For the beginning

Her name was Tarnell, named after someone great, or someone who was going to be great. She had a pretty face, a pretty heart once to. She meet a priest and he said she had a heart of gold. She meets a priest and hears she has a heart of black, or no heart at all. Like every little girl with a small nose she liked her friends. There was her teddy, her doll and the little teacup pig that lived down the road that liked to waddle up at lunchtime. Then there was Orange. He was named so because he liked to bring her oranges, but would always drop them before they reached her. Orange could climb the highest trees, swim the greatest lengths and always managed to annoy anyone who Tarnell wanted without getting caught. She wondered when he disappeared, when was the last moment she saw his smiling face before it faded into her memories.

“I like oranges.”

She’d think about him sometimes, but he would never reappear in an instant like he used to, running down the lane with oranges caught in his arms, only to drop them before they reached her.

“Oh Orange.”

As time passed he began to lose his voice.

“Where’s it going?”

Inside you.

The only thing that was always there was the oranges. They left with him.

 

“Trixie, girl.”

“Yes?”

“You still got those delusions?”

“I’m not crazy.”

“Then why are you still here?”

 

I forgot about days

Minutes

Weeks

Months

Seconds

Years

The millennium might have passed and I did not know. I was waiting. Waiting for what I did not know, but waiting I was. Someone was there, wanting to find me, and I was here, waiting for them. But it felt like neither of us was doing anything.

 

He put on his tap shoes and danced. He was a writer, that’s what he was, and each day he put on his shoes and danced.  You’re a dancer, not a writer. Each day I put on my shoes, and I dance. I create worlds with my feet, with the way my legs move to make lines through the air. I’m a writer. Without words? A writer doesn’t need words to write, they just need the belief in their heart, that the impossible can be created.

He made it to Hollywood, stepped into Broadway, and eventually won the Nobel Peace Prize. All without leaving the stage he had made for himself. I’m safe here. But don’t writers go beyond limits, with nothing to confine them. No matter what someone does, their mind will always confine them.

 

What are my confines?

Fear.

Fear of what?

Evil

Karma

Embarrassment

Uncertainty

Loss

Pain

Failure

Hope.

 

“Do you like it here?”

“No.”

“If you’re a princess, why don’t you leave.”

“I’m waiting.”

“For what, a prince to rescue you from this red inferno?”

“I’m just waiting.”

 

Once upon a time there was a little princess. She was not locked in a fiery tower, or held over with a curse. There was no thimble, no evil fairy, no slipper, no pain. A fairy tale with no problem is not a fairy tale worth telling. But she had the greatest problem of them all. She was caught inside her own mind, tumbling through her own thoughts, the fears she created for herself. She told no one, kept silent. She did not want to be a fairytale, just the ending. There was this fear she held inside her mind, this great fear. A fear of hope. She feared that when she hoped for something, the opposite would occur. So she tried to push all hope from her mind, yet only found it slipping in when her guard was down. She would tumble again through her mind, repeating again and again how she did not hope for that, she never hoped for anything. And only after that would she be at ease, before it came again, and her mind would tumble. To all around her there was nothing wrong, whilst her mind turned her eyes showed nothing, her movements remained still. It stayed with her, and she would wait for it to come, wait to have to do it all again.

 

And then again.

 

There was another little boy once, a bright little boy. He liked maths, numbers, algorithms. He saw what he could make with them, how he could change them and watch as they became something new.

 

My mind makes the words. Tells my fingers how to move across the keys or page. But it is my heart that makes my mind. Guiding my mind however it may. The words flow through my mind and onto the page before a second thought. And I smile at what I have just written. The thought that no one will ever read it saddens me but the knowledge of what I have just done, overpowers any sadness that I feel.

 

“You fit in here now you know girl.”

“No I don’t.”

“Look at you, you’re a right picture now.”

“No I’m not.”

“Don’t delude yourself, you’re everything you don’t want to be.”

 

I smelt her perfume before I saw her. I could imagine her easily. Her blonde hair, straightened perfectly against her lean face, not a strand out of place. Her tight top outlining her perfectly thin figure. Her mini skirt shorter than respectable but quaintly showing off her long straight legs, finished with stilettos, clicking on the floor. And just as her picture flashed through my head she rounded the corner, her stilettos clicking as she stepped her long thing legs. A smile spread slightly across her face, showing off her full lips. She was absolutely perfect.

 

Odd numbers are hard, even numbers are squishy and soft.

“Are you odd or even?”

 

You never see stories based in warehouses that aren’t about detectives. Think about it really, when was the last story you read that was based in a warehouse that didn’t involve someone dissecting the automatic tape machine. Maybe it’s because people who have experience in such places, don’t want to be writers. Well I’m going to tell you a story, and not a boring one mind you, that takes us to a warehouse with high roofs and insulation that could be better…

It was a small business, newly run. The logistics manager of one of their clients was passing by and thought he’d take the chance to see how it was done. They sent out magazines; one big, two small, a flyer and a little sticker as a novelty. It all went into a pre-printed envelope, put into a bucket and sent out to some little kid that would want all the toys advertised.

He passed through the glass doors, found the boss walking down the stairs just as he entered. They shook hands, exchanged pleasantries, come through come through. They walked down the hallway. He expected to see machines cranking and bulky men in yellow jackets. Instead he saw eight middle-aged women talking about menopause.

The phone rang and the boss excused himself. He walked to one of the two tables, where four of the ladies sat putting collated magazines into envelopes. They all smiled at him, said hello. One made a joke about the magazines and he laughed.

He noticed one was younger, perhaps only out of school.

“You must get bored.” He commented to her.

She smiled up at him without pausing in her packing. “It’s manageable.”

“What do you do to pass the time?”

She gave a small sigh of laughter. “I look at the names on the envelopes and decide if I’d ever want that name.”

He couldn’t help but laugh at that, and wasn’t worried that she was offended when she smiled smoothly. He picked up an envelope. “So what about this?”

“Britton, no.” She reached and took another envelope, looking at the name. “Jaime, yes.”

They went through a few more.

“So what is your name?” He asked.

“Laura.”

At that moment the boss returned and the logistics manager said good afternoon to the women. Before leaving he made one last passing comment to the girl. “You don’t need to worry about having a different name, it’s pretty already.”

She smiled, and covered the envelope she had been holding. He left and she removed her hand. Laura, yes. Martha would have to change.

Author's Note

As an extra note, you don't need to pay much attention to the chapter titles, they don't really say anything more about the story, they are more for me than anything else.

Reviews

[Summer'sBreeze]

Still terribly confused, but I can't stop reading. The magic of your words has captured me.

Can you just explain one thing to me at the moment?
How many POVs are there in this chapter?