A story hides in this picture, I can feel it... and I can't wait to see what it is! Come back tomorrow to read my version.
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The warm wind whipped at Emily's hair, playing with the
golden strands as if to test and see whether they were truly as like the wheat
stalks of the field as they looked.
What are you doing here?, it seemed to say. And while the asker was a most irrational
character, Emily recognized the complete legitimacy of the question. Why aren't you in the hustle and bustle of
downtown Austin, back at your office desk in the heart of a busy city, pulsing
with energy and activity? Why are you
here instead, on this dusty road in the middle of nowhere?
She'd rather not think about the question, but it refused to
leave her alone. Down the highway and
down the lightly-trafficked FM roads it had chased her, while she'd nervously
glanced in her rear view mirrors, unable to shake off a feeling of
pursuit.
Which was ridiculous.
Nobody was going to come looking for her like this. Not Andrew, mad though he might still be
about their break-up two weeks ago. Not her editor. None of the handful of writers she knew and
tried to establish some sort of connection with. And her family wouldn't have even known the
difference. Though geographically they
lived somewhere around here, they were miles and years in the past; all ties
were sundered on both sides when she'd 'run away to the big city' to pursue her
'writing dream'. No, there was no one
who would really follow her, was there?
Emily tapped nervously on the steering wheel, and turned the
radio up louder, pretending the wind's whispers were a welcome, and not a
warning.
She glances over at the can of pills in the passenger seat. Funny, she thinks to herself, they don't look so very different from the ones recommended by that therapist she'd visited once. She hadn't had the money to keep up with that sort of crazy thing, and ignored her gut feeling that she needed something to help her balance. She was fine on her own. Wasn't she?
She had failed. Her writing dream- just a puff of smoke, unattainable? Burned out? A mirage? She couldn't believe that her uncle was right- she wouldn't have done better if she'd stayed and let her mind rot in the stillness of their house, would she? The dusty road seemed to mock her, puffing up clouds of sneering laughter. You don't belong here either.
She slammed hard on the brakes, only noticing the bag almost as she was on top of it. What was that doing here?
She stepped out of the car slowly, her eyes fixed on the strange bag. A messenger bag had no business lying in the middle of a deserted country road.
It looked nice too; not brand new- there was evidence of some use, but it hardly looked old or worn yet. She touched it, and wondered at the quality of the leather. Really, what was a perfectly fine bag like this doing here?
Emily unlatched it. Surely it would be empty; she'd been mentally preparing herself for that disappointment but not until she saw that it wasn't did she realize how dearly she'd been hoping it wouldn't be.
The first paper was- no, wait, that couldn't be. She'd been the only one to keep a copy of her first story like this, she was sure. And she'd shredded it before she set off on her desperate drive. Yet here it was, as if it had come of the high school press just yesterday.
That was strange- but then so was the next piece that she recognized. And the next one. And the next one. This was her portfolio?
Emily flipped through the stack, briefly pausing thoughtfully at some, rolling her eyes at others, and wondering at the whole collection. It was all here, with nothing else. No, wait- attached to the last story- the last draft, really, that had been rejected by every single one of the three dozen publications she'd pitched, there was a note.
She stepped out of the car slowly, her eyes fixed on the strange bag. A messenger bag had no business lying in the middle of a deserted country road.
It looked nice too; not brand new- there was evidence of some use, but it hardly looked old or worn yet. She touched it, and wondered at the quality of the leather. Really, what was a perfectly fine bag like this doing here?
Emily unlatched it. Surely it would be empty; she'd been mentally preparing herself for that disappointment but not until she saw that it wasn't did she realize how dearly she'd been hoping it wouldn't be.
The first paper was- no, wait, that couldn't be. She'd been the only one to keep a copy of her first story like this, she was sure. And she'd shredded it before she set off on her desperate drive. Yet here it was, as if it had come of the high school press just yesterday.
That was strange- but then so was the next piece that she recognized. And the next one. And the next one. This was her portfolio?
Emily flipped through the stack, briefly pausing thoughtfully at some, rolling her eyes at others, and wondering at the whole collection. It was all here, with nothing else. No, wait- attached to the last story- the last draft, really, that had been rejected by every single one of the three dozen publications she'd pitched, there was a note.
"Here dies another day,
During which I have had eyes, ears, hands
And the great world around me;
And with tomorrow begins another.
Why am I allowed two?
-G.K.C.
Can't waste a precious day, let alone a precious life.
Emily put her head into her hands, and let all the tears she'd thought had already left her flow out. This bag, showing her all that she'd tried and done as a writer... this note, reminding her that a life could matter, a day wasn't a misery to be escaped.
Picking the bag up, Emily dusted herself off. She may not be in good shape in her writing career, she might not have anyone waiting for her, but it didn't matter. She had a story to write, and a life to live.
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