Origins IV

Everything was perfect.

The night was cold, crisp, and clear. All the clouds had been swept away, leaving the starry sky a smooth dome that protected the world. Each star was watching someone, whispering unheard secrets across the infinite ocean of space between them. They spoke with their light, each flaring twinkle a few words of a larger sentiment. Hovering directly above them was the moon, a flawless crescent of light. Though everyone who looked into the sky would see the same moon, she liked to think it was even brighter, just for her.

"The crescent moon is the bowl from which God drank after he made the world."

"I'd be thirsty too, after all that work."

It was Amara who spoke first. She was seventeen, laying on the roof of a boy's house. Music was playing quietly from the small speakers they had brought up with them. The boy's name was Jaren. He was tall and graceful, with long arms and delicate fingers, which she always watched whenever he played music. She loved watching him play, loved listening to his songs. That was his F.A.T.E., a musician and songwriter, a far cry from her cold world of medicine. A world without much by way of art or passion, a world without music. His music was poetry that he could read to her heart. Even now they were listening to his work, the speakers were playing a recording demo he had done for his class project. She had sat in the studio watching him, eyes fixated on his hands, flowing from one chord to another without hesitation, without conscious thought. It was beautiful.

Right now, his soft hand was interlaced with hers. It had taken twenty minutes of him slowly twitching his fingers closer to hers to get where they were. It was kind of cute, so much that she didn't mind the goosebumps that covered her exposed arms. They hadn't thought to bring a blanket up with them, or at least Jaren didn't.

Jaren's head rolled towards hers, his hair falling over his eyes. Amara smiled, chewing on the inside of her lip. She was about to say something, but as soon as she began to move closer to him, Jaren suddenly had the immediate need to sit up.

"What's wrong?" She sat up, adjusting her weight so she was leaning against him slightly. She rearranged her glasses more comfortably, tucking an errant strand of hair behind one ear. They were still holding hands, even though his was a little sweaty. She scooted a bit closer, trying to siphon some of his warmth through his thick jacket.

"I still can't believe you came by tonight. Shouldn't you be burning night hours with a brain surgeon or something?" He had asked her if she wanted to come by and study together, just for some company while I go over some boring notes. That she said yes seems to have surprised him more than if she had sprouted wings and taken flight straight from this rooftop.

"Jaren, I chose to come over tonight because I wanted to. I spend the majority of my waking hours in the company of people who are all studying the same material. It is not like your music class, where you are all working together to write lyrics or make a song. We are all competing for the best scores, the best chances at getting picked up by a big name company during finals, and we are all studying the same information. While I have some friends - we obviously have a lot in common - I cannot imagine dating any of them."

Jaren's cheeks flushed as a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, "Is that what we're doing, then? Are we dating?"

Amara rolled her eyes, sitting straight up so she was not leaning against him anymore. Letting go of his hand, she pulled her knees up to her chest. A quiet chuckle slipped out and was snatched away by a passing breeze, "You really are a bit hopeless, aren't you?" One eyebrow

The following silence started to stretch, tempting the line between comfortable and awkward. After a minute or so it was well into awkward territory, clearing a path through the jungle of social ineptitude with a very large machete. Unable to keep watching each other, they looked at the roof. At the next house over. Eventually they looked up at the sky, and the map of stars above them aided slightly in relieving the discomfort.

They were both watching the stars when suddenly a streak of light cut through the matte darkness of the night sky. Never too old to make a wish, they both murmured a quick prayer and then closed their eyes to cast their wish into the great beyond. After a few moments, Amara opened her eyes again, "So what did you wish f-" she was cutoff as Jaren leaned over and kissed her.

They were frozen for a moment; Amara was caught off guard, and Jaren had used all of his gumption to get to the point of kissing her. Now that he was here, he didn't have the strength to break away. The moment passed, and she smiled against his lips. She reached up and ran a hand through his hair, and they broke the kiss. Jaren met her gaze firmly, one eyebrow lifted slightly, and the faintest of cocksure smiles on his face, "My wish was that you would kiss me back."

Amara actually giggled. Giggled, if you would believe it, though she would later edit that detail out when she described the nights events to her friend Mila. She pushed him back and down so he was pressed against the roof. Then, slowly, she lowered her lips onto his.

Everything was perfect.


.....


"Hey, did you want to use my jacket? You look kind of cold."




[Author's Corner]

Watch your step people, this thing is dripping in teenage sappiness and stereotype. I think some of it got on the floor. Given the flak and criticism I normally dish out to teenage romance novels, I think I have spun plenty of rope with which to hang myself here. Still, it was kind of fun to write (which puts said romance novels into a terrifying new perspective), and I had been picturing this moment in Amara's youth for some time. I was listening to This Song by Explosions in the Sky, which was recommended to me this last weekend at a wedding I was attending. While I had been wanting to do a piece with Amara sneaking out to a boys house, this whole scene was inspired while listening to this song. I wrote most of it in one sitting listening to it on repeat, and then I wrapped it up the following day. Overall I'm satisfied with it; it's hardly a literary masterpiece, but I think it fits the moment. The writing is a little awkward, but so are they.

Enjoy, and feel free to share in the comments if this reminded any of you of a special moment in your past.

Origins I

Foreword from the Writer

So here we are again. This time I thought I'd put my two cents at the beginning. Seems to make rather more sense that way. Below is the first iteration of Amara's story from the first attempt. I scrapped the second one entirely. I was in a bad place when I wrote that, please don't judge me for it. So I took the first one, filled in the gaps, wrote around it, and tweaked some wording here and there. It's still not perfect, but it actually has something resembling a structure and meaning. Now that it is more or less a complete thought, it opens up the floodgates for all the feedback, criticisms, and ideas on how I can improve this. I'm open to everything and anything you would like to share. I'm a big boy, I can take whatever you want to throw at me. The fact that I actually wrote something is a victory enough for me.

It's interesting, I had a much easier time rewriting than I did with the original draft. This is unusual because most of my early writing, such as for school assigments or my own little projects, rarely consisted of revisions or multiple drafts. My senior project was a 16 page report I wrote in one sitting and I didn't change before I submitted it. When absolutely required to submit multiple drafts I would write it up and delete pieces here and there to make it incomplete. Sorry, teachers.

So I thought it was interesting that writing the first time around was like pulling teeth with rusted pliers, but this time it felt much more like how I imagine writing should feel. Until I got to the end of the original material and had to start the conclusion - then it started feeling a little more difficult. I could feel a palpable heaviness to pushing past the end of my draft, a weight I had to be able to shift in order to continue.

Apparently, writing for me is, at this time in my career, like sculpting. Except that I have to extract the clay surgically from somewhere around my ribcage. Once I have the material I can work to shape it, but getting it in the first place is a little painful.

On the actual story below, a few disclaimers. It deals, even if only briefly, with parental dynamics. I don't want anything I write to give the impression that there is anything wrong with step-parents or 'split' households. I have no living memory of a time when my parents were still together, but they are both wonderful, amazing people that I love very much and whom have a healthy respect for one another. I have had 4 step-parents over the years, and I have loved each of them in turn. I often joke that I don't have a family tree - a shape with a strong origin, a central foundation upon which the branches sprout from - rather that I have a family shrubbery. It all just kind of goes every which way. Aunts, uncles, step-relatives and cousins I've rarely, if ever, met. It's a mess of a family, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

My actual writing 'voice' is still a work in progress, I'm still developing how I as a writer sound. So I encourage any feedback, especially having to do with how it sounds. If there are any pieces that work particularly well, or lines that could use a little more polish, please point them out.

On a sidenote, Amara's father's name is never mentioned. partly because I haven't been able to given him one yet (Though their surname is "Langward"). However, I also like to think it reflects how he is thought of as Dad or Father, not by his name. Gives him kind of a mystique.

Or something.

Well, without further delay, I humbly present some words precariously arranged into something I hope resembles meaning..

* * *

Amara

Outside, it was a gray afternoon with a broken sky. The rain fell at an angle, but uniformly so as if someone took the clouds and tilted them to one side. Inside the biodome park, however, it was high noon with clear skies. One of three basic settings for the park, those being morning, afternoon, and closed. Artificial sunlight filtered through artificial trees (branches waving in an artificial breeze), threw dancing shadows on artificial grass. Contained, sustainable, and completely fake. Not that the act fooled anyone, but when the alternative was walking in the rain across what would otherwise be a parking structure or office building, no one complained.

"How was school today, Amara?"

Amara had absolutely no complaints. She had an ice cream cone, which made today an exceptional day, and she was more focused on her treat than any academic inquiries. She scrutinized it carefully, quick to delicately lick up any errant drips of ice cream.

"Amara?" Sterner, this time. Her father glided alongside her, a towering figure even without the contrast of a small child. He was empty handed; after taking care of Amara's crippling list of school supplies an ice cream cone was almost a stretch.

"What?" The top of her cone was licked to a near perfect dome of dessert. A work of art. Adults couldn't appreciate this kind of fine detail.

"School? I assume you went to class, or how could you be complaining of having homework from a chemistry class you didn’t attend? That would be rather impressive." A thin hand fell on her shoulder, applying gentle pressure to hold Amara back as a man in a suit ran through the exact space she was about to enter. The man, jogging swiftly down a path to an exit, opened a door and momentarily the sound of the outside downpour raced inside the park, determined to get as far as it could before the door shut again, instantly cutting off any notion of rain.

“Of course I went to class, Daddy.” What a stupid question, and ultimately irrelevant compared to the question at hand: lick the dome down to a flat surface, or take a solid bite out of the cone? Her expression was one of a painter deciding where to put the brush next.

"And?"

"And what?" Her brow wrinkled in exasperation as she saw a line of ice cream had very nearly ran over the back of her hand. As she lifted the cone for a better angle to stop it in its tracks, her small blue eyes met the grey-blue orbs of her father’s. He lifted one eyebrow. Barely.

Amara sighed, with only a slight roll of her eyes that she didn't quite try to conceal. She straightened up, adjusted her backpack – standard for her class, white with a red cross – and gave him the most serious look a twelve year old could muster, “One Thing I Learned In School Today was the toxsticity levels of all pre-op medications used in a standard hospital environment.”

“Toxicity.”

That's what I said, she retorted. Or would have, except her mouth was full and her cone now had a mysteriously girl-shaped bite taken out of the side. Her attention had shifted immediately back to the cone as soon as she answered the question.

He laughed and ruffled her hair, earning himself a withering glare from the girl, "Always learning, my little genius. I think Carrie will be really good for you. She's a teacher."

It was partway through talking about what it was that Carrie taught when he realized that Amara was no longer beside him. He stopped, looking back down the path where she had stopped. She stared at the ground, as if intense concentration alone could teleport herself somewhere far away from the biodome. As he approached, each step with a cat's grace, she remained resolutely still, only speaking when his shadow eclipsed her. He knelt down in front of her so they were eye-level, or as close as was practical.

"I thought I didn't have to meet her." If the words were any heavier, they would have cracked the stones set in the path upon landing. A line of ice cream streaked down the side of her cone and over her hand, dripping down off her fingers.

"Not immediatly. I just thought you would eventually want-"

"I don't want to meet her! I didn't want to meet the last one. I still have Mom, even if you don't. So you can find yourself a new wife but I don't need another new mom!" She pushed past him and ran down the path, keeping her head low so he couldn't see her tears. Mom never cried in front of anyone.

Just like her mother. He stood up, ran a hand through his hair, and turned to follow her. She was waiting at the far exit to the park, not quite angry enough to storm out of the park entirely. When he reached her, neither spoke. The words of an apology began forming on his tongue but he held them back, unsure how or where to start. His daughter's thoughts were a mirror of his own.

He felt her hand slide into his, their fingers intertwining and squeezing briefly. His free hand conjured an umbrella as they walked through the short hallway from the shining midday sun to the torrential storm outside. He did his best to keep them both dry or, failing that, at least Amara. The rain, slanted as it was, made for a difficult task. So they braved the storm together, hand in hand, a silent truce.

Meanwhile, inside the park, beneath an unmoving sun, an ice cream cone melted on the path.