Okay. I went on the most memorable, and beautiful trip to California with my father two years ago. It was our last vacation together before he passed away. I wish I had a video camera then, as I could have taken such lovely videos. However, you work with what you got. What I have is memories-- so many memories. We drove up and down the pacific coast highway, went to so many places, one of which was Mt. Lassen. While visiting, there were an abundance (and by abundance I mean way too many to count) of tortoise butterflies hanging around. I told my dad they might be secret ninjas. It turns out, at the top of the mountain there was a wind tunnel, which many of the little guys got stuck in. The ones that got out over produced, hence having so many. It made me think a lot. Anyway, I am now writing a story, which I might turn into a screenplay. I have been working on this idea/ bits and pieces of the story for two years now. I was thinking I could start posting snippets on here and hopefully get some feedback. The butterflies are a bit of a metaphor in my story, and will be related to my three main characters- Margot, Laramie, and Nick. It's about how people often feel stuck or give up on themselves, which in turn makes them give up hope. Laramie is the one who doesn't ever give up, however. He is brave- he is the one that gets out and wants to do something bigger. I'm thinking of writing the story from all three of their perspectives, but right now it's being told from Margot's. I don't know. It's still in very, very rough draft format. Anyway, here is a snippet from it. Thanks for letting me ramble.
All around him the world was on fire. I used to want to watch it burn, knowing it was the only consequence fathomable for all the things we had done. He never felt the flames like I did. They cradled my fingertips like a mother to their infant; the smoke eroded the enamel of my teeth, and hung a noose around my lungs until I felt them berthed in my stomach. My heart was like a ship cut loose from its dock, resounding beat drifting until it was nothing more than the hum of a hummingbird. He was in a canoe made of white cedar—the poignancy of it staining his wrists, lulling him further away from me. It wasn’t long until I was nothing more then an apparition, and yet, I felt the inevitable fear of a war bride plagued with the knowledge I’d soon be widowed.
Laramie always kept his eyes closed when it was his turn to bat. He tried to teach me to play in the same manner but I was too scared. He’d ask if I was ready and before the ball would leave his hand, I’d be on the ground like a marionette cut from its strings. The other team and out-of-towners would assume he was blind until his first time up to bat, which never ceased to be a home run. Laramie didn’t depend on the vision of his azure oculars but relied on his faith. This wasn’t a faith one acquired eating the flesh and blood of Jesus Christ but faith of the game. After playing for fifteen years, Lare felt a kinship to the sport and trusted his instincts to signal him when to swing.
Created: Jul 28, 2010Document Media