No Left Turn

Originally typed on June 16, 2011.  

The following was written as a reaction to one of my friends' paintings, one from her concentration, a series of paintings with one related theme, in high school. Like a fascinated but also somewhat annoying person, I kept reminding her that I wanted to "canonize" her masterful work in some shape or form, and after trying to criticize her work thoughtfully, I instead opted for a short story, one that became an obsession of mine to complete during the summer. Unfortunately, I have no way of showing her image to you, the reader, so that you have some idea of how the brainstorming process worked for properly interpreting her piece. Something that struck my attention was how her theme is "Home", and most of her concentration were little sections of her home in the Palisades and although she is a wonderful painter, I felt her theme hampered on the execution of most of her paintings, and with her goal of completing 12 paintings by the end of the school year, she began rushing towards completion of her series. One day, she brought along her next painting, one with no title. It surprised me how empty and yet lively this painting was compared to the others. I don't want to describe it since I know my description will be inaccurate. The painting features as a sign saying "No Left Turn" which I have named the story. I admit that I'm posting this story also with haste as I no longer want to worry about it and move on to other projects, and that it is a story that resolves itself very quickly and that the descriptions lack the underlying bitterness of my previous stories, but overall, it's still a pretty good story that could be improved. Let me know what you think about it in the comments, and thanks for reading if you do.  

 

A lone pebble in the middle of the street balances the neighborhood. At the earliest hour, it makes a shadow that reaches the far end of the block up to the stop sign. Some pranksters cut out a side of it to fool exhausted drivers. The paperboy knows about the cars that could potentially crush and mangle his bike, so he always watches the road after passing the stop sign. His newspaper sack feels heavier than usual. So did his arms. People make fun of him for wearing sunglasses everywhere, but his eyes are that deplorable and could only function properly for 15 seconds until becoming defunct. It was the paperboy’s last day on the route. He pulls out each paper and flings it at every direction. A quiet summer morning is spoiled by the paperboy’s terrible aim. Mrs. Flutterman’s precious daises are flattened by the LA Times. He breaks his fifty-first flower pot. The lone pebble catches onto the wheel and shreds the tire. The paperboy tumbles to the floor, a stunt he had rehearsed a few times before. A few scrapes don’t stop the paperboy. Only the sight of his rented bicycle rolling by itself and then crashing into a moving car do. Words from the newspaper editor swearing at him makes the paperboy shake in turmoil. For the next few minutes, the only things the paperboy sees are the sidewalk and his own shadow.

The paperboy shakes his head and looks up. He panics and searches for his sunglasses which are just near his shoes. Taking a moment, he begins putting them on when something catches his eyes. The neighborhood has the most vibrant palette of colors he’d ever seen. Every house has its own personality, its own traits and behaviorisms. The house filled with whimsical colors designs, seemingly being lifted off the ground: Animator. The house covered by another house’s shadow, revealing only parts of its exterior but daring others to see what the interior has to offer: Prostitute. He pulls out his schedule and checks the number. Yep, he was in the right place. Carrying his bag, the paperboy steps carefully onto the sidewalk. Wind chimes, garden gnomes, doghouses, basketball hoops, at once he tries to imagine the people who purchased these things. He imagines the wind chimes at some sterile department store in the midst of many customers passing the wind chimes to. The paperboy looks at his own shirt and reconsiders the thought. People in the neighborhood had confidence in the world, enough that none of them had any kind of security system to defend their homes with. The paperboy walks up to the house and looks at the wind chimes. A small breeze begins the chimes’ lovely tune. He hums the tune and sways his head in rhythm with the chimes. Though he wants the chimes on the porch of his parents’ house, it killed him to realize he would only be getting a similar, yet flawed replica. He looks out and realizes this was the last house to deliver. He pulls out the paper and places it gently on the doormat. He sits on the steps and looks at the neighborhood one last time. Though he never saw it in a truthful light, it had been his home and it took care of him as well as any mother could have. His parents call him later in the day, wondering if his shift is over. The paperboy tells them that there’s still a few more papers to deliver. He puts his bag aside and watches the neighborhood. He’ll return home by lunchtime.