Originally written in 12th grade.
In the creative writing club, one of our most popular projects had our group creating characters only with a few descriptions that defined them and then writing a story about these characters. I ended up with a bitter old man living in Russia and a 14 year old girl trying to find some kind of connection in the world. The story itself doesn't make much sense since the old man and the girl meet in Russia under serendipitous circumstances and an drunken Russian boy who can communicate perfectly with the old man and girl, as well as a planned subplot of the old man being a spy undercover who is trying to behave like a 95 year old when he is in fact, 72. And if there's one thing Russia is known for, it's drunken people and spies. Clearly, I have a very biased perspective on Russia and in order to complete the story, i would have to extensively research Russian culture and give a hint as to what would invite the girl to come to such a place. The story also deals with the problem of acceptance in a complicated world that rejects others, in this case, the innocent girl running away from the law, and the old man who couldn't stand to be around people he understood and moved to a country where he can remain as the foreign treasure. Originally, I wanted the girl to fall in love with the old man, but I realized that spinning a story with that kind of angle would be difficult to believe. I might eventually complete the story but only when I'm not boggled with other projects to worry about. Please leave comments and thanks for reading, if you do.
Characters by Creative Writing Club ’11
Masks of different kinds lined up his closet. Each looked like a fog of color that oversimplified its meaning.
“Rrrg.”
He trotted towards his drawer and picked up his glasses shaped with dark, thick frames and a 5-cm diameter circle. With the glasses, he could see beyond his field of view. He stumbled back to the closet and picked out today’s mask, a bleak expression that could remind someone of a fierce and unholy battle. Upon the slipping the mask on, he left his house and walked to a bar. He hated using a cane; he thought it was a sign of weakness even though he could seriously bludgeon someone if he wanted to. Occasionally, he’ll stumble off and get to a liquor store though he doesn’t figure it out since both places have similar odors. The bright lights confused him, the swear words even more so.
“You’re too young!”
“So what if I am?”
“Go away! And don’t come back!”
Kye stood for a while outside of the bar. Every time she saw the bartender, she made a face.
“Nyag!”
Inaudible. John bumps into Kye.
“Jesus! What the hell is wrong with you, old man?”
“That’s a first.”
“What do you mean?”
“Old man,” he said while adjusting his glasses. “People usually call me a geezer or a wiseass but not old man. You’re not from around here, are you?”
“What-uh-whadda ya mean?”
“I’ve walked on this street for the past 47 years; never have seen someone as thin as you. Did you move in recently?”
“You can say that.”
“Now why did Frank do that earlier? He doesn’t give a damn about the drinking age.”
“Oh, he saw me staring at one of his sons, it seems, and got worried that they might be taken by my beauty.”
“Frank’s son is almost 20.”
“Well, he’s still a man.”
John slowly nodded his head. Compared to the lesser-minded individuals he was forced to interact, day after day, there hadn’t been a reason to nod at anyone. For a moment, John thought he was nodding incorrectly.
“What’s your name?”
“Kye. What’s yours, old man?”
“John. John Smith. You can laugh at the mediocrity later, ok?”
“What’s mediocrity?”
“Literally middleness. Halfness.”
“(chuckles) Seriously?”
“Very.”
The bar door swings open, smacking and dividing Kye away from John. A blue coated boy stumbles out of the bar, carefully choosing his next step. He opens up his coat and sees a broken bottle.
“Aw, shit! That was for my (burps) mother.”
“My fucking nose!” yells Kye, closing the door. “You little-“
“Easy, Ki. Don’t’ forget you walk this way to go back home.”
“Right. I always go-um-wrong way.”
“Tell you what,” says John holding his cane with both hands. “How ‘bout I take you home?”
“Ok.”
John holds the little boy’s hand and walks carefully so the boy doesn’t throw up on his shoes. Kye, still massaging her nose, walks behind them. It’s a wonder, she thought, how much more attractive the old man was compared to the bartender’s son. Has it really been that long, she wondered.
“Mommy wanted the bottle. But it’s broke. She wont want it now.”
“Well, maybe I can take care of that, too.”
“Jesus, it’s cold out here!”
“Well, how long were you in there?” insisted John to Kye.
“A few hours, maybe minutes.”
The sidewalk remained consistent with the same pattern, gray, black, gray black. The walls of each street were colorless in nature and display, even the paint cracking under was a bleak eggshell white, not nearly as exciting or as whimsical as the snowflakes vibrating above their heads.
“We’re almost there. Keep your head up, boy.”
“I’m try (spits)’n. It’s (burps) nasty.”
“Ki, how much can you lift?”
“Uh…some amount.”
“Would you mind carrying the boy?”
“Nnnno…if he doesn’t spread his mouth shit.”
“Sure. You’ll be careful, won’t you?”
“Yes.”
Kye approached the boy carefully. Never had she seen a more delicately constructed creature. His features were perfectly symmetrical, eyes were a glowing green, and even the little spittle at the side of his mouth reminded him of a teardrop that only a sensitive person could create. She gently lifted him up and carried him in her arms. Like holding a feather.
“Brooul!”
“Ugh, uh, ew!”
“You shouldn’t have picked him up that fast.”
“I..couldn’t help myself! He’s so cute. Ugh!”
“Urp…sm…I’m sorry.”
“It’s..okay, I guess.”
They continued walking; leaving behind the only original color the sidewalk will have for a week. In a short while, they arrived at John’s doorstep.
“I thought we were going home,” exclaimed the boy quizzically.
“We are. I just don’t want you to come empty-handed.”
John opened the door, and Kye stepped in, wanting to drop the boy on the couch. What surprised her, aside from the house smelling appropriately, was the lack of furniture.
“Jon, where can I drop him?”
“On the floor, I guess. Just don’t make another mess.”
As he commanded, she carefully placed the boy on the floor, unusually colorful and confusing from the repeatable tessellations she’d seen before.
“Here we go,” said John, looking at the only furniture at his house: a liquor cabinet with a beautifully engraved handle of a dragon on it. “Have a little vodka left over from my birthday party. Hope your mom likes this.”
“Thanks. I hope she does, too.”
“Do you want to leave now?” asked John.
“Not yet. Thank you.”
“This feels like Kindergarten.” replied Kye despondently.
“How so?”
“Sitting on the floor like misbehaving shits. Looking up at the teacher and listening to her. Or watching her lips open and close. Like a fish.”
John chuckles.
“What grade are you in, little boy?”
“The one you say. Kinder-garter.”
“Do you like it?”
“I no know. I was there once. But not again.”
“Hmm…mmm.” So innocent. So little.
“Ki.”
“Hm?”
“So what’s a sweet, innocent girl like you finding drunk, impotent men in Russia?”
“Well, (clears her throat), I’m an emancipated minor, my parents…were horrible people, and I’ve been traveling the rails, as they’d say in the 1800’s. I was at a library once, looking at pictures of buildings, when one of Russia’s (put her hand on her chest) in-credible buildings caught my attention. I was flabbergasted at its design, its colors, its inventiveness. I just had to see it. Just once. Touch it once. Oh. Crazy, huh?”
“No. Not at all.”
John was a detail-oriented person, in thought and execution. He cross-examined Kye’s words, dissected every gesture and pulse she made. If Kye was aware of John’s ulterior motive, she would’ve been flattered.
“It was tricky, but luckily, I was able to sneak onto a flight and was on my way. To touch that building. I couldn’t wait, but life had other plans. Shortly after, the airline became aware of the stowaway and I ran, till I got to the bar. Eh, shit happens, Jon.”
“Amen.”
“By the way, is it J-O-N?”
“No. With an h.”
“That’s all right. Like I give a damn about my name, anyway. Yours is K-I?”
“No. K-Y-E. I give a bit more of a damn, but enough, it seems.”
“Thing is,” said John, sitting upright and moving his hands, “if you corrected your name every single time someone mispronounces it, it becomes a chore and your name’ll lose its initial significance.”
“Huh. You’re right.”
“This time, Kye.”
One spoke, the other responded, an instinctive act neither of them had accomplished in a while. Inside, both of them wondered why the other hadn’t left yet.
“Hungry, Kye?”
“Oh, fucking. Whaddya got?”
“Well, let’s see.”
(TBC…)
