Starcatcher Edit Prep 2012

Star Catcher: A Tale of Average Proportions

“I sometimes raise my hand to the night sky, and drag my fingers through the lights, hoping to catch one and bring it to me. But the stars never move, do they? Maybe they aren't so beautiful after all.”

     My name is James Morrison Murphy. And before you ask, yes, I was named after the late lead singer of The Doors. My parents grew up in an age where the popular burned away the necessary brain cells to remember all the good times they had. To try and be nice, you could say my parents lived a life larger than their brains could hold. I, however, call them burnouts who mentally peaked at twenty.
     My name is James Morrison Murphy, and unlike the lizard king, I don't have much sex appeal. I am an average man, of average build, with an average face, and an average personality. I could continue, but I'm sure you see the pattern here. For that, I do so solemnly apologize for telling you my name. I know a person with a name like mine sounds like the adventurous sort, but the fact of the matter is that I'm not. Things always have a way of changing though. Here is my story.

     When I turned 24, I was a lighthearted fellow, fresh from college, and just beginning to taste the bitter flavor life has to offer. I had always wanted to write a novel, but the sad reality was that I was just too plain of a person. Taking the wrong way to work, or getting lost for a few minutes was an adventure to me. I decided to be a book publicist instead; working with books, but in a safe environment. It sometimes occurs to me that the only changes I've made in my life are the results of my mistakes. Does everyone experience this? Is this some sort of life lesson we were all supposed to learn in elementary school?
     Working for a book publishing company was my first mistake. My superiors were the same kind of people you could find on any playground, tossing sand and taking toys that weren't theirs. I came to realize then, that when an explosive personality turned on a candle flame, the result is only the absence of a small puddle of light. This is how I felt when I met my superiors at Castel Publishing; I felt like that quivering flame on top of a melting pillar of wax, thinking that I would soon be snuffed out, either by my own design or that of an outside source. I didn't have a backbone to show, so they would push me as far as they wanted. They knew I wouldn't break, and knew that I wouldn't push back. It's a terrible thing, being so average.
     My second mistake was meeting Sarah. Sarah was similar to me in many ways, much in the same way climbing a cliff is similar to falling off of one. Her father was the president of the company, and she took it upon herself to become my backbone. She loved me, for whatever reason, and I suppose I also loved her as well. Whatever it was, it helped me become better at my job and climb the corporate ladder. I was now in charge of the lower level of publishing—the make it or break it for hopeful authors. I remember once being moved by a recording of the brilliant physicist, Robert Oppenheimer, quoting a passage of the Bhagavad Gita. He said “Now I am become death, the destroyer of worlds.” In my new position, I felt as if I too had been given that sort of decision. At least in my own petty, watered down way.
     My biggest mistake though, was actually Sarah's. Why would you put someone lacking imagination in a position to turn down ideas? A novel I turned down was instantly picked up elsewhere, and became a best seller. They even made a movie about it, with that pretty brunette from those big mobster movies a few years back. It managed to grab a nomination at the Oscars. Because of this — and several other major errors — the company decided to let me go, but for whatever reason, Sarah told me she wanted to marry me anyway. The headache I got from trying to fathom this was the kind to keep me off my feet for days. You'd think ceilings were mirrors to some magical land of love and wonder, from how long I stared into one.
     When I finally got up, I spent the entire day with Sarah. Perhaps the things we did had been done a thousand times by a thousand people, but for once, something average felt like something more to me. I held Sarah close to me, sitting in a hammock outside, staring up at the moon, and asked her what she wanted. With her eyes closed, and her head on my chest, she playfully told me “The stars, James. Give me the stars.” She fell asleep on me there that night, but I didn't sleep for many hours yet. “The stars, huh?” I whispered to myself. Can I do that? Can someone like me do something like that?
     I spent the next month of my life sleeping outside under the stars; hands gliding through the dark clouds, jumping into infinite pits of complicated questions under that night sky. I told myself that I was done being average. I was going to grab something of the confusion out there, and make it solid. I was going to give Sarah a star, and for once, I was going to view my life from above, looking down at past troubles and laughing. My hands always seemed to fall short though.
     On our one year anniversary, we went out to eat at our favorite restaurant. I had never been a social person, and as such wasn't too great at hiding things. As a publisher herself, it was like being at work for her—from the way she read me as she would a book. Dinner rolled on uneventfully, and we made it back to my home, where we laid down in my hammock for a few silent minutes together. She asked me what was wrong, and I didn't know how to answer her.

“I couldn't get you that star.”
“I didn't think you could.”
“I'm so tired of being average.”
“I'm okay with it.”
“I'm sorry, but I'm not.”

     Looking back, I realize that I lost much more than Sarah that night. I lost a little piece of myself that genuinely loved her, and I lost the future we could have made together. However, like I said earlier, for all of you out there like me who never had the ability to reach into the black curtain of life, and pull out basic truths as children usually do, I had also gained something. I picked up a typewriter sometime between then and now, and I started to write a novel. It was published by a decent company, and actually made me some good money. I didn't get any movie deals, and I didn't win any awards. I never got the girl, and I never found a way to capture the stars—but you know what? When I wake up in the morning, and I look in the mirror, I can tell myself that I am not average. I'm of course no Alexander the Great, nor am I like the brilliant Robert Oppenheimer. I haven't picked the world up on my shoulders, and set it down a little differently.
     I am no one’s messiah, but I did have an average looking person come up to me at a book signing, and you know what they told me? They told me that I gave them hope. She told me that I given her hope. I had given someone else hope.
     I, plain old James Morrison Murphy, the lying lizard king, the school yard Oppenheimer, the heart breaker, the failed starry night sky conqueror, and the man who never had a spine or a shadow, had taken someone up in my arms and told them everything would be alright, and they believed me. I won't soar through the stars in the sky, looking down at my legacy; nor will I again be that candle, so easily put out. I'm stuck somewhere between the two, looking back at my past mistakes, and looking forward to the future ones.

     My name is James Morrison Murphy. And before you ask, yes I was named after the late lead singer of The Doors, and no, I am nothing like him. My name is James Morrison Murphy, and I am just myself — not average, not unique.
     

Just James, and for once, I think I am truly okay with that. I hope you can look back at your life — mistakes included — and be proud of yourself as well. Thank you.

- Pictor Vela

Tales Told by Lost Shadows Edit Prep 2012

Tales Told by Lost Shadows

     Our tale starts off on a green stretch of softly rolling hills, running in every direction as far as the eye can see. The wind - delicate today – picks up blades of grass the length of a hand, and gently sets them back in place. It dances on deft toes in many different directions, forming patterns of intertwining shapes pressed into the blankets of grass. The designs flow together as they run across the field, until being momentarily divided by a little girl standing in the middle of this never ending expanse.
     The girl – a child in fact – appears to be only six or seven. She wears a long sleeved blue jacket, with a brown skirt; a typical school uniform, in an untypical setting. Walking through the grassy field, she looks over her shoulder irritably, and begins to glare. “Go away,” she whispers, as she starts to trudge ahead; stomping her small feet, eyes looking straight ahead. “Go away,” she says again, this time a little louder than before. Straining her eyes to look behind, the glare darkens as she bares her teeth. Kicking off her shoes, she begins to quickly run through the grass, eyes closed and chest pounding with the effort. Thinking she has outrun it, she slowly turns her head, only to see that no ground has been gained.
     The anger in her eyes flares for only a brief second before shock takes over as she plummets to the ground. Turning around, nothing can be seen in the field except for her shadow, dancing on the waving grass. In desperation, she starts to hammer her tiny fists into the ground where the shadow rests, and starts screaming “Go away! Go away!” Aggressive shouts quickly melt into weeping pleas, as she tries to crawl away, crying out “Please... please just go away. Please leave me alone. I just want to be left alone”.
     The dancing shadow just stares as the little girl grips tufts of grass with her hands, and sobs into the dirt. Unaware, she continues to cry as the shadow starts to stretch out and break away from her. Tiny hands split from the shadow's side; their fingers trying to lace themselves with hers, but coming up short. The sound of a hammer striking an anvil starts to echo inside her head, knocking her onto her back, kicking and screaming for it to stop. Only a few moments pass before she faints, lying there in that field with the wind – delicate today- as it picks up strands of her hair, and gently sets them back in place.

     For those of you unaware, the human spirit is a fragile house of cards, made up of astronomical coincidences; each part playing its own respective role. Removing even the smallest, most insignificant piece will change it. It’s as if completing a puzzle, and then removing a small piece from the middle. Perhaps nobody on the outside will notice, and perhaps it will look fine, but the puzzle is still incomplete. That missing piece will make others close to it loose, and soon, they too will be gone. It’s only a matter of time before it all crumbles, and the puzzle is nothing more than a pile of broken pieces. When Amissa removed her shadow, she in turn removed a small part of herself. She now roamed the countryside, searching for something she was never quite sure of; walking ahead, growing increasingly weary with life. 

     Her shadow was cursed to live life as the shadow of a shadow; close enough to see, but too far to reach out and feel. He knew if he could say just one word to her, they would be together again, but she would never look back. One foot in front of the other, she stared straight ahead and never saw him. For years, she walked from town to town, always searching for that forgotten something, long since forgetting why she was even looking in the first place. Her shadow had given up trying to reach her, and instead finally came to terms with the reality that he would never have her back. After all this time, even he couldn't walk without his head down, staring at his feet and marching in line – nothing else mattered anymore. 

     Our tale concludes three months later, on Amissa's 18th birthday, in the field where she first lost her shadow. Much like her own state of mind, the sky above was heavy and gray. The wind was electric today, changing directions in the blink of an eye; rain fell in heavy sheets. Eyes on the ground, the shadow starts to speak to itself for the first time in over a year. “That's right,” he says with a small laugh, barely recognizable as such. "Today is Amissa's birthday isn't it. Happy birthday dear,” he spoke softly. He somehow found the courage to lift his frail neck, and tried to yet again reach her. To be honest, the shadow didn't really expect to catch her anymore. He had long since given up such ridiculous hope. This was just merely a routine that kept him going. The drumming of rain and crashing of waves is broken by a dry scream, as the shadow runs ahead like he never had before.

     “It's my 18th birthday today,” Amissa said to herself sadly. “12 years of searching for nothing, when is it time to rest?” “I'm so tired,” she whimpers to herself. “I'm so damn tired.” As with every day since that time in the field she had long since forgotten, she walked forward, staring at the ground in front of her. All other sound is drowned out by the crash of waves beating against the side of the cliff, but she doesn’t hear them. It's been a long time since she's really listened to anything. Closing her eyes, she continues to walk forward until she feels the ground disappear from beneath her, and plummets from the cliff into the ocean. If you don't look up every now and then, you’re always bound to fall. She never opened her mouth, because death was not something to fear anymore, yet something surprising happened. She could have sworn she heard a familiar voice scream, but it wasn't hers.
     Her arms are suddenly lifted up, as a black figure wraps his own around her waist. “Absum, you're back,” Amissa sleepily says. “I am, my love, I am,” the shadow responds. Wrapped in his arms, she places her chin on his chest, and peers into his dark face and starts to softly weep. “I'm tired Absum, I'm so very tired,” she manages to get out. Turning her head sideways, he presses her cheek against his chest, and begins to drag his fingers through her hair. “Shh, we can go to sleep now my love,” he whispers into her ear. Through a yawn, she manages to say “I've missed you so,” before falling asleep. Like a long lost friend, Absum's smile appeared on his face for a moment, as tears streamed from his cheek and onto her sleeping face. He held her close, and shut his eyes, and for a brief second, felt as if flying before slipping off to sleep as well.

     Smiles plastered to their faces, and their minds soundly asleep, they never felt the rocks at the bottom as they crashed upon them. Death came instantly, and although quick, in it, held more meaning than a lifetime of searching. If you ever feel that you are wasting your entire life searching for something you can't explain, just look over your shoulder my friend. Chances are it's the only place you haven't yet looked.

- Marek Morello

And the Brief Scent of Roses 2012 Edit.

"And the Brief Scent of Roses"

     On a window ledge sits a pot full of roses, long since having wilted from lack of water. Despite their withering attempts, they do nothing to change the sterile smelling air of the hospital room. Gloria Mayweather sits in her bed, propped up with two pillows, and joins them in staring out of the window. The roses came from her son, who is much too busy with work to come and see her that often. Years of being a mother have taught her to bear the brunt of disappointment, and just hope that he is happy with what he’s doing. Dearest Gloria, how strong your heart must be.
     This night, as with every other for the past month, goes by without event. The nurses call for lights-out round 8:00pm, and after a few minutes, Gloria props herself back up to watch the cars drive by from her hospital window. When she finally finds sleep, it rushes towards her fitfully, full of dreary dreams about all of the regrets in life she has ignored up until now. Suddenly, a metal clipboard at the end of her bed crashes to the floor and startles her awake. The word “cancer” can be seen over and over again as the paperwork scatters across the floor. Her dreams were fuzzy, and full of old faces. The most recognizable being her husband’s; she watched him wander down a long stretch of hallway, asking where she went and why he feels so tired.

     Her husband, Mr. Mayweather, was a wealthy man, from a strong family lineage of engineers. He was also known as a very generous philanthropist, and was well liked by all that he met. He would be taken only two years prior to this story; heart attack they suspect. Although Gloria knew that death would come at anytime in their age, she had trouble ignoring the pain of not being able to say goodbye. The thought seeped into the cracks of her dreams, and haunted her every night until she finally just wished death would come to her. Gloria Maribel Mayweather knew the adage for wishing, but didn’t much care to be careful.

     Several days passed, and while staring out the window, she was surprised one afternoon as cold fingers set themselves onto her shoulder. “How did a nurse get in here,” she wondered to herself, having heard no footsteps to alert her. She turned around, preparing to dismiss the nurse, when her eyes fell on the most gorgeous man she had ever seen. “Robert… I… I can’t believe it, how are you here?” she asks the nurse looming over her. With a roguish grin and a hand dragging through his hair, the man – almost a boy in fact – clears his throat and says “I think you have the wrong person. My name is Michael, and I’m your new nurse”.

     Holding a hand up to her blushing face, she tries to break her eyes away from his, and mumbles an apology. “I’m sorry child; it’s just that you look just like my late husband”. Throwing on a charming smile, the man sets down a glass of water next to her pills. “I’m sure he was a great man, perhaps at another time we could talk about it,” he says, as he turns to walk out of the room. Silence hangs suspended in the air above her, occasionally broken by the sound of her heavy-beating heart. Her face flush red as a rose in embarrassment.

     For several weeks these friendly interactions would continue, and soon began to boarder onto flirting. “What am I doing?” she asks herself. “He’s young enough to be my grandson, I have to just stop being nice to him is all. He’s not being intentionally flirty, he is just a kind boy, trying to make an old lady happy.” She resolved herself to speak to the boy the next time she saw him. However, time passed as slowly as ever, and her motherly patience was starting to show cracks.
Six nurses would present themselves in the next few days that followed, but none of them would be Michael. “Where had the boy gone to?” she began thinking to herself. When she finally asked one of the other nurses about it, she received only a peculiar look.“There is no nurse named Michael on staff. Are you feeling alright dear?” Confused, and moreso angry, it wouldn’t be until the next night that she would see him again.

     Lights-out had been called, and for several minutes Gloria had been watching her cars outside the window, when a knock came at the door. Michael walked in without making a noise, and sat at the foot of her bed, watching with her for a time. Together, they sat there in silence, staring at the speeding lights fly past each other without ever looking back. The solitude is broken as she turns abruptly, and starts lecturing the boy. “Why is it you come here and talk to me so often? What is it about this worn-down old woman that you so desperately seek friendship with?” In spite of the serious situation, Michael let out a small laugh. “That is just like you Gloria, straight to the point”. Misinterpreting his laughing as an insult, her face darkens. “I know you don’t work here, I have already asked, so what is it you want from me?” Michael puts on a small smile, and replies in a calm voice “I may not be registered, but I assure you I do a lot of work around here.”

     Turning his smile to the window, he notices the flowers in the vase, and comments “Pretty flowers”. “What are you going on about? They are dying old roses, nothing more than ugly reminders of their past beauty” Gloria responds. Plucking a rose from the vase, he holds it in his hand and starts to speak to nobody in particular, “To me, a rose is only perfect when it has finally shown its age, and to that effect, its true colors. It has been beautiful its whole life, but it’s not until it shuts in on itself that we can see how gorgeous it has turned out to really be. The way it finally shows its flaws, the way it finally drops its guard. That is how you are Gloria, you are still as beautiful as the day you first met your husband on that dock in northern Michigan,”.

     Holding up her hand to rest it on his shoulder, she tells him “I appreciate your kind words, but I am no longer that eighteen year old girl playing coy on a dock in the Michigan summer, I am old and-”, she stops talking as she falls back to her bed and starts to shake. Something terrifying dawns on her. “I never told you where I first met Robert, nor were you alive to see me back then. "How… how do you know these things?” she asked him. “Because it was the last thing he told me before I took him” Michael said solemnly; black eyes reflecting the dancing white lights of the cars on the highway. “He told me all about you, and how happy his life was because of you. It made me very happy to see him smile before the end.”

     Gloria felt as if she should be screaming for help, for fear of her life, but somehow she couldn’t. The only thing that mattered to her was what Michae had just said about her late husband. “He… he said those things about me before dying?” she asked. “Yes” he replied, a sad smile showing itself on his face. Shaking softly, she turns her heard towards him, and whispers “Then are you here to kill me as well?” “Yes” he replied, that sad smile losing what little warmth it had, “but I’m not here to necessarily kill you. It’s just that it’s your time, that’s all”.

“Wh-who are you?”
 “I refer to myself as Absolution, but many call me Death.”
“Was all of this just so that you could take my life?”
 “Yes.”
“Did you do it, that I might pass in peace?”
 “Yes.”
“Thank you. I assume yours is a thankless job, but for what it’s worth, thank you.”
 “You’d be surprised. But you’re welcome all the same.”

     “I’m ready” she says as she closes her eyes. She hears his fading words in the form of “It’s already over” as she falls into a deep sleep. Her body felt warm as she drifted off from consciousness. A smile bloomed on her face – completely genuine – anxiously waiting to see her husband. A chiming melody softly reached her ears, the scratch of a record player barely letting itself be known over the music; the final song from their high school dance. Letting loose her final breath, she thought to herself “I’m close darling”, and with that she let go.

Also, there is one last thing I forgot to mention; she smelled the brief scent of roses.

                                                                                                                              - Singultus Feelgood

Week Sixty Four: May 23rd - May 29th

In quite the slump. Too depressed to do anything. Maybe a story next week, who knows.

Week Sixty Three: May 16th - May 22nd

Tried using my typewriter, and the story was just awful. Sorry.

Week Sixty Two: May 9th - May 15th

Might actually put something up next week. Who knows.

Week Sixty One: May 2nd - May 8th

Bought a typewriter, but turns out I am not a typewriter writer. My story was an embarrassment, and I don't even want to put it on here.