Chilfo Freeze
Emma Jean Stone
It's been a while, my friends. In fact, it has been such an amount of time that I almost feel as if I am imposing by posting this thread. I think maybe I am a bit out of place by suddenly showing up out of the blue and posting a thread without word for several months. I am sorry for the sudden interruption!
Even so, I am daring enough and happy to say that I have recently become enamored with writing again. I'm not sure where exactly the spark came from, but I know there is a kindling flame that has been there all along. I just had to come to my senses and realize it, and realize I did.
Now, to tackle the topic of this thread. In my Creative Writing class this past semester, I was required to write four creative pieces: pieces of fiction, creative nonfiction, poetry and drama. This is my short story fiction piece. There's not much to it - it's not a big production or anything. This was something I wrote down a while ago. It's a mash-up of several ideas, including some personal experiences, inspiration from lyrics of a song... I'd love feedback, critiques, comments; anything that this short story may trigger in your mind, jot it down and let me know, or not. It's all up to you.
Thank you guys; here's my piece.
************
The classroom is dark when she opens the door. The blinds that cover the two tall, skinny windows have been shut. It is just about dusk. Dim, thin strips of pastel orange light appear on the dark berber carpet. She doesn’t turn on the lights. She steps into the room and shuts the door softly, turning the knob so that the lock doesn’t click against the strike plate. Once inside, she feels relaxed. Facing the empty classroom, she begins to look around. In the dark, she can’t see much, but she likes it that way. From what she can make out, it is a typical classroom. Her chestnut brown eyes scan the rows and columns of desks and chairs, most of them out of alignment from students that bumped them around as they hustled for the exit earlier that day. As a student, a bizarre feeling overcomes her from being in a classroom when lecture is not in session. A sobering experience it is when nothing is expected of her. She breathes slowly and saunters down one of the rows, her Keds skidding against the carpet as she goes. She picks a random seat, tosses her black leather jacket onto the floor, kicks her legs up onto the desk and leans back. She sighs a deep sigh and closes her eyes, tossing her head back and letting her blonde, wavy hair fall freely down the back of the seat.
She needs this. She needs some time for herself, some time to think. It has been a rough couple of weeks, and all she needs to do is sit herself down and just let go. As her mind wanders in that dark, empty room, she realizes she doesn’t care. There are no logical explanations for why she should let this guy make her frazzled. He is only a guy; some stupid, foolish human that treated her poorly. He wasn’t the first to wage war against her heart. When she thinks about him, her jaw becomes tense and rigid, as if a high voltage is fizzling through her system. There is an undercurrent of fervent energy that is apparent from across the room.
His laugh is no longer a sweet melody in her ear. His smile is no longer a catalyst for hers. She lets out a groan and rolls her eyes, simultaneously throwing her hands behind her head. The classroom is bare. There are no posters, no charts, no pictures to adorn the plain white walls. She uses the walls as a floor-to-ceiling canvas. She begins to paint her feelings with her thoughts, projecting memories onto the walls. They transform into portraits of him. His crooked smile that she loved to jokingly make fun of; now it’s just a devilish smirk. His lively, bouncy laugh that she loved to hear; now it’s a cacophonous sound that makes her quiver with disgust. His portrait was once a masterpiece, flawless and unmatched. Now, it’s been converted to the devil’s work; it’s despicable and abhorrent. As she stares at the canvas, she cannot stand the sight of him. She shakes her head back and forth, shutting her eyes tight. Her hair whips around and her body rattles as she counts down in her head from five to zero. She stops; the canvas is blank. The walls are bare.
The orange light through the blinds has slipped to a dreamy purple color. There is no definite change in hue as time passes, just a gradual fading from one color to the next, soft and harmless. She re-positions herself in the seat, bends forward over the desk. She lies her head face-down on her folded arms and stares at the desktop. At close sight, it’s blurry, and she can’t define the pencil markings and scratches etched upon it. Just like her sight, every thought, every memory starts to become a blur.
She doesn’t understand what went wrong. She doesn’t know what changed, why they stopped talking to each other. She questions all of it; the missed phone calls, the averted gazes, the quick exits without a word exchanged. She wonders if she was the reason for the abrupt end. There is too much to find an explanation for, too much to rationalize, only to end up with no concrete solution. It’s all just a jumble, and because of this, she accepts the fog. She lets her thoughts mix and intertwine, and they become muddy. She is tired of picking apart each little thing. However hard she may try to find a reason, she always fails. The fact is that it is never going to make sense. So she lets it go. She doesn’t care.
Just as she begins to slip into sleep, she hears the door creak open. The switch flicks on and light floods the room as she squints up at the person in the doorway.
“Uh, excuse me. I’m sorry.” A guy with short, ashy-brown hair hesitates in the doorway as he peeks in at the girl. He wears an unbuttoned black fleece jacket with a t-shirt and light-wash jeans. He looks a bit unkempt, but he pulls it off. She doesn’t know who she is, but by the book bag strapped over his shoulder, she guesses he must be a student.
He steps into the room with a curious look on his face. His eyes are deep-set, but even from where she’s sitting, she can see his vivid contrasting blue eyes. Eyebrows furrowed, he asks, “Is there supposed to be a study session in here soon?”
She sits upright as if to respond, but she doesn’t know what to say. A simple answer required, but a million jumbled thoughts quickly resurfacing in her mind. Another guy; she finds him attractive, no doubt. As she struggles for words, she notices the dimples in his cheeks as he grins at her senselessness. He’s easy on the eyes with a tender smile, but he has to have a weapon stashed somewhere. A weapon that he’s just waiting to use to wage war against her heart. She doesn’t want to deal with another war.
My God, he’s handsome. What’s another war, right? She guesses the outcome will be the same as all of the others. Why not have another guy take a crack at it? It only makes her stronger. The tears and the torment from the last have proven to fortify the wall of steel that is her heart. Let’s see what this guy has in store. She doesn’t care.
“Yeah, there is. I’m just here a bit early.” She tousles her hair and bats her jet black eyelashes at him, flashing him a coy smile to match. “My name’s Peyton. Gonna tell me yours?”
Even so, I am daring enough and happy to say that I have recently become enamored with writing again. I'm not sure where exactly the spark came from, but I know there is a kindling flame that has been there all along. I just had to come to my senses and realize it, and realize I did.
Now, to tackle the topic of this thread. In my Creative Writing class this past semester, I was required to write four creative pieces: pieces of fiction, creative nonfiction, poetry and drama. This is my short story fiction piece. There's not much to it - it's not a big production or anything. This was something I wrote down a while ago. It's a mash-up of several ideas, including some personal experiences, inspiration from lyrics of a song... I'd love feedback, critiques, comments; anything that this short story may trigger in your mind, jot it down and let me know, or not. It's all up to you.
Thank you guys; here's my piece.
************
Into The Darkness
The classroom is dark when she opens the door. The blinds that cover the two tall, skinny windows have been shut. It is just about dusk. Dim, thin strips of pastel orange light appear on the dark berber carpet. She doesn’t turn on the lights. She steps into the room and shuts the door softly, turning the knob so that the lock doesn’t click against the strike plate. Once inside, she feels relaxed. Facing the empty classroom, she begins to look around. In the dark, she can’t see much, but she likes it that way. From what she can make out, it is a typical classroom. Her chestnut brown eyes scan the rows and columns of desks and chairs, most of them out of alignment from students that bumped them around as they hustled for the exit earlier that day. As a student, a bizarre feeling overcomes her from being in a classroom when lecture is not in session. A sobering experience it is when nothing is expected of her. She breathes slowly and saunters down one of the rows, her Keds skidding against the carpet as she goes. She picks a random seat, tosses her black leather jacket onto the floor, kicks her legs up onto the desk and leans back. She sighs a deep sigh and closes her eyes, tossing her head back and letting her blonde, wavy hair fall freely down the back of the seat.
She needs this. She needs some time for herself, some time to think. It has been a rough couple of weeks, and all she needs to do is sit herself down and just let go. As her mind wanders in that dark, empty room, she realizes she doesn’t care. There are no logical explanations for why she should let this guy make her frazzled. He is only a guy; some stupid, foolish human that treated her poorly. He wasn’t the first to wage war against her heart. When she thinks about him, her jaw becomes tense and rigid, as if a high voltage is fizzling through her system. There is an undercurrent of fervent energy that is apparent from across the room.
His laugh is no longer a sweet melody in her ear. His smile is no longer a catalyst for hers. She lets out a groan and rolls her eyes, simultaneously throwing her hands behind her head. The classroom is bare. There are no posters, no charts, no pictures to adorn the plain white walls. She uses the walls as a floor-to-ceiling canvas. She begins to paint her feelings with her thoughts, projecting memories onto the walls. They transform into portraits of him. His crooked smile that she loved to jokingly make fun of; now it’s just a devilish smirk. His lively, bouncy laugh that she loved to hear; now it’s a cacophonous sound that makes her quiver with disgust. His portrait was once a masterpiece, flawless and unmatched. Now, it’s been converted to the devil’s work; it’s despicable and abhorrent. As she stares at the canvas, she cannot stand the sight of him. She shakes her head back and forth, shutting her eyes tight. Her hair whips around and her body rattles as she counts down in her head from five to zero. She stops; the canvas is blank. The walls are bare.
The orange light through the blinds has slipped to a dreamy purple color. There is no definite change in hue as time passes, just a gradual fading from one color to the next, soft and harmless. She re-positions herself in the seat, bends forward over the desk. She lies her head face-down on her folded arms and stares at the desktop. At close sight, it’s blurry, and she can’t define the pencil markings and scratches etched upon it. Just like her sight, every thought, every memory starts to become a blur.
She doesn’t understand what went wrong. She doesn’t know what changed, why they stopped talking to each other. She questions all of it; the missed phone calls, the averted gazes, the quick exits without a word exchanged. She wonders if she was the reason for the abrupt end. There is too much to find an explanation for, too much to rationalize, only to end up with no concrete solution. It’s all just a jumble, and because of this, she accepts the fog. She lets her thoughts mix and intertwine, and they become muddy. She is tired of picking apart each little thing. However hard she may try to find a reason, she always fails. The fact is that it is never going to make sense. So she lets it go. She doesn’t care.
Just as she begins to slip into sleep, she hears the door creak open. The switch flicks on and light floods the room as she squints up at the person in the doorway.
“Uh, excuse me. I’m sorry.” A guy with short, ashy-brown hair hesitates in the doorway as he peeks in at the girl. He wears an unbuttoned black fleece jacket with a t-shirt and light-wash jeans. He looks a bit unkempt, but he pulls it off. She doesn’t know who she is, but by the book bag strapped over his shoulder, she guesses he must be a student.
He steps into the room with a curious look on his face. His eyes are deep-set, but even from where she’s sitting, she can see his vivid contrasting blue eyes. Eyebrows furrowed, he asks, “Is there supposed to be a study session in here soon?”
She sits upright as if to respond, but she doesn’t know what to say. A simple answer required, but a million jumbled thoughts quickly resurfacing in her mind. Another guy; she finds him attractive, no doubt. As she struggles for words, she notices the dimples in his cheeks as he grins at her senselessness. He’s easy on the eyes with a tender smile, but he has to have a weapon stashed somewhere. A weapon that he’s just waiting to use to wage war against her heart. She doesn’t want to deal with another war.
My God, he’s handsome. What’s another war, right? She guesses the outcome will be the same as all of the others. Why not have another guy take a crack at it? It only makes her stronger. The tears and the torment from the last have proven to fortify the wall of steel that is her heart. Let’s see what this guy has in store. She doesn’t care.
“Yeah, there is. I’m just here a bit early.” She tousles her hair and bats her jet black eyelashes at him, flashing him a coy smile to match. “My name’s Peyton. Gonna tell me yours?”
