17 years ago I entered a brand new school after moving to a new district with my family. I was 8 years old, school was my entire life and I was not fond of abandoning my friends and moving to a new district. But, since my age was indefensible, I had zero say in my parent’s decision to migrate.
One day one at the new school, I was understandably nervous, and I didn’t make any friends. Day two is a blur, but my point is I never made friends. Instead my teacher at the time was teaching writing. Every morning myself and a school of 8 year olds would walk into Mr. Deetz’s class and read the prompt he’d writen on his easel. That easel became my friend. When I was given the task of writing a story I found it really easy. I not only wrote for the assignments back in third grade, but I wrote constantly on my own. Stories about the eventual friends I made, plays, and lots of imaginary fiction. I got so comfortable with writing that in the 6th grade I swelled up and wrote the longest story I’d ever written. A 26 page story called ” The Jacket”. I loved writing so much. Unfortunatly, my social awkwardness never wore off, and bullies saw me as easy prey. I was heavily impacted by mean people and my self-esteem plummeted. I managed to write a sequel to “The Jacket” but the only attention I got was hostile and I essentially gave up on sharing my ideas, stories, and thoughts to anyone. I became a robot at 12 years old. Going to school and coming home. I still wrote freely in a journal, but noone had a clue who I was. I assumed every single classmate would poke at me in a hostile way. I withdrew from sports after school, going to the Boys & Girls club, and having any social life at all.
Fast forward to about four years ago, I’m in college, still a mute but a lot better at being independent of others approval. I’m writing college assignments, and freewriting in a journal for 5-6 hours every week since 2014. I’m still writing stories, but my belief in myself is fractured. I write 1-5 page fictional stories and I’m happy with them, but I don’t look for people to share them with anymore. They sit handwritten in used notebooks. Anyways, I’m writing weekly and lighting strikes my thoughts. I write in a stream of consciousness and some thought tread grips the road. I write one two three four pages excitedly thinking through this story. I’m organically thinking through plot points, characters, interweaving relevance between characters all on the fly. I write until the coffee shop where I’m sitting is about to close and reluctantly stop. I work on the story consistently almost every week until now, in 2019. The story has shattered my previous record of 26 notebook pages, sitting at 72. I’m typing this story today and that’s the thing I finally realized.
I’m a writer. I’ve always been a writer. I believe in that and that overpowers anybody else’s adverse comments towards me. I am a writer…and I want to share my stories.
So visit the writing the anthology on this site and read the first 500 words of the story that caught fire in my mind and revitalized the belief that I had 17 years ago.
I am a writer above all else.
,” Restitute Lord Macklebee the 3rd!”. read the repurposed pizza box held by James Mchanahan. His long stocking socks that protested their long oppression of imprisonment below the dreaded ankle. An eye-catching of the most outspoken at first glance from onlookers. James stood proudly on the corner of Strange way and Mackle drive. The ongoing traffic on the street to him were subjected to the wrath of James’s blistering political adversity all afternoon. At first glance, the cardboard box in his hand seemed too small for the onlookers to see and consequently, due to James’s flagrant display of sock justice, ignored him. To him anyway. Passerby simply assumed the young pizza enthusiast with the cardboard sign, was presumed to compliment his fashion statement. For three hours, all by his lonesome, James shook his sign in demand for bureaucratic action of the rawest form,” Restitute Lord Macklebee the Third!” shouted he to the captive public of rush hour drivers. The cars that passed were semi – uniformly colored, which became a convoy passing through the intersection. The convoy was indeed a funeral procession and unfortunately that were James’s only supporters because they drove slower. Unknow to James, his influence was limited because of the lack of traffic lights and stop signs, except for the convoy of black to grey cars lead by the city’s finest cat detective Lord Macklebee the 2nd. “What’ll you have sir?” asked the bartender looking at Chucks Mchanahan. Chucks avoided eye contact from the bartender who knew Chucks all too well these days. “Chucks?” The room was quiet and that voice, female in profile, carried over the large, empty room. Low ventilation humming, and some smooth jazz playing were the only sounds occupying the room. “Chucks?” the questioning voice from the entrance of the bar said again. Chucks, after a moment of observing the high-end liquor along the back wall of the bar straining to see the label’s names like most bored drunks routinely did. Chucks and the drunk at the doorway met eyes and bounced non-verbal signals like a stretched bungee cord.,” Get me another whiskey” the man at the bar said to the bartender in a flat tone, still eyeing the person at the door. “And an apple cider for the young lady at the door Chucks audibly changed his tone with a smile nodding at Helena Nostrid, his estranged wife. Chucks eyed the bartender with a mixed look of envy, dread and electricity. Helena was not subtle, her heels pierced the room with constant tapping on the hardwood floor, the tapping stopped when she slid on the stool beside Chucks. She looked at him with a yearning expectancy. It was all a very routine interaction between Helena and Chucks, like a choreographed scene in some sepia toned movie. The bartender put down the drinks, glass hitting the counter masked a transition of music, also choreographed. Crazy by Patsy Cline commented on Helena’s demeanor. Chucks was hardly paying attention to the music. He was still in love with Helena, she was a beautiful woman capable of a thousand expressions in the smallest facial twitch. Seductive in her every move, which was maddening to those who saw her the way Chucks did. Her maddening look wasn’t all show, she was out of her mind, estranged if you will.
Skills Give Life To Dreams 