Friday, November 11, 2011

And There’s *Gasp* No Dialog. Haha

This is different than anything I’ve ever written, but I figured it’s good to try something new once in a while.
The contrast between the two girls was stark. As they moved woefully, the petite blonde bowed her head in shameless regret. The solidly built brunette regarded the fog laden cemetery with a hallowed gaze. They gripped one another’s hand, their mouths drawn in sorrowful lines. Two equally dissimilar boys were poised protectively, far enough behind as not to disturb the moment of bereavement.
They were an unexpected congregation of unyielding solidarity.
The blonde’s knees sank to the moist, leaf spotted ground with a voiceless thud. Teardrops slid down pale cheeks as she swept the sodden orange and yellow hues from the common plaque. There were no extravagant headstones in this cemetery near the antiquated school. Her slender fingers quaked as she traced the name of the boy who’d lived just weeks before.
Short, dark curls swirled in the frosty air as the taller girl folded to the ground as well. She reached over, clearing a dank, rust colored leaf from the blonde’s shadowy, knee-length dress.
The boys’ dense steps massacring the already dying foliage intruded upon the otherwise muted moment. They remained standing, but their expressions were no less grim.
Finally the brunette rose. She summoned the watery eyed blonde whose restless palm remained atop the unforgiving slate. In silence the pair hovered above the forlorn resting place; their eyes held no peace. Once again they clasped hands as they glided beneath the watchful trees. The boys followed more closely than before. Leafless limbs swayed bleakly, leaning as if straining to gather whispered pleas beneath the wailing wind for all that had been lost.
 The wrought iron gate settled definitively behind the despondent visitors.              
They wouldn’t return.                               

Thursday, November 10, 2011

Perhaps This is a Sign I Should Take Up Drinking.

 It wasn’t my proudest moment when I stormed into that party, swaddled in My Little Pony pajama pants and a Dale Earnhardt Jr. sweatshirt.

But it probably won’t be my worst, either.

A junior, named Topher who looked as if he could leap tall kegs in a single bound, yelled over the ridiculously loud song that was probably about aesthetically pleasing tractors, lost hound dogs, and unfaithful first, second and third wives. “ARE YOU HERE TO PARTY!?”

Dean shot me a pleading look that begged me not to cause a scene in front of his bros.

But alas, it was 2:45 A.M. and I was at a frat party in my pajamas. So, I glowered at Topher and gesture sarcastically toward my baby blue pants. “Do I look like I’m here to party?”

The poor boy just gave me a sad, befuddled look as if I’d spilled his beer, kicked his puppy and pushed his grandma down a flight of stairs.

Walk away.

Luckily the reason for which this hellish night had come to fruition was not difficult to locate. My cousin, Kristin, had called a half hour before—wasted out of her mind—requesting a ride home. She probably called because I’m the only person she knows who doesn’t drink and would be sober enough to drive. She was perched on a coffee table singing along in a pitch only a recently skinned cat could appreciate. She began fighting us when Dean offered a hand to help her down and I yanked on her rumpled jean skirt to cover the secrets even Victoria wouldn’t have shared.

Kristin exclaimed that she wasn’t finished partying—stopped, looked me up and down—and said, “What are you wearing?”

I probably would have thought of some witty retort about how “this is what all the designated drivers are wearing.” but she cut me off by announcing that she was being kidnapped.

Of course no one noticed her Jerry Springer worthy Karaoke show, but the word kidnapped had all the drunkards staring as if I—My Little Pony, for goodness sake—had hatched a plan to abduct my cousin.

When we finally escorted her out to the car, she less than gracefully flopped onto the passenger seat and then gave me the strangest look.

Before I could ask her what the problem was, she vomited all over the dashboard and floor.

Sheepishly, she said “I don’t think this is my car."

Perhaps this is a sign I should take up drinking.