Short Story: The Boy's Coin

Editor's Note: This is the 100th post of this blog.  I dedicate it to those of my friends and family who read this.  This is a fictional story I wrote last week.  To see other pieces of writing you can click the label "writing" and the other posts will show.  Enjoy and comment with feedback, suggestions, send me edited copies, etc. whatever you feel like. :D -Jared  Second Note:  Apparently this was the 100th draft, but not published post, instead it was the 93rd.  Shucks. haha

Scarlet looked over her 1971 half-dollar, wondering about the fingers that’d worn its sharpness smooth. Scarlet was a woman, and her hair was shoulder length and scarlet red; she thought it ironic.

The chair in which she sat was deceptively uncomfortable in the way that it only lets you sit upright. And when you turned or leaned, leaving the confines of the depression left by the thousands of eager and bored behinds, you entered the realm of, “fucking arm rests in my side.”

A Thanksgiving Thanks

I sent an email and posted on Facebook: I wanted contributions to my Thanksgiving post.  "What are you thankful for in 250 words or less?"  It, apparently, was difficult for some. :)  Teasing aside, I'm very glad the people who responded did so.

I think this is completed.  :) Time to get up and start baking pies and making Thanksgiving's food.  :) Mmmm

Thank you! :D

Titled: Shaving To Be a Man

I had to write a 300-600 word, single sentence, short story for my class, Sentence Strategies.  I decided to write about the first time I shaved, and what it was like for me as a kid.  I didn't write this because I've been thinking about it a lot or anything, but simply because it stands in my memory very strongly.  It is something I draw strength from now, rather that weakness or shame, which I might have before, when I was much younger.

This is a rough draft, as I've not edited it, but I really want to share it.  So, here it is:

Before the Sun Falls

Decisions lie in wait, lingering until the sun falls.

I was walking in the midnight hour, stumbling and falling, walking circles in the dark, clenching and yelling, keeping silent and releasing, and now dawn has broken -the sun has risen, triumphantly, above the horizon to send beams of light coursing through the breaks of the trees- allowing me to see clearer.

Here is where I am now, and here I shall reside until the sun, with the passing of time, rises high above my head.

Yet, before the sun falls, I will no longer stand in these same shoes, make the same marks, or tread so light, but rather will I be walking, barefoot (to truly feel the earth beneath my toes), my toes will grasp the dirt beneath them, and I will tread strong and proud.

This all before the sun falls.

The Race

I remember it all:

My little feetsies go a pitter-patter on the metal rungs.

The Struggle for Growth & Honesty: Writing an Article About My Feelings

I'm working on an article I want to submit to Matador.  It's for the series "Love in the Time of Matador"  (other articles published in this series) - Link(Submissions Page & Details) - from the Matador Life section.

The article is difficult for me to write.  It is imperative that I be honest, completely honest in the article.  That is difficult when it is about a topic so close to me, i.e. my feelings pertaining to relationships, girls & love.

One thing I know that may occur when some people read this is the shift of their image of me from an ideal to reality.  What do I mean? 

A Post Forgotten in the Past - A Short Story As Well

While going through my posts I found this - It seems I started a post and never finished it.  I have read through it and seen the errors, but for the sake of authenticity I have left them alone.  I am going to attach the short story at the end and leave the post as it is.  I hope you enjoy.
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I feel like it has been forever since I last actually sat down and just wrote.  It's been a while since I posted on here.  The other night, while watching a movie, I was inspired to write a little short story.  It's been brewing my head the other day.  Today, after beginning an article in an issue of Times magazine from earlier this year on Secretary of Defense Robert Gates, and stealing the magazine after my appointment so that I could finish the article and thus the whole magazine, I was in a writing mood.  That article was magnificent.  It captured Gates, his person and it was just damn good nonfiction.  It made me want to write.  So, I went to into my makeshift room in the back of my childhood home, the room I'm occupying now returned from college.  It has just a box spring and a mattress slung in the corner, low to the floor, no sheets on top, a mess of pillows and one blanket.  It's surrounded by my clothes piled on a table and an assortment of furniture from around our house in the past 15 years and items of mine from my dorm room.

As I wrote I seemed to get that feeling where you stand up too quick after sitting or lying for too long.  I was feeling like I was viewing myself from above, whilst writing still.  I was literally caught in this story.  It sort of just flowed from me.  I read over it twice, and hope I caught any bad mistakes in my writing, but I am not so worried about that.  It's just for me, and you-my blog.

It, like I said, was inspired by a scene from the movie Wyatt Earp, my imagination, my memories, and my dreams for the future.  It's sort of

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This is where the post ended.  This is the short story.  It seems they were both written on May 20th.

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A Love Affair - An original by Jared Krauss

The left side of the bed was still warm from the heat of the body that now stood in the bathroom door. The curve of the hips leading up to a smaller waist and the rise of the bosom, arms gently crossed at the chest, and the head, with it's long flowing hair falling behind, resting on the door frame; she was silhouetted by the single light of the bathroom. She hadn't wanted to rouse him, only needing a moment alone to look her self in the eyes.

Her legs had slowly lifted from the depths of the comforter they had purchased new almost two years ago, with excitement of what was to come in their eyes. She slowly twisted her body so that her feet could touch the floor to the side of her bed. Her head turned down and right, looking back at the other body still sleeping next to her. She noted the way her pillow remained slightly dented from where her head had lain. Slowly, she reached out her hand and touched the rough hair that was beginning to grow on the strong, proud chin she so loved to kiss. Her body slowly rose, only whispering of her departure. Momentary fright caused her to stiffen as the body across from her shifted, spinning from one side to the other, facing away from her and grabbing the pillow in order to stuff that strong muscled arm up underneath.

She loved the way she could see ripples beneath the skin; a silent ocean of strength to her, its currents capable of much. She thought of when she was spun around in those arms, her white dress filling with air on their pedestal; tipping her head back and exposing her neck as those arms supported her when they were alone on the dance floor; the warmth of the chest and the scratching of the hair on her soft and supple back as those arms wrapped around her from top and bottom, holding her close, protecting her from the cold of the night and any other assailant.

She stood there in the doorway, braving that cold. Her features hidden by the light that gave sight only to her eyes and blinded anyone who would look at her from the darkness of their bedroom. She knew there was only one set of eyes for her, and they were hidden away by their delicate skin covering. She couldn't help but ask herself the question she had asked herself so many years ago.

Sitting on the seat next to the window, pillows at her back, knees in her chest. Her journal had been clutched tightly to her heart, freshly written in, the ink being smeared by her haste. “What is love?” The page had been stung by the salty water falling from her red cheeks. She'd been 17 then, just broken up with by her first boyfriend, her one and only true love, until the next week. Her ego, pride, everything, had been beaten, battered and bruised. She'd barely had the will to wake up at 6AM that morning to prepare herself for school. It had taken her two hours to get ready instead of one, and she'd not had time to read her magazines that morning. She was in a mood. She was even angrier at her magazines for lying to her. They had told her all the right moves, all the right words to make the perfect boyfriend, to find the perfect boyfriend, to keep the perfect boyfriend and now she realized she had nothing. It was all a lie. She lamented she would never know love. Oh, the imagination of the fountain of youth.

The sound of the water running softly from the sink had not disturbed that body caught in slumber. She stuck one hand underneath the stream, the warmth spreading slowly. She held but fingertips underneath, a moment. Slowly, inching her hand forward, turning it over, feeling alive. Then began her other hand, sharing in the love affair between warm water and skin. With her hands cupped, she held love in her fingers. Lowering her head, she threw love on her face, enjoying the momentary warmth. She raised her head, her eyes meeting their match in the mirror. Their hazel ringed with white were barely visible in the low light. She examined her own face: love was slowly dripping from her cheeks, like the tears she had shed nearly twelve years ago; they fell in single droplets to hit the white marble sink. Love was etched into her eyes, the creases at the corners from all the smiles she'd shown over the past two years, and the ten months before. The way her cheeks automatically defaulted to the teeth baring, dimple inducing form spoke of laughter in abundance. With all these memories flashing through her mind, slowly, her eyes creased and her pearly whites peeked out, and her dimples appeared. Then she stood up and turned around, finding the metal that marked the end of their bathroom and the beginning of their bedroom to lean upon.

She stood their still, only mere moments had passed; her face was still wet with love. What is love? She could only smile. Her toes met gently with the carpet as she made her way back around to her side of the bed. She examined the ever shifting ocean that rose and fell with the tide of breathing on the other side. The ocean had turned it's face back again towards the center, facing her dented pillow and ruffled comforter, coveting the last remnants of heat with an outstretched arm. The last of the heat was dissipating as she carefully peeled back the sheets and comforter, and placed the arm back underneath its pillow, allowing her entrance to her most desired location. Once her legs were under, her trunk planted in the soft support of her mattress, and the blanket once again covering her, she laid her head back in the dent.

She lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, listening only to the soft in-and-out of breathing coming from her left. With another smile, one big and proud, she turned over on her side. Her eyes now found the lamp that resided on the table next to her bed, the book she'd dog eared just a few hours earlier, the glass of water half drunken. She uprooted her trunk and inched back towards the tide across her bed. Once again, she was in the embrace of the warmth of the chest, experiencing the scratching of hair on her soft and supple back as she retrieved the cast away hand that had been on its search for the warmth, that love affair between water and skin. The rippling of currents now draped across her waist, holding her tightly, protecting her from the assault of the cold night and any other assailants. That same smile crossed her face as she answered her own question. She had loved each boy and man that had entered her life. Love was an emotion, fleeting as any other, but this man she was in love with and it was no longer just an emotion, but an action, a thought, a frame of mind, a loyalty. This was where she most wanted to be.

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After reading this for what felt like the first time: I am trying to understand my own writing.  What my connection was between water and love.  I feel as though I was trying to express the idea that love is like water (obviously) but let me continue.  Water is fleeting, it has an ebb and flow.  It has surface tension.  Seas are large, puddles aren't.  Love is like water in the sense that it can be fleeting, it can ebb and flow, when love meets other love they grow, become stronger and attract more love (in a relationship), but water needs more to grow bigger, and if you are not willing to jump in, feet first into the sea you can not grow, you'll be stuck like the puddle on the sidewalk in the midsummer's heat, slowly dissipating.  Hmm.  I am not so sure.  What is your take on it?

 

To Climb

I'm tired.  My fingers ache with each contraction.  My eyelids are heavy.  The fingers are swollen, the tips are blistered, filled with water.  I'm waiting for the reward of callouses.

Ahh, climbing.  How I've missed you.

Death's Haze

What do you say to someone that has seen Death?

Death puts a blackness...no a grayness over everything.  Or, maybe, Picasso had it right and Death puts a blue haze over everything?

Death.  Death....death.....
Hmm.  Who's to say it's a bad thing?  You don't know shit about Death, in reality.  Neither do I.

We all have our beliefs, I mine, you yours, them theirs.  If a little girl dies and she isn't a Christian, does she go to Hell, or Paradise?  If I die am I reborn or do I go to Heaven?  I have my opinion.  What matters though are the ones left behind, what they think.  They need that comfort. 

When you see something tragic, it changes your perspective.

Normally, perspective changes are gradual, things that worm their way in.

Tragedy is like a damn nail gun.

The shift in perspective doesn't have to be large, it doesn't have to be small.  All that matters it that you recognize when their is a loss in the world, when we have been forbidden the gift of a life.  That is tragedy.  That feeling.

Hmm?


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Editing Note on December 2nd, 2011: This is one of my favorite posts to date.

To Start Writing - How & Why

I'm staring at this blank box, used for writing.  It stares back at me like the endless pages of blankness that have existed in every writer's past.

I want to write.  I need to write.  I can't write.  I am writing.  Sustenance?  Is it in this though?

I don't know.

Writer's block is a joke, to me. 

One Thing I Do to Procrastinate

I sit in this stasis, desiring to complete the time of studying set forth before me, but reluctant to begin.  My head is in a constant struggle of reminding itself to begin working, while simultaneously rationalizing the efforts put forth to prevent any work being completed.

Time is of the essence, and I wish for so many things to happen, but they are reliant on memorization of words necessary for the quiz that will take place in nearly 15 hours.  Why- Why oh why do I continue this battle?

Even this, now, here, is but a tool to keep myself occupied and prevent me from beginning.  As I write, though, I come to realize the inevitability of my struggle.  That I must begin, regardless of everything else happening, or going to happen.  I must study.

So, I come to a stalemate, something of a checkmate, but can you truly admit defeat to your own self?  Do you not still win?  That is another matter for other times, one to be considered in the future, if never.