2011 NanoWriMo can be found at Yellow House Cafe 2

2010 attempt: two days…
“I quit!” Monica yelled for everyone and no one as she threw a library book half across the room aiming at her boss’s door.  The book landed just shy, nailing the corner of her co-workers cube, landing with a thud on the floor.

It would’ve been a monumental moment in her life if anyone would have been around. Sadly, though, there was not another person in the library since it was way before hours on a Sunday afternoon. This was the story of her life, so many times compelled to act, but never at the right time. She had contemplated quitting in drama for at least the last six months only for her string to snap when no one was around.

Life was going to slowly eat her alive if she didn’t live by her call. Work was sending her into depressive fits where she could measure her emotions by number of empty Cabernet’s (think Bridge Jones diary). Her love life, or lack there of, reminded her every day that the grave was that much closer to her foot than she would have hoped ten years ago. It wasn’t that she was going to die, it was more that if she was going to continue to live, must she endure her own, solitary company alone for the next 40 years?

Devon threw his hammer again the wall board. The hammer stuck making it look like an intentional masterpiece of modern art. It wasn’t meant art, however, but pure frustration at a life gone awry. Devon lamented every day of breathing since he left grad school in order to support his pending mistake. Who would have guessed that a one night bender would change his life so drastically? He didn’t even remember the sorority girl’s name when she appeared at the cafe where he was a barrista four months later. She was oblivious of this fact as she blubbered all over him explaining that she was pregnant, it was his and she couldn’t keep it. Devon thought he was off the hook until she expounded that she couldn’t get rid of it either, ergo, she was going to have it and give it up.

Theresa had no idea that she was unloading her burden to a man who had wondered his whole life who was his DNA. Her final breath of the story had not even exhaled, but Devon knew that he would never let this mistake go, it would be his burden to bare. He may not be able to carry this child, but he would have the child even if it meant giving up every dream he had strived for since age eight. Devon gave up his desire to don black robs in order to foster another dream, to be the parent and DNA that he longed to know for twenty eight years.

Carmen watched the trains come down the line. The smell of combusted heat filled her lungs making her gag as it sunk deeper into her fibers. She found that smells overwhelmed her even worse than normal. The unsmiling doctor who had drawn a half of pint of fluid from her lungs told her to be prepared for side affects. She laughed to herself as she thought of all the shit she had endured over the years thinking this sanitized treatment had nothing on sifting through truck stop trash bins and scrubbing under florescent lights that turned her skin a harsh green. What do these white collar folks really know about pain, anyway. As if they could wrap their lily brains around a hunger so deep that after three days you tossed your first bite of apple because your body no longer knew how to handle food. It was like she had come full circle, however, now with plenty of food, but even the smell of a bit of grease sent her off to a grassy spot retching like a dog.

The phone rang twice before Monica decided to check the caller id. It was way before hours and she ignored the unwritten rule that if you hear it, you answer it no matter the time. Two more rings echoed through the dark, empty space causing a muscle to spasm in Monica’s right shoulder. Too much stress, she thought to herself. I’m gonna die young if I don’t get the hell out of here soon. She laughed. She had no savings anyway, so living too long was actually not a great objective unless she wanted to be one of those poor, decrepit women she spied at the grocery store pushing a pint sized cart with a random assortment of odd goods, all off label. It seemed that the saltine box minus any soup, but a tub of peanut butter rolling against its side, indicated the sad tale of having to choose ~ food or meds. Monica knew she would someday be that woman even if she tried to remain healthy. It may not be medication that makes her choose dried crackers over a fresh baguette, but something more important such as a roof.

The Metro’s brown line was thankfully without many passengers when the car’s door opened in front of Carmen. She had to focus as she stepped through the threshold, steadying herself with railings for standing passengers. An elderly man looked at her sideways as she passed by, shuffling his plastic bags with his feet so that they were closer to him than to her feet walking past. Carmen finally choose the corner of the car, a long bench extended the length of the metal box. She rested her forehead upon the cool metal enjoying the jolt the cold gave her skin. Carmen began to study the glass that had been shot sometime in the past. She often wondered what the windows were made of since the bullets didn’t penetrate but left spidery pattens in remembrance of their illegal presence. Who knew if these were the markers of teens experimenting or actually gang violence that plagued ares of the city. Things had been cleaned up over the years, but hate leaves deep scars and heavy burdens that linger after the cosmetic work heals.

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  • Do you copy?

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