase was overflowing, I sat on it, yanked the zipper closed, and rolled off onto the bed. That’s when it really hit me: I was leaving. And my parents expected me to come back a different person. Would I? The thought was terrifying but, equally scary, was the alternative. If I didn’t change, would I have to fake it? Both options were so depressing, my lungs felt like they were being crushed, and I put my face in my hands.
That’s when I heard a tiny, hesitant knock at the door. I moaned; everyone was so tentative now.
“Go away,” I said.
The doorknob began turning.
“Go away,” I said, louder.
The door pushed open and Molly, my little sister, stood there. She was hugging her bag of stuffed M&Ms. It was the weirdest toy I’d ever seen, a giant bag stuffed with cloth candies. But she loved it. I admit it was so unique that I liked her for it (even if she could be annoying and throw them all over the floor when she got mad). Still, I didn’t want to see anyone.
“Did you hear me? Go!”
She flinched and stood, debating with herself. Then, like a snail, she inched into the room. Overall, Molly was a good sister. But, being the youngest, she was spoiled and always got her way. She liked to ignore people. I wasn’t in the mood.
“Molly!” I pointed at the door.
She reached the bed and dropped the M&M bag to climb up on the mattress. When she was on top, she turned sideways and laid her head in my lap without saying a word. I couldn’t take it. I began crying. It was mortifying – I had cried more the last couple weeks than in my entire life. Sensing my embarrassment, she closed her eyes and hugged my foot. Spoiled or not, she was the most receptive kid I’d ever seen. I put my hand on her head and kept crying.
When everything was out and my cries withered to heavy breathing, she got up as if nothing had happened, climbed off the bed, grabbed her stuffed toy, walked out of the room, and shut the door behind her. I stared at the door for a long time, hoping she wouldn’t change.
This is just awesome… the imminent sadness, the empathetic little sibling, I can relate to both characters just from this short excerpt. I love the gas chamber analogy. This is going to make for an excellent manuscript someday.
He left in the night, leaving a hollow void of melancholy in his place.
They told Ellie that he had gone away for an extended vacation to Hawaii
Where he had always wanted to go
But had never had the chance.
They told themselves that they should have seen it
Should have hugged him more
Could have stopped it
For no matter how often they were told
That the fault was not theirs
They saw his blood on their hands
And his cracked lips forming the words before he left for good
“If only they had loved me more”
It was a balmy summer night and as you would have it, the power was out. There had been storms all day, and the tiny town was wiped completely clean of all electricity. Everyone was sitting on their porch swings watching the sky change colors.
Except for me. My cellphone had not rung all day, despite the 15 calls and 9 voicemails I left him.
“What could he possibly be doing?” I wondered. Surely, he was not just sitting in the dark avoiding me.
“Maybe I should just get in my car and drive over there,” I thought, but I had a sneaking suspicion I didn’t need to do that.
Although it was only 7PM I laid in bed and closed my eyes. “Maybe he left his phone at work,” but inside I knew what was really happening.
In 7 days I would be leaving for college, and he would be doing the blue collar thing through the prime years of his life. I knew I was essentially leaving him behind, but I wasn’t ready to let go. Plus, it was to be my decision. Plus plus, we were having such a great summer together, or at least I imagined it that way.
I left behind my high school friends for him. I left behind my family in favor of sneaking around with him. I even left my shitty summer waitressing job because spending time with him was just so intoxicating.
I wasn’t going to leave my dreams of becoming a political analyst behind just to sit on his dusty old futon and watch reruns of the Sopranos, trying to make a go as a certified bartender. But on that day, where there was no power, and he drained me of the very last spark of hope I had for us succeeding, simply through avoiding my calls. I wanted to get in my car and beg him to reconsider. Instead, I fell asleep.
In the morning, it was solidified thanks to a mutual friend. He had left me before I had the chance to run away, and it was not satisfying or liberating at all. Instead, I spent the last week of my last summer as a high schooler wandering about, leaving no stone unturned, wondering where he really went.
A lot of leaving and more to come. Beautiful, and heartbreaking. It would be interesting to see what happens to the character after this.
LEAVE:
Let the boy stay if he must, but walk out of here with your own head and heart intact.
Every relationship has its impact, but this one is more on “his son” than on me “fellow parent”.
Advantage of having let others go gives me distance, but the boy has also farewelled his grandfather, so it is not all foreign territory.
Visas and passports ready – just awaiting that final phone call, funeral details – then…
Exit. Some more permanent than others. We, at least, will return – forever changed.
She walks out the door ahead of him, not looking back. He closes the door behind them, and just like that, they are gone. She is leaving to go on her first date. I resist the urge to look at them out the window, thinking it would somehow be intrusive of me to watch her leave. He seems like a nice boy, nervous to meet us, saying his rehearsed speech too fast. But that’s okay, he should be nervous. But this first date is just another step that she is taking, away from me. She is not reluctant to go, mind you, but I have been sensing a need in her lately, to not step away from me quite so fast.
On the snowy drive to school yesterday, during a conversation that covered university choices, funny teachers, travelling, open-minded parents, and living in Florida when we retire, she blurted out that she doesn’t want to leave us. Feeling that hot tears were about to surface, I smiled and said, Of course you don’t. You’re not ready to leave and live apart from us, you’re just seventeen. But one day you will want to live on your own. Just not now.
If you move to Florida when you retire, I’ll fly in to visit you once a month, she says.
And I believe her. Damn those tears blurring my vision as I drive…
Aww this made me smile. It was sweet and true. Nice job.
Thank you, Eliese 🙂
She left thirty years ago. Never did she imagine the future revisiting the past. But now here she is again, online, seeing old faces in vintage photos. The old faces look new again. She’s accumulated sentiments, events, luggage, memories separate from the life she knew. It’s hard to look back and not want to be there again. But she did leave. There were reasons to spread her wings. It was humid, all the time. The deep south was like a hot wet blanket over her chest, like vapor rub, but in reverse. She choked on its oppression. She needed to get away and discover another origin. She lies tossing and turning, seeking the face of Christ. “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.” What do I do? I need wisdom. Create in me a clean heart. Renew a right spirit within me. It is the first of the month and the mortgage is due. The fridge is harboring leftover science experiments, laundry, laundry, laundry. The gas tank needs filling, a suitcase to pack. She will leave again, and head to the beach, visit her son and daughter at college. In its timeliness, she hears provision, the grace to live in the present. Salt will lend its healing. Youth is here on this point on the timeline captured in the faces of her children, these creatures of that origin she sought. Sautéed seafood, and a walk on the beach. She’ll snap more photos of gnarly live oaks leaning with ocean wind. and there she can breathe again.
You showed the stresses of life well here. I might have helped if there were some spacing for the paragraphs. I also liked how the character was pleading to God.
Thanks Eliese. I was thinking I should use some line breaks, but it was before my coffee this morning. lol
You needed your coffee break before you could place the breaks! Nice 🙂 I understand the need for coffee first 🙂
It’s a tough choice. I pace back and forwards across the creaky boards on the lounge room floor. I chew my thumb nail, tap the back of the old leather couch, lean toward the coffee table.
Ten minutes to go. The taxi will be here soon. My bags are packed and ready at the front door. I still can’t decide. It’s meant to be a tech-free holiday. Seriously! How am I supposed to handle that? Well, we’ll see.
Headlights search through the window pane. A tinny hollow toot echoes from the driveway. I bite my lip. It’s time to go. The thought of a humming taxi meter adds edge to my indecision. I stomp to the front door. Upright and strong I declare to the pre-dawn quietness of the room ” I can do this.” I collect my case and on flight bag and pull open the heavy oak door. It groans in icey heaviness. I understand.
The taxi drivers cheesy almost toothless smile reminds me he is making money in the painful frame of my indecisiveness.
“I’m sorry.” I say
He says “It’ ok. It’s a gonna be a bewdiful day.”
I wince at his accent and the fog of tobacco breath.
He throws the humming can into first gear. I feel the fear welling up. He revs through to second. I clench my fist.
“Stop stop! We have to go back.”
“It’s a no problemo!” He smiles, leathery tanned and toothless in the rear vision mirror, and getting richer by the minute.
I run up the dawn dampened concrete steps, fumble with the keys at the creaking door, count my steps in the semi dark to the coffee table. I can see her gleaming in the not quite light. Silver, sexy, sleek. I pick her up. So cool to touch, so nice to hold. So snug. I slip her into the folds of my woollen jacket.
” I’m sorry baby.” I say, feeling better now, feeling warm on the inside.
I can leave for a holiday. In fact I can’t wait. But to leave with out my iPad. No! No! That would be a mistake.
I loved this! That was a good twist– he couldn’t leave his iPad. And at first I thought he was leaving a person because I didn’t read the beginning very carefully. 🙂
The joys of technology. Great job.
Ha! Technology – always wins. Can’t live with it – well, yes we can. Great!
Her mother didn’t want them there anymore. They reminded her too much of her incapacity to care for herself anymore. Her advanced age and end stage Emphysema had rendered her dependent of them as caregivers. It was a situation she resented and her daughter came to despise.
The cold snowy winter had left all of them with feelings of cabin fever. Three adults, an old arthritic dog and an overweight diabetic cat were living in a small house like sardines stuffed in a can. The situation was stifling.
The guilt between love and resentment was building with each passing week. Her daughter’s tears at times were indicative of a heart torn between wanting to leave and needing to stay. Her mother’s verbal abuse was becoming unbearable. Her words were like a knife piercing an already breaking heart. No mother should spew words of hatred towards a child no matter what age she may be.
Sounds like a start to a novel. The sardine comparison made me smile. Nice. 🙂
I definitely felt the pain as I read this short paragraph of inner struggle of being a failure, of needing more than was acceptable for a daughter to give her mother, and of a daughter longing to be loved by the one who birthed her. Thank you for sharing. Very well written.
This sounds so much like the true beginning of a memoir about taking care of the aged who’ve begun the decline into either dementia or Alzheimer’s. Very real, very effective. The adult parent becomes the parent to the adult, who is now the unbridled (and somewhat mean) teen. Spot on.
“It looks like I’m leaving”, I texted to my self! The winding, tree lined road ahead was coming fast and traffic was heavy due to the time of day when everyone was off work
and headed home for the weekend. I told myself that I really needed to pay
attention and follow my own advice to my two boys, “do not text and drive”. Additionally,
my little 1967 TR 6 was fun to drive on these curving roads. I bought the car, British Racing Green, with red stripped Michelin tires, as a project car and boy had it been a project! It needed a full frame restoration, major rust repair and under panel replacement and I can not even describe the work the engine needed. I can do a little bodywork, but the mechanical work had to be given to my brother-in-law. I am not as mechanically inclined, do not have all the
necessary tools and he needed the work. What can I say about a brother-in- laws!
Coming up on a slower car, I down shifted, saw that there was no oncoming traffic and I punched the gas pedal to the floor. The TR 6 took off and we made the pass with ease,
shifting again back into fourth gear, I picked up more and more speed and
approached a sharp curve. I downshifted again to slow my speed, then pressed
the accelerator to make the tires bite the pavement as I easily rounded the
curve.
“Boy, this if fun”, I said to myself. The trees were going by in a blur, my hair was blowing in the wind, life was good. Then my phone vibrated and I looked down. My wife, Deb,
wanted me to pick up some wine to go with our dinner. I texted back, “OK. R
or W”. Her response was “R” and I responded,” Zin, Mer ?” The next text was
“CAB” and I started typing “OK, See…” and that is when the right tire went off
the road and everything became obscure.
I do remember the tree coming to the front of my car and then I was up above the car and the trees and I saw myself still texting. “What the heck”, I said, “Drive the car!” I think that at that point I started to realize that I was leaving, for good.
A bit confusing towards the end, but I get the idea and really liked it. It was sad! Text and driving, tisk tisk. 🙂
Thanks for the feedback and I agree!
He jogs up to the rusted car, pulls out the driver, and speeds away. The streets are crowded with mindless people with no purpose in life. He can’t stand their dumb, automated faces so, for the fun of it, he runs one of them over. There is a scream, two large bumps, and the body disappears.
Matt chuckles and he moves his thick fingers across the controller. He loves the feeling of being in control of the fake character on the screen. It is his escape from life.
He has been playing for so long that his handsome butt has left an impression on his double sized bed. Around him is evidence of the few times he has stopped playing. A half eaten grilled cheese sandwich sits on a dirty plate. An empty bottle of beer stands beside the leftover lunch, and one more in his hand. He takes a swig, and then gets lost again in the unreal world.
His grey eyes are glazed, and glued to the large flat screen. Not once does he notice the sounds of angry feet tapping to different rooms upstairs. He doesn’t pay attention to the opening of drawers, and closets. There is the sound of plastic wheels gliding on wood, carpet and tile, and still he plays. He slouches as the world around him changes.
Footsteps click down the stairs. A hand brushes his shoulder. He finally looks at his beautiful wife. Her blond hair is tied in a messy bun. She wears skinny jeans, with tan boots, and a blue winter jacket. Her eyes are red and tired. In her right and she grips a bottle of suds.
“Here.” She says as she hands him the beverage.
“Thanks hun.” He says without pausing the game. “Are you going somewhere? If you go to the store could you pick up some more beer?” He asks and then gulps.
“I’m leaving you.” She simply states. His mouth falls open in surprise.
“Haha, funny.”
“I can’t do this anymore. I am sick of being second best to that effin game.” She continues.
“You’ve got to be kidding.” he says as the character on the screen patiently waits for its master.
“I’ve told you this a thousand times, but you never listen. That’s it. We’re done.” She walks to the doorway, and turns around. “Welcome back to reality.” She turns and leaves.
His heart hurts, and his throat burns. Reality sucks.
He starts playing again.
Hi Eliese. Cool story and probably a sad reality for many people.
Nice description of his condition and surroundings.
There were a couple of typo’s in sentences that didn’t quite make sense…a missing word maybe.
Example: “…the sounds of angry feet tapping to different rooms upstairs.””
I enjoy reading your work. Thanks for sharing.
Thanks Dawn. 🙂 You always have such helpful advice.
This is all too common, isn’t it? If it’s not the video games, it’s the phone. Good job. I like her courage.
Thanks Susan 😀
I love it – so realistic in that he returns to playing the game. SO many addictions, SO little time.
Wow. 🙂 Thank you.
[Hey guys, I am new to writing & still trying to find my “voice”…any suggestions appreciated! Here’s my attempt at writing on leaving, with a poem included at the end.]
The clear paint stains splashed across the window pane remind me of disarray, creativity, and death. If I let my eyes reach past the restricting platform, I see evergreen trees and gray shadows. It seems fitting that I would see these things today. My sister left this morning for a new adventure in Seattle, and just weeks ago my best friend left to explore a new life in Portland. Faded gray and forest green color the sky of this season. Sounds of a thousand pins falling echoes in my ears as I watch the rain bounce off the rooftops and onto the pavement.
Just three more months. Then it will be my turn to leave.
Until then the gray skies, giant evergreens, and clear paint will be my comfort.
faded gray and forest green,
the colors of this season.
splashed across the northern sky,
they remind me of my reason.
daily living and daily being,
not always something new.
despite the tinted photographs,
gray life is life too.
distractions leave, my heart can rest,
over-excitement is not necessary.
now I am free to sit awhile,
no extroverted-weight to carry.
Beautiful descriptions in your story, and i liked the poem too. Nice job.
I’d been up for a few hours, had coffee and toast and read through copious notes. Sitting down on the sofa, I turn my attention to God once more, asking him for everything I need to face this challenge and conquer it. Looking around the room one more time, I know I won’t ever see it like this again.
All the notebooks are packed away, the 3×5 cards are stacked neatly in a small plastic storage box. Every book is packed away in a special box, labeled for storage, and the townhouse is clean beyond reproach. It’s time.
The outfit I’ll wear is laid out on the bed, khaki Dockers and a fitted blouse, with my favorite Disney collections sweater. I get dressed, both confident and comfortable, and take one more walk through the townhouse, turning off lights, watching the sun stream in through the ceiling to floor glass patio sliding doors. It’s time.
Fifteen minutes later, pacing the hallowed halls, I run through all the possibilities in my head once, even though there’s nothing I could learn at this point. And the door opens.
“Elizabeth Towns, Come on in, please,” it’s Dr. Nelson, one of the members of my Masters Committee. Let the Defending begin.
http://31daysearlyirise.com/2014/03/02/leaving-time.html
A bit behind, yes, but … Leaving
Leaving
Mike had been working on the road for
most of his nine months in Bosnia. The training in Sarajevo was
rushed, crammed into long days, and similar to drinking from a fire
hose. Still, it had been a great time. Working in Bajna Luka (it
sounded like Banya Loo ka) had been nice, but it didn’t sit well with
Mike. Things got fun for him when he got assigned to Drvar.
He stood at a scenic overlook at the
edge of the road overlooking the valley that Drvar was nestled
comfortably in. At this early hour all that Mike could see from his
vantage point was the morning mist that had blanketed the valley in
cold and wet. A cigarette in one hand and a coffee in the other, Mike
stood there and let his mind drift back through the months that had
passed and the changes that had been wrought.
There had been many people who were
just as dirty, and as lethal, as the next thug in line. But, there
had also been a few gems in that dung heap of humanity. Rade, the
Secret Police Intelligence officer who, in spite of being on the
other side of the table, seemed to be fond of Mike. He even gave Mike
some valuable lessons in trade craft that had served him well during
his tour.
There were the plethora of lovely women
at every turn here. Tall, lean, curvacious was not even fitting to
describe the ladies he had seen about, talked with, flirted with, and
that he had been able to work with here.
The sun was higher in the sky and
burning away the fog that obscured the valley below. Mike looked over
it as he sipped his hot coffee. The cigarette tasted like every other
one that he had enjoyed before. He inhaled deeply and felt the
heaviness of the smoke in his lungs. Staying in this country would,
like smoking, eventually kill him. Some of his own sources had dried
up after threats. There were more than a few that had been
disappeared.
“Hey, Mike.” The voice behind him
was Match Stick, his fiery red haired Norwegian partner on this job
for the last six months. “We gotta get going. You gotta turn in all
your gear and check out.”
Mike sighed deeply, “Yeah, I know.”
Mike pinched out the cigarette, pocketed the stub, and climbed into
the Rover.
By the end of the week Mike would be in
Italy, then back in Florida to detox and decompress. While he should
be thrilled about going home, he felt more like he was leaving home.
Still, it had been far too fun to last. The accomplishments, the
glory, would never leave. The people he helped would never forget.
My day 2 of writing practice!
It has already been 3 years since I arrived
here in Korea, the restless city. I lived in Korea during elementary school
only and it has always been a hometown in my head. After spending grueling
three years working, drinking more alcohol than I will ever consume for the
rest of my life, bumping into people without saying “Excuse me”, never holding
a door open for strangers, and eating the best street food in the world, I was
ready.
I have always been on the road. Whether for
pleasure or not, traveling is in me. My family constantly relocated due to my
father’s profession as a student, a chemist, and a businessman. Traveling felt
exciting because I get to experience new culture, meet interesting people, and
eat great food. But, deep down inside, it also felt like starting everything
fresh.
The constant relocation as a child perhaps
left me a bit calloused. When I was in 7th grade in the U.S., I
bonded really closely to a friend and had a great relationship with him. Then
my family decided to move, once again, to Singapore. I still remember crying in
the car to the airport, though I did not let anyone see or hear me cry. Since
then, however, I never feel sad about leaving somewhere, someone, or something.
Then I grew a weird obsession and love for
airports. Whenever I had enough time, I’d try to arrive at the airport at least
5 hours before the departure time. The sight of people from all around the
world in all different colors and styles, rare duty-free items displayed at
stores, the sound of luggage rolling on the floor, and the smell of various fragrances
wafting in the air excited me.
Deep inside me, however, wants to settle
down. Sometimes I wish I had a place that I could call my hometown, run into a
local neighbor whom I’ve known for many years, go to my favorite Kimchi fried
place that I visited since 5th grade, and talk about the same old
things with friends every day.
Now it’s time for me to leave again.
Goodbye Korea.
A lifetime of leaving. Nice. My favorite part was you described the airport,and the different cultures there.
“Do you go to church?”
Helen asked me that, I could tell it was curious question, not a judgmental but since she was a regular church goer herself, I wondered if she would have felt offended or slightly sad to hear that I don’t go to church that often nowadays.
“No… I don’t, not that often at least… I mean…”
I bit my lip for a moment and wondered if I should tell her the truth. She’s one of my clients…
“I mean, I used to belong to a religious cult. It’s been a year since leaving, they shun all their former members, so that means that my all my friends and family, including my parents have decided to stop talking to me. I’ve learned that organised religion can do a lot of good to humanity, but my experience hasn’t been all that great. To be honest, I feel a but turned off by churches right now.”
“Oh, that’s … that’s sad to hear.”
We continued the rest of the ride in awkward silence… I’m not sure if I should have divulged that much personal information about me…
I shared mine on my blog: http://writeontheworld.wordpress.com/2014/03/01/leaving-a-writing-prompt-from-the-write-practice/
Leaving wasn’t a decision; it was an inevitability that had come to fruition. It was never ‘if’, but always ‘when’. Although there were times when I had adeptly fooled myself into believing this day would never come. But here I am, standing on the threshold, looking back over my barren life–what very soon will be nothing but benign memories.
This is one thing that life has taught me: if you look at all memories as existing on a spectrum from horrid to wonderful, the passing of years always causes the memories to slide. It’s as if the sliding scale that represents this spectrum is not quite level. It’s not noticeably slanted, but just ever so slightly skewed so that memories imperceptibly slide, making the horrid ones bad, the bad ones become more neutral, the neutral almost good–you get the idea. The very best memories, the ones from days gone by, become almost legendary in one’s mind.
If you had told me back then, in the midst of my leaving, that I’d remember that era of my life as anything other than harrowing, I wouldn’t have believed it.
Unable to make a sound, I watched her go. As she went, she
stared at me with eyes filled with angry questions, begging for me to answer
them.
But I couldn’t.
I cringed inwardly as I watched her go. Leaving. Without a
goodbye. I knew there was no second chance after this. I knew, just like in
every Disney movie, I had to chase after her; I had to make her change her mind.
But I couldn’t.
My legs, once so wobbly whenever she walked by, now stood
firm, unmoved. Oblivious to my internal struggle, as if trying to spite me for
not being able to articulate my feelings, my feet stayed planted. She was gone.
I hadn’t even made an effort.
Later that night she called me. I braced myself for a fight,
an argument, but what came was far worst: the simple words that made it clear
it was over. She told me it wasn’t my fault. She said I was the best she could
have asked for. She said I had done nothing wrong. She told me to believe her.
But I couldn’t.
Not after I had just stood and watched her leave.
Queen sang “leaving home ain’t easy but may be the
only way”. I wonder what it feels like, leaving home for good, knowing you
will never come back – that you never want to come back.
Well, not exactly wondering, as I’ve done this quite a
few times before. But the pain now feels dull, dimmed, as if someone took that
experience and diminished it in my mind to a certain pinch of pain. It must
have been rather devastating, then, if in the after-effect it became so small
and insignificant in my life.
I’ve never been much “at home” anywhere,
except for two places – my old room (specifically, that it, not my parents’
house – I was never at home there), and my grandparents’ house in the suburbs.
They had a nice 4-bedroom house, with a large living room and huge front and
back yards. I always spent my summers there as a child – it was easy, since
they were living 30 minutes walk (10 minutes by car) from us. I would come over
in the late mornings, often by foot once my parents allowed it, change into my
bathing suit and spend most of the sunny, happy hours in the pool or playing in
the back yard. This was my own, happy place, my private world of imagination
and possibilities, all mine. In my mind, I always go back there, to my
“happy place” – I can still see everything vividly, every leaf and
branch and fruit, the water gleaming on the skin of my hands under the water,
vaguely blue and somewhat distorted, ancient sun over young skin. I remember
the pecan trees, and how I used to wait for the shells to start opening up, so
that I can spend entire days there, picking pecan nuts from the ground and from
the tree, getting my hands all yellow from the opened shells, with the smell of
freshness in them. My grandmother used to scrub my hands in lemon afterwards –
not because of the wonderful smell, but because of the color, that would stick
for days. After the rain, we would run outside to look for mushrooms – the ones
we can eat, of course. We cut them and fried them with butter, and there was
nothing tastier in the world. Everything was just perfect.
When my grandfather died, in 1999, my grandmother
decided she would like to move into an apartment closer to my parents. I did
all I could to talk her out of it, but a 17-year old girl has a very limited
effect on the decisions of grown-ups. So I spent the next couple of years
breathing it all in – the sights, the sounds, the smells. I walked in the
corridors and petted the wall tapestries, rolled around in the soft grass
behind the rose bushes and near the orange and lemon trees, memorized the
colors of the autumn leaves on the persimmon tree. I breathed it all in to take
with me wherever I go, the only place I could ever call “home”. When
my grandmother finally left the house, it was a blossom-filled spring day, not
exactly the perfect day one would expect when being ripped from the roots. The
house was empty and sad, and while on the outside I was okay with it, on the
inside I was mourning, asking forgiveness from the place I loved so much and
still haven’t had the means to save.
Ever since then I had left many other houses, but to me
none of them was “home”. They say that home is where the heart is,
and I rephrased it to “home is where your loved ones are”, and I religiously
follow that saying. But I still remember the one true physical home I had left
behind so many years ago, and a tear still crawls into my eye.
I was watching “Troy” last night and this came to mind:
He is leaving. There is nothing she can do to stop him.
He’d left her alone the night before, choosing to spend the night watching his cousin’s funeral pyre gradually smolder and die, like the young boy who had faded away in the flames.
The morning after, he’d returned to the encampment with a single order for his lieutenant:
“Eudorus. I need my armor.”
It is that armor he wears today, glinting in the sun as he marches towards his chariot. His helmet hides his eyes, but she knows they are clouded by the mist of revenge. Even surrounded by his faithful Myrmidons, he’s more alone than ever. When Eudorus stands beside him, he orders the man to dismount; this is his battle to fight.
She understands that, should he leave, there will be no turning back, even if he wins the battle. For his survival comes at the cost of her beloved cousin’s life, a price she cannot afford to pay.
So she takes her last stand. She tries to beg, to shout, to reason with him, but her pleas are met with silent rage. It’s the merciless warrior she’s dealing with now, not the caring lover.
He doesn’t look at her, but his grip tightens on the reins. He’d do anything, he‘d die for her, but he cannot turn back, not when his cousin’s blood still stains the sand, unavenged.
And so she watches his chariot drive away, shattering her heart in a million pieces.
“Come, my lady,” Eudorus gently whispers behind her, “there’s nothing we can do now but pray.”
She thinks of Hector’s steady arms teaching her how to ride her first horse, of Achilles’ passionate embrace as he shows her the pleasures of lovemaking. Her eyes are filled with tears when she addresses the Myrmidon.
“Pray? For which one, Eudorus?”
When she looks back again, he’s already gone.
(What do you think? Too mushy?)
Her hand smacked Eddy’s face on its way to silence the harsh
blare of the alarm clock. Eddy grinned, eyes still closed.
“We can move it to your side, you know,” he said.
“Things would get ugly,” she said. “I can’t be responsible
for that.”
He smiled, eyes open this time. Tara has always hated
mornings, and he knew not to press his luck. He turned to look at her. Her face
was smashed into her pillow, but one almond eye sparkled as she looked at him
from under a wisp of dark hair.
“What time’s your flight?” A yawn half-consumes her
question. She stretched, bumping a soft, well-toned calf into his.
“Eight -thirty.”
“I’ll start the coffee,” he said and swung his legs over the
side of the bed. It was still dark, but he didn’t need light to navigate around
the bed and into the tiny kitchen. He and Tara had traded amenities for this up
and coming DC neighborhood, and today, he was just fine with that.
He flipped the switch and the machine belched to life.
Feeling the true weight of the early hour, he held a mug under the stream and
waited for it to fill.
Eddy rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he gazed out the
large window that opens to Rock Creek Park. This view always made him feel that
the city around him didn’t exist. Although the darkness was still heavy, he
could picture the soft hint of color that tinged the leaves. In a few more
weeks, the trees would be a brilliant polychrome display of Nature’s best.
He sipped his coffee as he listened to Tara bang around the
kitchen. He grinned as her clumsy hands found a mug but then sent it clanging
into the sink. If there was ever a way to cure the Morning Dropsies, he hoped
medical science would find it. Many of his favorite mugs had been swept up by
the dustpan and given a new home in the trash.
A coffee- warmed hand slipped across the small of his back.
Tara leaned into him as they stared out into the soundless, early fall morning.
“Your flight’s at eight -ten,” she said. Something in her
tone chided him.
“You’re kidding?” He was sure the ticket said eight- thirty.
“Always have to check your work,” she said. She kissed his
neck.
“I gotta get ready. Dulles isn’t close in rush hour traffic.”
He gave her a quick kiss before skirting off into the bedroom. “American, right?”
She shook her head and stretched her lips into a knowing
smile. “Yes. Flight seventy-seven. What would you do without me?”
“What day is it?” He had to shout to be heard over the running
water.
“Tuesday.”
I looked out the window ad the rain fell. The room was filled with emptyness of trouble. The anger the pain the crying. So much had happened I try to push the memories out but they come rushing back. I brush my red hair of my eyes I grab my bag and walk out the door leaving behind a broken home. All the drunken nights all the abuse all the crying. I was leaving it behind. I felt like a weightwas lifted off of me I could finally move. The bruies on my arms reminded me of the pain but it would all stop. I walked down the worn out side walk the sky was black and thunder roared in the distants lighting crashed. I walked free out of pain.
just a very short post:
I had a friend once, who told me that people’s lives were like rooms as
infinitely big as the universe. We have no control over who enters our room,
just as it is not up to us to decide who’s room we enter. People look into our
room, we look into theirs and maybe, one day, we will find the place that is
right for us. Until then, we look and we leave, searching for the room where
leaving is no more an option.
”Finally,” Alicia thinks to herself as she throws the remnants of her belonging in the passenger seat of her car. ”I’m finally breaking free!” She smiles excitedly. She’s been wanting out of her parents house for what seems like forever. Now she’s got a good bulk of money saved up and a great job lined up in Washington. Her life is falling into place right in front of her eyes.
She walks back into her house and sees her mom sitting at the dining room table, rummaging through an old, tattered box of photos. Alicia pulls up a chair and reclines.
Her and her mother laugh at all her goofy memories. They laugh at the pigtailed days, and the gothic phases. They laugh together and sigh. Alicia notices that her mother is shaking.
”Mom… mom, are you okay? Please don’t cry.” She wipes a lone tear from her mothers cheek. Red faced and tired-looking, her mother smiles.
”I just remember every day I spent with you, all of our memories. All of our fights, and everytime you stayed home sick, I’d be right there, taking care of you. You’ve branched into a beautiful, strong, independant woman. Kind of reminds me of myself when I was your age.” She pauses.
Alicia smiles, playing with a lonely strand of hair falling off her mothers shoulder. ”I’m just going to miss you so much Alicia, you have no idea. I’m gonna miss it, all of it. Even our pointless arguments. You’ve turned into my best friend, and I’m gonna miss you.” She looks at her daughter, her lip quivering softly.
Alicia hugs her mom tightly, and they both cry together. After a while, they pull apart. ”Mom, I’m only going to be a phone call away,” Alicia reassures her mother, who nods and kisses her daughters cheek.
Fifteen minutes later, Alicia says her goodbyes to all of her family, hugging her father tight, telling him she’ll be alright, and giving her little brother a noogie and a kiss on the forehead, demanding to hear of good grades on his next progress report. Lastly, she hugs her mom, biting her tears back. She tells her mom that she will be back to visit soon, and not to worry about her.
Alicia gets in her car and presses on the gas, honking her horn before getting on the main road. Alicia has been wanting to leave so bad, but her heart had clung onto quite a lot without her even realizing. Her eyes well up and the tears start to flow. She’ll miss her family greatly, more than she’d let them see, and even though she’s on her way to start her new life, her heart will always be in California.
The driveway was lined with relatives; all cozied in jackets or hoodies to protect from Fall’s crispy breaths. Eyes were blurry with emotion and shoulders shook with stifled sniffles. It was a solemn occasion.
A whisper rippled through the group until someone was found able to gain voice control and to lead in a word of prayer. We entrusted the deserters (what other label was better suited for the travelers leaving us?) to the God we all loved and trusted, believing he would keep us all close no matter how far apart we were separated.
Only months before the job had opened up out of state, and now the time had come for the last box to be loaded in the moving truck, the beloved family of four to take their places in the accompanying vehicle and for us to witness their departure.
Future grand kid interaction would be reduced to moments on an electronic screen or to opening packages deposited on a doorstep. Granted, staying connected is easier than in years previous, but that was no comfort now as the faces we loved to touch and hold were backing out of the driveway.
We waved and turned our eyes to follow the entourage until it was out of sight. The silence hung heavy. Then our mouths found appropriate things to say and we were back to taking care of details to tie up the loose ends of emptying a house. We would be planning trips to see the new house, far away, and somehow we would adapt to this new chapter of altered family life.