The pool where I work on campus is surrounded by windows and since it’s located in the center of campus, there’s a lot of foot traffic. I oftentimes find myself glancing at people passing by. One guy in particular struck a chord with me and caused me to quickly write this.
When I see the despicable pattern in its classic color scheme, I instantly cringe. I almost feel sorry for the guy, but then I stop myself before the empathy kicks in. He made the choice himself, for I sincerely doubt someone held a gun to his head swaying his decision as he stood in front of his closet this morning.
My hatred for plaid runs deep. Its existence is as pointless as that of Crocs. A series of lines of various thicknesses, alternating between red, gray, black, blue, yellow, white. Their combination plants images of lumberjacks and burly unshaven men in the mind. How that stereotype came about, I don’t really care to know, but the fact that it exists should have hold some weight with the plaid wearing community. Yet it doesn’t. The autrocity that is plaid clothing–especially long-sleeved, button down shirts as they receive the strongest shudder of disgust–continues.
There’s a reason plaid rhymes with bad and sad.
It actually hurt to search google for this image.
From a letter I wrote to the boyfriend:
There’s a pine tree outside the window to the left of the lifeguard stand. It’s the home of two squirrels, a male and a female. As I sit here, I see movement every few minutes or so from the tree. If I’m quick enough, I can catch the male squirrel coming down from the top of the tree, or him returning to the tree with clumps of grass and twigs in his mouth. Over and over again he climbs down from the top of the tree just to climb back up again only a few moments later.
They are making a nest; spring is coming. They’ll have babies soon. The male squirrel makes countless trips up and down the tree to gather materials. He’s building a home for his family. He’s going to be a father soon, so he’s stepping up and taking responsibility. Maybe it’s just his animal instinct, but I like to romanticize and think that it’s because he loves the female squirrel. He wants to build her a home. Hell, there’s a chance that it isn’t even the male squirrel at all. I cannot tell the gender of squirrels nor do I know which sex builds the nest, but there’s nothing romantic about a female squirrel building her own nest.
I’m telling you this silly story about squirrels and nests because when I watched the male squirrel make his upteenth trip, I thought of you, and how if we were squirrels, you would make a million trips up and down our tree to build us a home because you love me.
I don’t literally expect the human equivalent of the male squirrel. Rather, this whole thing is just a metaphor of sorts for our love. The male squirrel is showing the female squirrel he loves her with each trip. You do the same thing in a sense, I just have failed to really grasp that until now.
Even though I haven’t been taking very many photographs for a while, I haven’t been writing creatively for even longer. Gone are the days I would think of a silly idea in my head and just write about it until I ran out of things to say about it. Is this lack of creative writing just one big writer’s block?
I’ve decided I’m going to start posting short pieces of my creative writing on here to get feedback, advice, and maybe some inspiration to take things further with a few of them.
I have a few old writings saved that I want to bring out and reevaluate, so I’ll be posting those first as I work to get myself back into writing things other than college assignments again.
So here’s part one of the first chapter of a book (titled Till Darkness Comes) I had started to write probably five or six years ago and of course, never finished. I haven’t read any of it in ages, so we’ll be looking at it for the first time together. Let me know if you want to see more of it, if you rather not read another word, or if I should try and rewrite it now that I’m older.
The darkness of the night was insufferable. Laura tried to stay hidden the best she could. She glanced over at her brother, Kevin, hiding behind a nearby rock. Knowing that the demons were somewhere in the darkness, terrified her to the crevices of her soul. She had been in this sort of situation many times before but it had never been this dangerous or real. To be caught would mean being taken to where all the other disappearing children in the town had went, wherever that was. Trying to stay calm and not show her brother any fear, Laura snuck out from behind her hiding place to see what happened to her parents. She knew they were dead, there was no doubt, but she still needed to see them just one more time.
Sneaking like she seemed born to do, she put her back up against the side of the house. She slid slowly and cautiously across the rough jagged surface of the old white farmhouse until she found the back door. Swinging it open, there was a loud squeak, causing Laura to wince with the thought of the demons unnatural hearing seeking her out with her just opening an old rusted door. She waited to hear the demons’ wings swooping down upon her, but when Laura strained herself to listen as hard as she could, she still heard only the deadly silence of the night.
Knowing she was wasting time she didn’t have, Laura went inside but didn’t turn on any lights. She knew the demons would have no reason to return to the now deserted town, but she didn’t want to take any chances. Through the darkness she could make out rough outlines of furniture and other family belongings. Laura stood there, just staring into the darkness.
Coming out of her daze, she seemed more alert then ever. Turning to the stairs, Laura began to take them, two at a time. Reaching the last step, she heard a small quiet murmur behind her. She spun around to find nothing but a piece of paper, worn from the constant blowing through the broken glass of the den window.
Taking in a deep breath, she stepped onto the landing, and started toward the splintered door at the end of the hallway. Reaching it, she traced the huge gashes of the demons’ greatest weapon, their mind. There was no reminisce of a door knob so Laura placed her palms between the slashes and pushed. She held her breath. There in the middle of the room, were the distorted shapes of her beloved parents.