In an effort to find inspiration for this week, I began digging through my years worth of files on my computer. Of course, a lot of the space was consumed by homework and old pictures and college applications, but what particularly caught my attention was this short story I found.
As a kid, I wrote stories and poems all the time. This has been something that I’ve unfortunately lost over time due to the constant grind of school work, pressure to work on something more concrete, but most of all, my extreme insecurity when it comes to my creative writing.
Though I still write all the time, it’s very rare for me to get to just start writing and see where it takes me. Oftentimes, I’m having to fit into a format, or argue a certain point, or hit a number of required sources.
But, although I love all the opportunities I have to improve as a writer, right now I would love to just share with you a short story that I wrote before I had this issue. Simply random thoughts that began swirling around in my brain, once upon a time.
“50s Draft”
She didn’t like that color. At least not on some people. She flicked her cigarette to the curb, listening to it sizzle against the side walk.
“Going there. You coming?” she asked to the tall redhead next to her.
“Always.” The pair stood up and began to walk away from the brick wall they had been leaning against, going there.
These girls were different. In school, it was just them, one tall, one average, one redhead, on brunette, both masked with pure unamusement. The others didn’t like them. They didn’t care. The other girls wore skirts. They wore skin-tight jeans. The boys liked their style. They couldn’t care less. But, nonetheless, the girls were happy.
The girls reached their destination. In front of them, the creek ran, strong as ever. Always steady, but reckless. They sat on the rise, looking down at the rushing water.
“New ideas?” Asked the brunette.
“No, Shell, I told you already, I can’t think straight. What’s wrong with me?”
“Nothing. I can’t think either. Ever since Tuesday I-“ she was cut off.
“I don’t want to talk about it.” Said Callie, handing Shelly a soda.
“Always.” They clinked their bottles together, and so their evening began.
Their train of thought was lost that day, and the next, and the next. For the first time, the things the other said got to them. That never happened. Typically, they shrugged it off, drank a little soda, and all was well. Not this time…