Diedr M.

Blake

Introduction to Creative Writing All Good Things Come

Prof. C. Dews

Burn, she said. The playful screams of the children filled the room once more for the day. Laura had been staring at the fire for some time, an unlit Djarum Black clove cigarette dangling from her lips. Shades casted by the afternoon sun darkened the small studio apartment, and the orange glow of the sunset was only an illusion of warmth to the many passersby in the midst of the growing winter. She watched as the last corner of the creamy white-bordered postcard, featuring Jackson Pollocks Number 1, 1950 (Lavender Mist) charred to a fragile shade of black. Only then did she allow herself to sigh. A cloyingly sweet scent of smoky apple wood and long-ago brewed vanilla chai tea lingered about the apartment, along with the aro ma of coffee and frying meat from the diner next door, where breakfast could be purchased all day. Laura had noticed too, since moving there, that the town air always had a faint rusty, industrial tinge to it, perhaps left over from the days when Haverhill was alive with mills and tanneries. Now, the hope of the town lay with the still screaming children, who were obviously playing and waiting at the bus stop in front of her apartment building. Waiting had been the very definition of Lauras life. At least, that is how her psychologist- in-training older sister, who now lived only an hour away in Boston, had explained it to her last week during their weekly Skype chat. Laura had, more or less, agreed with her. After all, there really wasnt much that she could say that she had accomplished in her life through taking action. She had always allowed for life to happen and extolled the phrase All good things come to those who wait.

Blake, 1

Diedr M. Blake

Introduction to Creative Writing

Prof. C. Dews

Today, she was waiting for the mail. A high-pitched tone on her computer shifted her out of her reverie, and alerted her to a new message on Skype. Lauras shoulders ached from having rested too long against the brick wall next to the fireplace. As she stretched her arms above her head, she caught a glimpse of her reflec tion in the old oval-shaped mirror that hung on her bathroom door. Not thin enough, she thought. Her hands moved to her ribcage and she allowed her long, frail fingers to run over her chest, along her protruding collarbone, and up to her high cheekbones (which her mother had always told her were her best features). She looked into at her hazel eyes and waist- length mousy brown hair. At thirty-seven, Laura felt ancient. Over the years, she had noticed that her hair had become thinner and duller while her eyes larger and even more haunted, especially since the arrival of the first postcard. She walked across the room to her small work desk, where her laptop, stacks of paper and a collection of used coffee and tea cups were placed. She smiled slightly to herself as she saw that the message was from her friend James. James: How are you? I have been worried about you lately. You havent been online. Laura Rivers: Ive been a bit busy with work and I got another one of those cards Laura had met James online through a virtual book club almost two years. They had shared similar views and a love for Clarice Lispectors short story, The Smallest Woman in the World, and had become online, if not real- life, best friends. They had even talked about meeting in-person, but it seemed impossible. James lived on the west coast in Seattle, and she on the east. Still, he had become an important part of her life, and they chatted almost daily. When the first postcard had arrived one year ago, it was James she first told and from whom she asked advice.

Blake, 2

Diedr M. Blake

Introduction to Creative Writing

Prof. C. Dews

He had told her to ignore them and to think of them as simply messages from a secret admirer. Initially, each card had been carefully inscribed with a message of praise and featured a landscape. After a while, however, the messages changed and the works of art were more abstract and disturbing (at least, to Laura). It wasnt that the messages were sinister. They were bizarre. And when I have eaten and taken my fill. And when you have dined and taken from me. Only then will you understand the magnitude of love that the sun can bring to the moon. Only then can you understand that sleeping under the stars for all eternity is but your destiny. James had told her to burn the postcards, but to write the messages down. That way, James had explained to her, she would have some peace of mind. It was true. Burning the cards had offered her a sense of catharsis, and she often felt less anxious and safer in her apartment after destroying a postcard.

Laura had taken the apartment on Merrimack Street because of its door-length windows. On one side of the apartment, they faced the busy downtown street. O n the other, they faced the Merrimack River. It had meant spending more money, but the view and convenience had made it worthwhile. And she could afford it easily even with her work as a virtual office assistant, because of her low maintenance lifestyle as her sister liked call it. She rarely went out, disliked television and so did not own one, only owned a cell phone (because her mother made her), and had no other luxury goods. She did not take or keep photographs, and actively

Blake, 3

Diedr M. Blake

Introduction to Creative Writing

Prof. C. Dews

discouraged company. Even if someone were to come over, the general state of her apartment was enough to cause them to want to leave after a few minutes. The apartment was the smallest in the building and still had its original and rather damaged wallpaper decorating the bathroom. Even so, Laura had managed to fill the space with found and donated furniture. The other items she thought she needed, she often purchased at the Salvation Army down the street or at the pseudo-antique store, Jennies, directly across from the charity shop. The result of her efforts was a collection of plush velvety sofas, a queen-sized ornate wooden bed-frame (the same shade as the hardwood floor), an old writers desk, and several overfilled bookcases. Numerous wicker baskets were placed strategically around the apartment. Some stacked one on top of the other. All filled with yarn. And standing in front of one of the windows facing the river, her prized possession: an antique single treadle Irish spinning wheel. Laura pulled her hair back, made it into a bun and stuck two knitting needles in it to keep it in place. Her conversation with James had been reassuring, as usual, and she settled into her chair to begin her work for the day, drafting emails and editing letters. The noise of the early rush-hour traffic was jarring and broke her concentration several times. It was only four oclock, but already drivers had begun blaring their horns and expressing their frustrations. Their impatience made Laura smile and made her glad that she had chosen to work from home. Looking at the fireplace, she wondered when the postman would arrive. Almost daily, she received a package from one of her many virtual bosses. The postman was new to the route, having started only the year before. Laura had found him to be very pleasant and a great improvement over the last one. She wondered why she had never bothered

Blake, 4

Diedr M. Blake

Introduction to Creative Writing

Prof. C. Dews

to ask him his name, even though he often greeted her and tried to make small conversations with her. Today, I shall, she thought. She had been working for about a half an hour when the door bell rang. The postman. Laura opened the door to find him holding, as usual a medium-sized package, and a number of letters. She smiled at him, a gesture she had never done before. He must have noticed, because he smiled back at her, broadly, as he handed her the mail. Im sorry, but Ive never asked you your name, she said. Oh. No worries. Its James, and you are Ms. Laura Rivers, he said. Would you like to come in? she asked. Although Laura had asked the question, it gave her a feeling of dissonance, which she brushed aside and chalked up to her typical awkwardness when talking in-person. She wanted to get to know this postman, who was the only person she had seen regularly for the last year of her life. Also, his name was comforting to her, and made her think of her friend in Seattle. The postman seemed harmless enough, a government worker who was possibly in his mid- to late forties and balding, but with hairy ears, nose and hands (features that made her smile even more). Laura imagined that he was probably really good with children and enjoyed things like relaxing by the river. Perhaps he even fished. He had remained by the door even after she went to make tea. Laura, noticing this, ascribed shyness to his behavior, a trait she admired and was comforted by. She did not notice him setting the deadbolt. She did not notice him removing a postcard from his pocket. She had not noticed how tall he was. She had not noticed that his hands were large, that his build was strong.

Blake, 5