[pre]A Trip to Here
Marty sat at an old desk that had taken a beating over the years, biting her pen and humming softly. She pushed a strand of curly auburn hair out of her line of sight.
“Think!” she said to herself. She had to write a short story for her 7th grade creative writing.
She had always been good at writing. Words seemed to flow naturally from her pen, as if it were guiding her hand and not the other way around. In the past three days, though, the best thing she’d written was a grocery list. It was not that she had no ideas; it was that every time she wrote something down she would read it and then decide to throw it away. Even if she liked it, she couldn’t help but think to herself, “What if I read it to the class and they hate it? What if they all read it and it’s so bad they start booing me? What if….” The fear had kept her from getting halfway through with anything. It had also created a massive amount of crumpled pieces of paper that were spilling out of her trashcan. She added a new one to the pile. Marty was despaired. She banged her head upon the desk a few times, and then rested it there with her eyes closed. “What am I going to do?” she thought.
Marty lifted her head. “Great, I fell asleep,” she thought grumpily. “And I’m going to have a red place on my forehead now.” She opened her eyes to examine the alarm clock on her desk, only to find that it was not there. Neither, in fact, was her pen or her paper or her room even! She realized that she was sitting in a very large room she had never before entered. It had white walls and a white floor, and the ceiling was a white expanse with giant, black paisleys swimming in it. The only thing with any color at all was her, her mahogany desk and her short, blue chair.
“Hello?” she called, and was surprised to hear her echo.
“Who is it?” replied a sweet, young, female voice.
“Um, I’m Marty. Who are you?” replied Marty, searching for the source of the voice. She spun around only to see no one. When she turned back, there was a girl, about her age, standing a foot away from her. The girl, who had given her quite a start, was dressed in a white suit and top hat, with a cane of the same color, and had white skin and hair. She seemed completely white except for a pair of big, amber eyes.
“Well, I’m Itra!” replied the girl cheerfully. She spun around her cane. “Might I ask, Marty dearest, what you are doing here?”
“No clue,” replied Marty. “I’m wondering that myself. Where is this place anyway?”
Itra seemed to frown at this question. She walked across the room, her cane tapping along beside her. She seemed to pull at something invisible, and then sat on top of what looked to be thin air, swinging her legs rhythmically. Upon further examination, Marty found that she truly was sitting on nothing.
“Well, that’s a complicated question. I’m not sure how to explain it exactly. Let’s just call it Here. Doesn’t that sound nice?” Itra said in her pleasant tone.
“Uh, I suppose,” said Marty, now becoming quite puzzled. “Who are you exactly, Itra? Why are you Here?”
Itra giggled before replying simply, “Why I’m your imagination!”
“This is utter nonsense,” thought Marty to herself. “This has to be a trick. This girl cannot possibly be my imagination.”
“It’s true!” said Itra, as though Marty had spoken aloud to her. She completely lay down on her surface of air. “I’m your dearest companion, though, lately, you have been making me sad. You won’t use any of my ideas.” Itra pouted childishly.
“I guess I haven’t,” admitted Marty.
“And I know why,” said Itra in a singsong voice. She jumped up and began to dance around with her cane in hand.
“Why?” said Marty, not really knowing herself.
“You’re scared!”
Marty sighed. Itra was right. She looked at Itra and said, “I’m just afraid that they’ll say I’m bad!”
Itra hummed and asked Marty, “Tell me, Marty dearest, why do you like to write?”
“Well,” replied Marty thoughtfully. “When I write I can say anything I like! It’s my own personal world to create when I write stories; my own creation.”
“Exactly!” cried Itra. “It’s yours. It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks! You created it, and as long as you are happy with it, that’s what counts! And if you enjoy writing it, then other people will love reading it!”
“You know, she’s right!” she thought.
“Of course I am!” said Itra, again disturbing Marty with her mind-reading ability.
“Thank you, Itra,” said Marty smiling.
“You’re quite welcome, Marty dearest! I suppose you’d like to go now, eh? After all, no one ever stays in Here forever.”
“Yes,” replied Marty. “But first I’d like to take a nap. I feel really tired all of a sudden.”
Marty walked over to her desk and chair, and sat down, once again resting her head on the hard surface. It was only a few moments before she began to fade into sleep.
“Sweet dreams,” whispered Itra next to her ear, but she could no longer hear the strange, all white girl with the amber eyes. She was somewhere else entirely. A very noisy somewhere.
Bang! Marty awoke with a start to find that she was again in her room, with noisy siblings outside her door, and a piece of paper under her face, wet with drool. Her alarm clock said it was seven thirty-five, and the smell of fresh cooked green bean casserole was wafting through the air. After a few drowsy moments, Marty remembered what had happened with Itra in Here, and what she had said about her writing, and how she shouldn‘t care what anyone else says. At once, she had a rush of inspiration. She picked up her pen with confidence and began to write.
“Once upon a time there was a young girl named Itra….” [/pre]
Why don't you just format it, like using paragraphs, etc. That way I can at least follow the text. If I can't read it, I can't review it. That's just how it works.
Marty sat at an old desk that had taken a beating over the years, biting her pen and humming softly. She pushed a strand of curly auburn hair out of her line of sight. “Think!” she said to herself.
She had to write a short story for her 7th grade creative writing. She had always been good at writing. Words seemed to flow naturally from her pen, as if it were guiding her hand and not the other way around. In the past three days, though, the best thing she’d written was a grocery list.
It was not that she had no ideas; it was that every time she wrote something down she would read it and then decide to throw it away. Even if she liked it, she couldn’t help but think to herself, “What if I read it to the class and they hate it? What if they all read it and it’s so bad they start booing me? What if….”
The fear had kept her from getting halfway through with anything. It had also created a massive amount of crumpled pieces of paper that were spilling out of her trashcan. She added a new one to the pile. Marty was despaired. She banged her head upon the desk a few times, and then rested it there with her eyes closed. “What am I going to do?” she thought.
Marty lifted her head. “Great, I fell asleep,” she thought grumpily. “And I’m going to have a red place on my forehead now.” She opened her eyes to examine the alarm clock on her desk, only to find that it was not there. Neither, in fact, was her pen or her paper or her room even! She realized that she was sitting in a very large room she had never before entered. It had white walls and a white floor, and the ceiling was a white expanse with giant, black paisleys swimming in it. The only thing with any color at all was her, her mahogany desk and her short, blue chair.
“Hello?” she called, and was surprised to hear her echo.
“Who is it?” replied a sweet, young, female voice.
“Um, I’m Marty. Who are you?” replied Marty, searching for the source of the voice. She spun around only to see no one. When she turned back, there was a girl, about her age, standing a foot away from her. The girl, who had given her quite a start, was dressed in a white suit and top hat, with a cane of the same color, and had white skin and hair. She seemed completely white except for a pair of big, amber eyes.
“Well, I’m Itra!” replied the girl cheerfully. She spun around her cane. “Might I ask, Marty dearest, what you are doing here?”
“No clue,” replied Marty. “I’m wondering that myself. Where is this place anyway?”
Itra seemed to frown at this question. She walked across the room, her cane tapping along beside her. She seemed to pull at something invisible, and then sat on top of what looked to be thin air, swinging her legs rhythmically. Upon further examination, Marty found that she truly was sitting on nothing.
“Well, that’s a complicated question. I’m not sure how to explain it exactly. Let’s just call it Here. Doesn’t that sound nice?” Itra said in her pleasant tone.
“Uh, I suppose,” said Marty, now becoming quite puzzled. “Who are you exactly, Itra? Why are you Here?”
Itra giggled before replying simply, “Why I’m your imagination!”
“This is utter nonsense,” thought Marty to herself. “This has to be a trick. This girl cannot possibly be my imagination.”
“It’s true!” said Itra, as though Marty had spoken aloud to her. She completely lay down on her surface of air. “I’m your dearest companion, though, lately, you have been making me sad. You won’t use any of my ideas.” Itra pouted childishly.
“I guess I haven’t,” admitted Marty.
“And I know why,” said Itra in a singsong voice. She jumped up and began to dance around with her cane in hand.
“Why?” said Marty, not really knowing herself.
“You’re scared!” Marty sighed. Itra was right.
She looked at Itra and said, “I’m just afraid that they’ll say I’m bad!”
Itra hummed and asked Marty, “Tell me, Marty dearest, why do you like to write?”
“Well,” replied Marty thoughtfully. “When I write I can say anything I like! It’s my own personal world to create when I write stories; my own creation.”
“Exactly!” cried Itra. “It’s yours. It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks! You created it, and as long as you are happy with it, that’s what counts! And if you enjoy writing it, then other people will love reading it!”
“You know, she’s right!” she thought.
“Of course I am!” said Itra, again disturbing Marty with her mind-reading ability.
“Thank you, Itra,” said Marty smiling.
“You’re quite welcome, Marty dearest! I suppose you’d like to go now, eh? After all, no one ever stays in Here forever.”
“Yes,” replied Marty. “But first I’d like to take a nap. I feel really tired all of a sudden.” Marty walked over to her desk and chair, and sat down, once again resting her head on the hard surface. It was only a few moments before she began to fade into sleep.
“Sweet dreams,” whispered Itra next to her ear, but she could no longer hear the strange, all white girl with the amber eyes. She was somewhere else entirely. A very noisy somewhere.
Bang!
Marty awoke with a start to find that she was again in her room, with noisy siblings outside her door, and a piece of paper under her face, wet with drool. Her alarm clock said it was seven thirty-five, and the smell of fresh cooked green bean casserole was wafting through the air. After a few drowsy moments, Marty remembered what had happened with Itra in Here, and what she had said about her writing, and how she shouldn‘t care what anyone else says. At once, she had a rush of inspiration. She picked up her pen with confidence and began to write.
“Once upon a time there was a young girl named Itra….”
Ubi caritas est vera, Deus ibi est.
"The mark of your ignorance is the depth of your belief in injustice and tragedy. What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the Master calls the butterfly." ~ Richard Bach
I remember writing something like this when I had writer's block, lol. It was for school too, come to think of it. Anyway, this is a very nice story. Not a real "deep" one (not in my opinion anyway) but a sweet one nonetheless. I would only caution to be not so preachy about imagination and writing. It's nice to bring that out, but to state it directly can sometimes kill the effect.
Ubi caritas est vera, Deus ibi est.
"The mark of your ignorance is the depth of your belief in injustice and tragedy. What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the Master calls the butterfly." ~ Richard Bach
Thanks, I really didn't think about it much. It was just sort of a short little thing I wrote down real quick. I have other, much deeper stuff that I write.
