The gray tarp seemed more like a funeral mask than a car cover. I lifted the shroud not only to see but to feel the stillness of wreckage flow over me. The dust, disturbed from its rest, flew through the air untamed. Once Bryar blue, but worn by the sun now, slightly transparent, the muted paint offered a glimpse of the undercoat few had ever witnessed. Looking around, I saw no one in the abandoned lot but the wild haunting remains of crushed lives. My fingers glided over the rear arch in a smooth yet lingering movement as I had caressed his hip so long ago, when we lay spent, during the afternoon haze. Shards of gravel embedded in the tread jut out in ragged spikes as if they belonged to a collar of rubber that had been attentively manicured with devotion to enhance the glimmer still evident in the chrome wheels. I paused. He had insisted on offering this politeness to me yet his absence could not open the door. Lifting the handle I had never touched, an angry groan pierced the silence that echoed against my heart. Empty cans littered the floorboards recreating a familiar melody, I knew all too well upon entered his domain like the clanging bells found hung on the shopkeeper’s door. The warm smell of musk mixed with the stench of alcohol consumed by a man who was consumed by society. Hardened hands left weathered indentions in what remained of the steering wheel, crumpled and broken. I had never sat in the driver seat thought I knew that night, I should have. No condolences ease the weight of a lost moment acquired in hindsight.
The task set before me is to create a story under 300 words and seeing as how I have no intention of writing in anything more complicated that the notes app in my phone I bring this little assignment here. Love WP!!!!
I had my first critique with my prof on Friday where he asked me if I had chosen my final (a short story or 3 poems, in addition to an Artist interview). Hmmm…. I quickly went over the prose and cons aloud settling on a short story. I love poetry but it is a music unlike stories. To read the notes on a page does not offer me the same experience that the orchestra’s instrument of voice. lqtms, so a short story it is.
He smiles and compliments my style (still don’t have a grasp on that but I’m getting and idea) and tells me that the revised version of “The Car”, as lovely (lovely is my word because I’m sure he said something like that but I was waiting for the BUT..)as it is, will be set aside and I will start over. (Start over? Is this man insane?) “Your writing is full of emotionally laden, multi-level words similar to the writer James Joyce that we have been reviewing. However, (yeah, I was waiting for this part too, this is the BUTT that needs to go on a diet) there is no beginning, no end. Cookie, ask yourself questions, write and rewrite your story from different views, push yourself because I know that you don’t! You will rewrite me a story about a car using only hard physical things I can touch with my hand. This will become a map for your story.” he says with excitement.
Ok…Soooo… I’m dumbfounded. Many ppl use maps but I don’t.
I do not use them in my car.
I do not use them to look at a star.
I do not like these maps you see.
I do not like them…
hehehehe you get the idea
Map it is then, hard physical realities, factual information, BLAH!!!!