A Story I Wrote

Here is a story I wrote a very long time ago when I used to blog on Xanga. My Xanga site seems to be about to be shut down and is not easily accessed, so I decided to copy it here. If you have already read it, I am sorry. if you haven't, enjoy.


...

She lay shrouded in ambiguity and was dying slowly of passive agression. She had no plans for this world, but did just enough to get by. She had no meaningful relations, and neglected her home. People knew her enough to like her, but never enough to despise what she knew they could. There was always an excuse not to work. She made enough to get be on the kindness of others. No one knew what she thought, who she was, or what she meant. She kept it that way. It felt safe.

To her left, he sat idly shifting. He had many things of import to say. He knew how to change the world. His energy was barely contained, but for action, he was quadrapalegic. He read seven books yesterday. He wants to tell her about them, but he knows she won't read them. He is anxious for the world to start moving so his plans can begin. Inside, he knows it has always been going, but is scared his plans will fail. Besides, he made twenty-seven dollars in tips yesterday. It may not be worth all that time he spent in college, but it sure feels good to live the real life.

Next was the man with the monocle. He adjusted it constantly while speaking of shin splints and arthritis. He has never left this town, and probably never will. But he sounds mighty in the condemnation of others, but knows his empathy spreads farther than most. He hopes they dont notice his breath, he hasn't slept in weeks. He wants to take care of others, but has never been one to take care of himself. At the end of the day, he goes home alone. He knows he always will.

She meekly folded her hands in her lap. The man next to her made her nervous. He kept spinning that monocle and smelled like booze. She hated them all and smiled. She had once read that the meek would inherit the earth, and she wanted it all right now. Her quiet persona matched her stature, but her vengence was strong. She knows no one can see the heart. She is glad. Hers is a stop watch, a gift from the wizard. Nothing about her is real. All tin and creaks, but with fresh paint. She smiles because no one knows. She has never read a book, and all her peotry rhymes, but she will quote Aristotle when her time comes to speak.

He puffed up his chest while looking at hers. He liked how she had her hands folded. He knew the quiet ones always had a wild side. He had no idea where he was. He had stumbled in off the street. He didn't remember a day after his seventeenth birthday. So he functioned from there everyday. He felt big, like a man. He hoped this wasn't a church or a book club. He wasn't much for studying. He had a job he didn't know how to do, and a wife he didn't know how to love. He came home at the end of the day, and wondered where his glory went. Tonight he would go home and call seven people he went to high school with. Same as every night.

He had brought his guitar and strummed it slowly. He had never really learned how to play. He felt like a groupie. He probably was. He was self-conscious of his weight. He hoped no one would notice. He smoked with no hands, letting the ash fall into someone's coffee. He liked the guy next to him. He bet he used to play ball. We all used to play ball. He suddenly pontificated loudly about the end of the world. No one seemed to hear. That was the troube these days. No one ever seemed to hear. Maybe he would move home.

The guy with the guitar kept ashing in his coffee. He wished he had chosen somewhere else to be. The woman next to him was like the sun. Maybe they could just leave together. He was strong and quiet. But he felt awkward. He took up too much space. He felt like he might explode the room. He didn't want to speak. He was afraid he would have to. He never cried in public. Well, he had that once... He is wistful and kind, but needs to leave. He knows the door is so close. But how do you just go?

She completed the circle. The man on her right was the moon. She loved him. On her left sat the consequences of too many years of hiding. She itched her knows. She hated this song. She watched everyone in the circle, but knew she would never say a word. She could feel each of them, but felt so detatched anymore. Ever since they bought that house, the one with all the brick. She should have lived uptown. She didn't know anyone. She had just met herself. She wished she could quit smoking, but vices were her life. The guy kept eying the door. She hoped he would ask her to leave with him. But the meeting was beginning.

They folded their chairs and leaned them side by side against the wall. They lined up. Someone cleaned the coffee pot. The sign above the door glowed EXIT. Two people coughed. The single bulb swayed before plunging into darkness as someone pulled the chain. A door opened. It was raining. Someone left and thought they were a rock star. One wrote a book on philosophy that no one ever read. Not even a publisher. One died of passive aggression, but not the one you'd think. Someone never left home. Someone went too far. All but two were alone, though they all bedded someone that evening. Two of them smiled at the rain.