Free-Write

            It was Christmas Eve. Fog stuck to the tarmac at Lindbergh field, casting an eerie glow across the whole park. I sat at the solitary picnic table off to the side, obscured by the bushes and thick mist. I didn’t say anything, I didn’t move, I hardly risked a breath. My eyes felt heavy, but I knew I couldn’t bring myself to sleep. I was cold, because my clothes weren’t exactly name brand. The sleeves were ripped up along with the legs, I wanted to go home, but I felt lost, like I had unfinished business but I hadn’t any clue of what. I just watched, observed as college students stumbled home from their late night excursions, laughing; crying; clinging on to one another. Scrambling to get home before Santa makes his rounds. Their hair a mess, the make up running down their face, making them resemble the animals that they truly are. Even in December, they trot along carelessly in their club dresses and sleeveless tops. Singing, or slurring rather, along with whatever songs they had heard in their evening before. It sickened me, their carelessness for what was around them. But I also envied them, how they were able to be so free.

Lindbergh field was our small hometown park, as old as the school. Years without maintenance caused it to fall apart. The chains holding the swings are rusted, frail from years of rain and snow and fat children. The slide is old and metal, dented and slightly rusted. I don’t think any child has slid down it in years, but it provides a nice perch to loitering teens and to the pigeons that call this park home. It borders the small community college that unfortunately plagues our town. Making the park a common short cut home from the only strip of restaurants and bars for 20 miles. I rise up from my seat, as more and more night owls stumble across the park. I walk, sluggishly, along the small stone wall separating the playground from the picnic area. I loved walking along the smooth rocks, it felt metaphoric in a way. Like one side was life and one side was death, and there I was just stuck in the middle. Barely living but not quite 6 feet under. I tipped a little towards the picnic tables, stumbled and nearly fell, but I quickly regained my balance, like I weighed nothing. Being here always set a sort of cloud-like confusion over me, where was I before? Where am I going? I just wonder aimlessly through the rocking horses and monkey bars, looking for something but I can’t remember what, or maybe, who. I just felt lost and empty, as I walked it felt as though the things around me just seemed to pass through me, like I had no substance. Something felt wrong, like I wasn’t myself anymore. I wondered over to the tree line, almost out of instinct, when I felt something crunch under my feet. Curious, I picked up the wooden cross that had fallen down from the tree to which it was nailed. A name was engraved on the horizontal piece, “Annabelle Highland, R.I.P”. Shock and confusion riddled my body, but how could this be? I felt this sudden pain, as my heart raced and my limbs ached, because in that moment, I realized I was dead.



Unfortunately, my free-write does substantiate Fanny Howe's essay. My stories do seem to be dark and dreary but for me, its simply because I like the word play in stories like that. I like how I can make the reader feel what the character is going through just by the words I use. And I feel as though a sad plot, at least in a short story, catches the readers attention more, it leaves them unsatisfied by the end, and they want to know more, read more. When a story has a happy ending, it gives the reader this sort of closure that makes it easy to forget the piece, and makes it just like a majority of all those other stories. I want my pieces to leave an impact on the reader, I want them to walk away thinking back on the story as an experience, not just another book. Another reason why I like to write these depressing pieces is because that's reality, there aren't any heroes in reality. We are made to believe there are, but they aren't heroic, in the end they do it for their own benefit, a paycheck, the glory, whatever their recompense may be, it is not sincerely because it is what is right. "Because no one is accepting responsibility. There are people in power, to be sure, but they all point the finger at each other"  This quote proves my point even further. We look up to these powerful figures who can't even take responsibility for their own mistakes. One part of the essay I do disagree with, however, is when she says "What's missing here, along with a sense of consequential action(work) and actors of consequence(heroes), is anything more than the most rudimentary sense of cause and effect.." I disagree with this because in my stories, I believe my plot ties together. Yes, this short story I did leave rather open ended, but that was my intention, to maybe do another installment or an epilogue that explains her death. But I wanted to leave the reader pondering, that is why there is no explanation. One last point I will make is I simply just love writing this way. When I'm done, I feel unburdened, like I was able to release any pent up anger or bad intentions into my piece; my artwork. I feel a sense of dismal beauty when I write in this way, it seems poetic to me, not like I'm telling a story but I'm displaying an emotion through out the writing as a whole.