Claire de Lune p. 2

She owned only two pairs of shoes for dire occasions, but most days she walked around the city barefoot. She lived alone, but was well acquainted with the neighbors in the other apartments and the shop owners of her favorite bakeries and shops. She walked the streets of Paris and the stopped to gaze at her. She was beautiful, graceful, and said hello to nearly everyone she passed. She spoke fluent French, English, and Russian. She spent her days in the streets of Paris, in the shops and galleries. Yet this girl had no close friends; she was seen walking out to the mail truck to deliver three letters to the man personally once a week, but no one knew to whom they were addressed. She was friendly and kind-hearted and happy. Everyone who met eighteen year old Anna fell in love with her.

Anna laid her brush down and walked out of the room, leaving the door open so she could hear the music while she readied to go out. It was 11 A.M. and time for her to go out to do her daily rounds around the city. She distractedly ran a brush through her hair, combing back the wavy, semisweet chocolate locks. Her feet danced as she went into the kitchen and grabbed herself a danish, handmade from her favorite bakery down the street. Danish in hand, she walked out of the apartment and down the stairs into the warm sun.

Preghiere p.1

[I don't have a photo for this one since by the time I'd had the idea, I'd left the library at Biola University, where the real prayer wall is]

There were hundreds of notes in hundreds of colors in hundreds of different hands.

Pray for Andrew. Written in blue crayon, loopy cursive.

Pray for Africa. Written in teal marker, chicken-scratch.

Pray for my best friend, that she’d come to know God. Written in blue nail polish, bubbly print.

Pray for Claire, whose father left her. Written in black colored pencil, the obvious handwriting of a boy.

Dear God, please help me stop hurting myself.

Dear God, please help me turn away.

Dozens of people visited the wall everyday to write down their prayers on the large sheet of grey canvas that stretched across the wall at the University. The wall provided a place of undivided and anonymous union for all the students at the University. Once a week, a group of students gathered in the morning and spend the day praying by the wall. They prayed for the notes written there. All of them.

Currently Untitled, part I

It was the kind of day she’d loved most. God had etched across the sky with charcoal, and the air smelled of dirt and wet tar and grass. Rain fell from the clouds in inconsistent showers all day. It was a day in early May; as the rain fell it gave new life to the flowers and the trees. And the people.

The house was old and beautiful. It stood on a hill on the eastern side of town, overlooking the small little town that was stuck in the past - old buildings and old cars and old people, people who’d lived their whole lives there and raised their children there and would never dream of leaving. They called this place home. They fished in its lake and shopped in its stores; life there was as peaceful as it’d get in America.

He walked the upstairs hallway of the house. He listened to the rain, paid attention to its smell, its sound. Some of the windows were open, letting in the fresh Spring air. The hallway was filled with too many memories. He’d already felt ardent walking into the house, now he looked at her door, open slightly ajar, and felt an ache in his heart. It was as if her spirit filled the house, like she never left. He knew she was watching him, so he talked to her every day. His life revolved around her, even though she was gone.

“Hi, Sophie,” he murmured. “I miss you.”

He opened the door.

It was exactly as it had been since he’d last been there, a little over a year ago. Except neater. Her parents weren’t the type to leave a room exactly as it had been for sentimental purposes. Her bed had been made - the light green quilt pulled neatly into place over the twin bed. Any books that had been astray had been placed ordered alphabetically on the tall bookshelf in the corner; all except one - Anna Karenina, which had been placed on the bedside table, its corner lined up perfectly with the corner of the table.

Claire de Lune, part I

She was wearing a pale yellow sundress that came to precisely one inch above her knee. It had a silky slip underneath and a sheer layer over it, covered in tiny olive green flowers that danced when she moved. The dress hugged her torso ever so slightly and came out in a flowing A-line that made her look double as graceful when she walked. The neckline dipped in slightly; the sheer straps of it made her bird-like collarbone look elegant. She sat on the aging wood floor with her legs tucked to the side under her. The room caught the light in the most brilliant way, shining onto her brown hair, making it look the color of melted semisweet chocolate. Her locks were pinned up in a messy bun. The room was bare of all furniture; only a wise-looking record player sat in the corner, on top of a few white sheets laid out messily over the floor. The air was embellished with the sweet sounds of Debussy and Vivaldi, playing from shiny black records stacked next to the player. She bit on the end of a wooden paint brush, staring at the white wall in front of her, a black gaze in her eyes, something haunting. The tip of the brush was dipped in a deep red, but she wasn’t painting. The end of the brush had minuscule dents in the wood from her teeth. All that was heard was the sweet lurking sounds of Debussy’s Claire de Lune.

Two of Us, part I

[This short story is written in segments, each segment switching back and forth between two times. I will be posting each segment separately, so this one is pretty short.]

July 1969

I used to organize. I used to organize time. I used to organize space. I used to organize people. I used to be happy. I used to believe there were no wrongs. I used to believe I wasn’t dirty with sin. Sin does not exist exclusively in religions. There is always sin. There always will be. People murder. People rape. People run.