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challenge accepted
November 23, 2005
so, i get this email back from a running buddy. she must have been drunk. she doesn't have access to the blog, but she threw out a challenge, and it piqued my interest.
did i already write about my initial disillusionment with the book "the 3AM epiphany"? i'm wanting to be given scenarios to write from. anyway, her email threw one at me, though it was pretty damned cheesy (I guess now she'll never have access to the blog.)
(Setting)San Fransisco 1929, late cold evening, soft mist is in the air, the smell of the pacific comes through the window.....a young woman begins to write......
(Juanita)
My Dearest James,
I'ts been 2 days since we've last spoken over a pleasant breakfast of.........
Ok now it's your turn to continue the story.......
so, my response to the challenge is also pretty damned cheesy. but hey, gotta go with what i'm given, and it took me about 50 minutes, so what do you want? it does bother me that i'm beginning to suspect that maybe i'm just prone to melodrama. but, i also intend to take a comedic swipe at this challenge in the next few days... anyway, here it is:
My Dearest James,
It's been two days since we last spoke over a pleasant breakfast of
poached eggs and bacon, juice and coffee.
She looked across the bay, its icy waters smooth tonight, a dark mirror under a dark, moonless sky. With a bit of wine, and the silence, and time, she came to a point where her mind could release, let go of just a little of what it knew, so that it no longer was clear which was sky and which was sea. All was depth and darkness and
the twinkle of stars.
The only thing that disturbed the illusion (or was it true perception?) was the rocky crag of the island jutting up out of the waters, crowned by the lights from the construction that had just begun on what was to be a prison for the worst of criminals, a life of
isolation on a barren rock where hope was suspended, in the midst of beauty.
She understood something of, but did not forgive, the criminal mind.
But she felt some kinship already with those that would soon inhabit
that island, Death's own waiting room.
She looked back at the letter he had written to her, as if it held the
clues to what she could possibly say to James now, to answer the
question that had finally come, that she had dreaded. But the
immediacy of that crisis was lost as she read...
Juanita, My Love,
Forgive me writing you. My own self-loathing flows through my blood
even now, and I am weak. This opium haze reveals so many lies, but at the same time, it compels me to truth.
I only ever tried to win your favour. When I found I had it, I then
tried to be worthy of it. When I ran across that field that day, I
cared for my mates, for my country and the cause. I was spurred by
fire, and bloodlust and the drive to live. But I was steeled by the
thought of you. I saw myself running, firing my rifle, I saw as if
from above, as you might see me, all heroism and courage. The wind at my face was your breath rising and falling in your sleep. Even as the shell whistled towards me, it was drowned out by the memory of the sound of your voice, low and soft the night I left.
I returned home, richer a medal, poorer my legs. In my mind, you saw
the heroic charge fail. I feared you saw not courage but the reality, hubris and pride. War is not a game, but a necessity, a horrible necessity, not a vehicle to inflate one's self-esteem or sense of self-importance.
So, I hid from you. I hid from everyone, from myself, succombing quite willingly to the grip of the morphine that I had become accustomed to. But in time, your memory saved me, gave me will. I tried to find other means to heroism, to be worth the love you seemed so willing to give.
I returned to college in Boston. While my friends caroused at pubs,
seeking the favor of as many women as possible, and while they sought their own moments of fame playing rugby and rowing for the school's honor, I studied the art of business, of securities and trade and commerce.
For almost ten years, I built. I was always underestimated by my
peers, as if the loss of my legs had also crippled my mind. I
surpassed them. I invested carefully, helped others invest their own
savings, the result of toiling towards their own dreams. So many
times, I wanted to write you, to appear to you, to walk through your
door, tall and strong and successful. But I knew that could not be, so
I waited, for what, I don't know.
This October, my world crashed with everyone else's. I have failed you again. I know people who leapt from windows, ran before streetcars, disappeared into poverty. Me, I leapt too easily back into the arms of medication.
I am laboring to a point. But that is what I have done since that day
on Belgium's muddy fields. The point is that I have lost the things I
wanted to be able to offer you in return for the love you offered me
without cost, a love I should have accepted long ago.
I saved just enough liquid funds to perhaps rebuild some meagre life.
I do not know your current station in life. But I have risen from worse circumstances than the lack of money. I have my education, my
experience. I only need my will to return, for you to return..."
The words blurred, and her eyes lost focus. She blinked and looked
back out the window, trying to see the horizon.
But it was only hours before morning now, and the fog was rising.
Posted by Rob at November 23, 2005 03:35 AM