Fireflies- Part 2

The story continues...

She made her way through the reception hall, gliding gracefully just on the edge of the room, careful to navigate around the other guests so as not to distract their eyes from the twirling lovers in the room’s center.  She stepped around the table laden with punch bowls and cups, and then another, where the cake towered, topped with a miniature, dancing bride and groom identical to the stunning pair swaying in perfect unison on the dance floor.  She took a seat with the cake table in clear view.  It was her favorite wedding tradition- watching the newly weds share the first delectable bites of cake.  

Of course, as endearing as it could be, it was not a romantic notion from which this interest sprang.  She was far too practical for romance after all.  Her mother had raised her better.  She believed a couple’s fate could be determined by this single exchange, and in possession of an extreme fascination with relationships and human nature, she had studied every morsel of cake consumed during this ritual at the fair share of weddings she had attended this year alone, making predictions she would obviously never admit aloud.  It seemed like a cruel little way to entertain herself, but so it was.

Naturally, she realized that despite her years of study in psychology, she had very little experience with love.  She had done her best to follow her mother’s guidance in avoiding the wandering eyes and empty lines offered by boys intrigued by her beauty.  It wasn’t that she was immune to the enchanting allure of the fairy tales, love songs, and pretty words, but she was taught not to be fooled by them.  No sparkly happy-ever-after could be found in love.  In spite of it all, she could still appreciate the idea of love, and she didn’t dare speak against it to any of her starry-eyed friends.  She simply had other priorities and pursued them with all of her being.  It made her mother proud, of that she was sure.

            She sat up straight to adjust a slight twist in her dress, before turning back to watch the couple.

“Hi.”

Startled by the simple word pulling her from her own little world, she looked up to find a tuxedo-clad man holding two glasses of punch.  She didn’t mind admitting he was handsome.  Very handsome, in fact.  His dark hair was just long enough to be neatly tousled, a stark contrast to his strikingly pale eyes, though their exact color was difficult to distinguish in the dim radiance of the chandeliers without awkwardly staring.  She wasn’t willing to risk sending the wrong message by doing so.

“Hello,” she responded casually.

“I don’t suppose I could offer you some punch?” he asked, with a slight grin, oddly drifting between a cool confidence and a nervous uncertainty that made her unknowingly return the smile.

“Thank you,” she said simply, reaching up to take a glass.  Experience told her to say nothing more.  She could hear her mother suggesting polite responses without any further encouragement to continue the conversation.  Eventually, they all go away.

“Would you like to sit down?”  The question uncontrollably tumbled out of her mouth. 

“Actually,” he began, “I would rather dance, if we could?”

 For the briefest of moments, she considered refusing, but she was a sucker for dancing, and she did intend to fully enjoy this evening in its entirety.  She took one last sip of her drink, and then set it on the table.  Placing her hand in his, she let him lead her to the floor.   He wrapped his arm firmly, but ever so gently around her waist.  Their eyes met and she was suddenly caught up in the stunning shade of light blue encompassing just a hint of a glowing golden green looking back at her.  It was a light leading her in.  And his arm was holding her there.   Before a rational thought could work it’s way in, he was interrupting her swirling thoughts again.

“Bride or groom?”

“I’m sorry?”  He was making a habit of catching her off guard.  Irritating, and still so charming, she thought.

“Are you here for the bride or for the groom?” he asked again.

“Oh, neither,” she coolly teased.  “I’m just part of the wait staff.”

He laughed. “Of course!  I should have known.  A beautiful woman dressed to the nines in this gorgeous blue… must be wait staff.”

What was she doing?  Flirting? 

She gathered herself in an attempt to revert to the minimal conversation rule. “No, I’m a cousin of the groom.  His sister and I were inseparable growing up.”

“Ah, well, Cousin of the Groom, do you have a name?”

“Lina.  I’m Lina.”

            He stopped dancing and gave a slight bow. “Well, it’s nice to meet you Lina.  I’m Lucas, brother of the bride.”

He gave her a little twirl and she was right back in his arms swaying to the music.  She found her world now whirling out of balance, the dizzying effect more from the embrace than the spin.  She could see Lucas was trouble to her uncharacteristically wavering resolve, but in this moment, she wasn’t sure she cared.

           

Fireflies- Part 1

 Here's a little short story I've been working on... or the beginning anyway.  I'll post Part II soon.  Tell me what you think!

Fireflies (Part I)

He stared out into the dancing crowd adorned in their finest, the music and lights lapping at his senses.  No penny had been spared to conjure the magic in celebrating this wedding.  His sister glowed in her happiness with her groom twirling her about the dance floor, blonde curls bouncing.  She was the quintessential bride, blushing and all, and his baby sister had never looked so lovely to him.  He was happy for her, to say the least, but even caught in this dazzling place of love and light, he was drowning in numbness. Life had lost its allure.  Or perhaps he had just lost the ability to see it.  He found he didn’t even dare wish for it anymore.   The world’s small wonders just couldn’t be found in his monotonous daily commute between the corner of Adult Avenue and Responsibility Street.

But as the acceptance of his hope’s surrender washed over him, a sparkle drifted into the room, like a firefly on the breeze in the form of a beautiful woman.  She was draped in a dress of deep blue- the very shade of evening’s waking hour, with little flickers glittering in the low light of the ballroom.  Was it jewels or sequin?  He imagined it could’ve been the very stars from the sky.  She took his breath away.  As she swept in front of him, hips swaying to the music, he caught her scent.  It was the exact essence of a June evening- citrus sweet with just a hint of honeysuckle. The splendor of youthful summers surrounded him, seduced him, and he was instantly caught up in a time when every bit of life sparked wonder in his young eyes.

He was sixteen that final summer spent on his family’s country wrap-around porch.  He couldn’t fathom a time when the rickety swing there wouldn’t be his favorite spot, though it was that very September his father would take a job in the city, leaving these precious, simple nights as nothing but a memory.  He would idly sit on the swing, looking out at the edge of the woods with a strangely calming sense of anticipation as night fell. The tiny twinkle of the lightning bugs flashing and rising, blink by blink.  There was one, then another.  He could never resist their summons, and so with mason jar in hand, he would bound off the porch with a child-like enthusiasm in hunt of the magical creatures that could light his jar.  It was even by the glow of this bug lantern that he stole his first kiss, believing himself to be the sole charmer, but knowing now it was merely the hypnotic beauty of the fireflies.   

Hypnotic beauty. Yes, this Summer in a Blue Dress captivated him in the same way here tonight, shimmering and shining.  Her bright smile, her flushed cheeks, the gleam of her eyes, and the ravishing appeal of her body perfectly fitted in that dress; every bit of her capable of sparkle shone.  As his eyes followed her across the room, it occurred to him- each dusk spent on that porch was preparation for this very moment.  He knew he must catch her, even if only to spend a moment in her company.

Practice is the Purpose

I find dialogue awkward.  That is, I find writing dialogue awkward.  There is a certain singsong-ish flow to a conversation created by voices and tones and facial expressions alone, involving senses much more complicated to convey in written word.  It is an art... and it is an art I am working to develop.

There is nothing quite so intimidating to me, in regards to writing, as transferring the lively characters dancing through my imagination and their exchanges to paper, except perhaps doing so poorly.  It is, however, in my experience, the very thing you dislike most or are most uncomfortable with which you should practice most ardently until you find mastery, or at the very least comfort.

Burpees are my best example in this moment, because so much of what I do now is relatable to the more palpable physical struggles of fitness and health. I don't know many people that don't have a love-hate relationship with taking a push-up and adding a "stand-up-and-jump" to it.  I realized very quickly in sweating through a workout that that which I hate most is where I needed the most training, and burpees were public enemy #1, as far as I was concerned.  The only way to beat them was to perfect my execution of them.  It's still a work in progress, but you get the idea.

I'm taking this approach to writing fiction, but more specifically written dialogue.  Practice practice practice.  Lucky for me, I have a blog as a perfect, and very public place to do just that.

I have spent many a night lately, as is evident by Little Wonders' explosion of random typed word-vomit posted, exercising various aspects of the art of writing.  I have scribbled notes on receipts, scraps of paper, and in several spiral bound notebooks tucked in corners of my home, car, and purse for years.  In the absence of pen and paper, I am grateful for a rather writer-friendly phone collecting my ramblings in electronic form.  I can't get enough, and honestly, it's about time I worked my way towards organizing this collection.

This is my explanation for what may seem like a blog full of words and posts lacking purpose as a whole.  Essentially, you are subjected to my self-assigned exercises.  I hope you find some enjoyment, if not amusement, in my nonsense.

And with that, I will leave you with last night's little assignment.  Five minutes spent creating an exchange between two beloved characters...

"Glow" 

(Another excerpt from a novel I have yet to write.)

He grinned and gently brushed her cheek, reveling and reeling in the residual waves of their love made. 

“You’re glowing again.”

Even in the shadows of the pre-dawn darkness, her smile shone in response. “It’s like the moon, my love, merely reflecting light from another source.”  She gave the sweetest sigh with a tender, blissful kiss. “It’s what you do to me.”

She snuggled into the crook of his arm as he found his way to the space beside her, like the final pieces of a puzzle connected.

“Oh no, love,” he whispered, taking in the honeyed scent of her skin. “It is all you.”

“Maybe,” she conceded with a wicked little giggle. “But then you are certainly the flint that sparks the fire within me.”

Snow Blind

I'm currently reading The Wednesday Sisters by Meg Waite Clayton.  I inadvertently read the sequel, The Wednesday Daughters, first while on Christmas vacation, but enjoyed it so much I couldn't stop to wait until I could find this one.  So, backwards I went, finishing the second first, then finding the first at the library this week.

The "Wednesday sister's" encourage each other to chase their dreams of becoming published novelists through the sharing of weekly writing assignments.  Though only on chapter 6, I think it is a brilliant practice, and having dreams quite similar to these ladies, I have been inspired to participate.

Today, I took an object (our snow covered fire pit) and wrote this fictitious little ditty about it, imagining it would come somewhere in the midst of a novel I have yet to write.

Snow Blind (An Excerpt from a Novel I Have Yet to Write)

I take a deep breath and follow a single flake, the fluffiest I can spot, as it falls from the sky, floating gently, changing direction ever so slightly, and I flinch as it tenderly hits the window.  As if this miniscule cluster of ice could hurt me somehow, or even reach me through the protection of the door.  It’s absurd.  When did I become so jumpy?  

I follow another, determined to hold my gaze, like a child in an intense round of “Made You Blink.”  With another breath, I lose sight of the second, and then the third, my frustration surfacing.  The fourth attempt is a success.  The flake sticks to the window, and I hold fast, but still I am unsatisfied.

“Quit while you’re ahead,” I whisper to myself.  Willingly, I obey and abandoned my insanity, giving in to the need to simply capture a moment of rest here on the floor at the backdoor.

It isn't long before my mind wanders off again.  Staring out into this blustery, blowing snow is as mesmerizing as the dancing flames of a summer’s end fire in our backyard pit; the ones we built just before the chaos of fall swept in.  I remember the last one vividly.  Fire-roasted and kid-blackened hot dogs, your favorite potato chips, fresh scooped watermelon, and s’mores.  You all laughed and agreed; I make the best ones, even though I never eat more than the remnants of melted chocolate and marshmallow sticky on my fingers.  I’d found the perfect ratio of graham to marshmallow to chocolate, made most efficiently for enjoyment at just the right ooey-gooey temperature.  Not too hot.  Not too cold. 

I catch myself smiling again at the very silliness of my own nonsense and obsessive behavior.  A perfect s’mores recipe? 

But it was a good night.  With the kids tucked snug in their beds, we enjoyed the fire’s last embers and a beer in our comfortable silence.  My hand in yours, you led me from the dying warmth of the fire to the kindling & passion of our bed.

A tear slides down my cheek.  That poor fire pit seems to have disappeared beneath more than just the two feet of snow now stifling its glow and memory.   As my mind drifts like the tumbling snowflakes, I wonder how we got here.  And how do we find our way back when we’re both wandering lost and snow blind?

The Broken Heart's Jar

This isn't my usual thing, but it's something that just came out one day, and I kind of liked it.

I broke something today-

Something that didn't belong to me.

I held it tenderly close for so long, 

As long as I could.

Was it years?

Decades?

Surely longer.

Though now it seems it was mere minutes as I look upon its pieces 

Unintentionally shattered at my feet.

I don't remember ever feeling stronger,

Or so completely powerless.

And now I'm left staring blankly at the inevitable, heartbreaking destruction of it all.

But then, that must be the way of it.

As you grow in your own strength,

You release the burdens others place upon you;

To stand tall in the confidence you have painstakingly built.

I carried your "could haves," "should haves," and "would haves"

Day after endless day,

Always making more of it than you meant.

And in the end, 

It was my heart and my life

Or yours.

Wait. Quietly.

This is no small thing I seek.

And so I will simply do as I’m told.

Wait.
Quietly.

It was in the stillness of an evening a few nights back that these words came to me, reverberating in the deafening silence as a critical answer to a question I’ve been forced to ask.

Waiting isn’t foreign to me. I am a military wife. We are forever and always waiting on something. In fact, I’m fairly certain “hurry up and wait” is the unofficial motto every military family has displayed in fridge-magnet form or cross-stitched neatly on a pillow. If not, we should. And though I’m typically not so keen to just wait, and certainly not patiently, this particular time, the words echoed through my body with the soothing warmth only peace can offer- a sensation these restless bones haven’t known for far too long.

Still, I questioned.

No, it wasn’t the “wait,” but the “quietly” that tripped me up. So, what did I do? I went straight to the online dictionary for the cliché writer’s definition search...

quietly- adv. 1. Making no noise or sound, especially no disturbing sound. 2. Free, or comparatively free, from noise.

Quietly. Not still. Not patiently. Not even silently.
Wait quietly.

Ok. My mission, should I choose to accept it… free from expressive noises of great excitement or grievance, I will move through my days in productive pursuit of the tasks at hand and tackle each one with a content heart. I will live and love each moment… and I will wait. I will wait faithful that in its time, this seemingly non-answer answer will work itself out. I will allow that initial peace to fill me and replace the sneaky doubt that creeps in with the passing of time.

I have my work cut out for me.

Wait.
Quietly.

Mission accepted.