CRISLIN'S Journal

I hate f*****g computers. I have no idea why it decided to clear all my spaces on half of the story, but I'm gonna fix it later. You can read it now or later. It doesn't matter to me. lol. SORRY.

"Crislin's Journal" No warnings came. No bible spoke to me in an ancient tongue. No God touched me with his bare hand, and looked into that invisible structure they say is buried beneath my skin. No one knew of this. Nothing in science explains this other world. The best way to write this tale is to write it now, not later. Later might be too late, but God do I miss that life like a botanical garden misses it's roses. My absence is destroying me and my people, but I pray that writing these words will keep me sane for the next several months, before my end comes. My name here means nothing, but my name there means many things. My parents did not name me. My name did not come until I reached a certain age, until I earned the word and rightfully claimed it for myself. My parents chose to wait for a word to call me until I reached a certain age, until I earned the word and rightfully claimed it for myself. I did not choose that name, however. There I was thirty-two years old but here I would have been eighteen before I finally earned my name. A series of sounds to call oneself is beautiful, and holds much more depth than the name I have now--the name I have as I write these words with a pen that is just barely holding its last breath, an occasional word or two fading out yet the imprint of the letters are still left on my paper. ... I just looked out my office window, realizing that this room was once my daughter's room. Her stickers of pastel roses rest in the corners of the window pane--she did always admire the petals of the rose. Behind them a snowy scape sits. I wonder where she is now. Is she the princess of a gallant King, or maybe his Queen? I smile, and realize that she doesn't know me well, if at all. I may be but a dream to her, and then again she may know nothing about the boundaries of this mundane world anymore. She's gone, and that's okay. To my beautiful wife, if you ever venture back into this world, know that you will always sleep beside me. Your presence still lurks even though I've removed everything from this empty cluttered house that might remind me of you. Everything except that frying pan. Do you remember that blue cooking set I bought you? You burned your hand on the frying pan, and I laughed at you from across the emergency room when you swore that you'd never use the frying pan again. Sadly, it might have been the uselessness of your right hand that caused the accident, but I'll never forget assisting you during those next few days. You whined, I probably bitched a little bit because you always dramatized things. But I kept that frying pan for some treacherous reason. It still sits under the sink collecting water from the leak. Again, know that here I can't forget you even after I've taken my last breath and my heart wallows into stillness. Someone or something continues to bang my front door. I'll be back in a short ten minutes.... ... He glared at me from beneath his hooded jacket. "Henry, are you okay?" The plumes of his breath whizzed across the black on his chest. "I told you that I don't go by that name anymore." I wrapped my arms around my chest as the cold rushed through the front door like water floods a freshly bombed submarine. The man nodded distastefully. "Right, what is the other name again?" I bit my lip in agitation, and lifted my brow. "It doesn't matter right now, I wouldn't suppose." He bounced in the cold, and it took me moments longer before I invited him into my home. I took his jacket, and I even hung it in the exact spot my wife hung hers. He sat on the couch across from the fireplace. "Everything looks a lot cleaner now," he said. "You've improved tremendously since I last visited." I poked the fire. "Why did you come?" "Better yet I should be asking you why you never came. You know it's court ordered that you see me every Wednesday at one," he whipped me. My chest rose. "I'm writing something," I said with regret. "Really?" The man's voice rose. "May I read it?" I shook my head from left to right as my pupils adjusted to my stare into the flames. "No. You can't read it yet. I've got many months of work ahead of me." "May I read it eventually?" My shadow fell across him as he rested and shivered into warmth. "I have a feeling the world is going to want to read this when I'm done." His eyes glared at me with so many questions. "How can you be so sure of yourself? Haven't you written anything before now?" "I took a creative writing class back in college, but that was the last time I really put a pen to paper. Would you like something to drink? Maybe a cup of coffee?" "I don't want any coffee," he rolled his head. "Does this 'book' perhaps pertain to your near death experiences?" I breathed in once again. "I did die; I've died many times at this point." "When you're dead, you are dead, Henry. If you were dead, you'd be in a casket--" "Next to my wife?" I finished his sentence though I highly doubted with his frame of mind that he'd venture anywhere near my beloved. My Psychiatrist looked upon me angrily; I knew that he didn't wish to speak about the death of my wife, but it bothered me little to speak about her. Maybe it this very fact threw him off. Psychiatrist finished his sentence in a small voice, "You would be in a casket somewhere in the ground." I threw my finger into the dry air. "Aye, I'm going to fix you some coffee." He didn't argue with me despite the fact that he literally just told me "I don't want any coffee"; (in my head, I definitely quoted him with Dr. Phil's voice, only more sassy with a hint of anger.) He continued to sit on the couch. I put on the coffee, and found myself sitting in the recliner just beside the fireplace. "You knew I'd be fine, so why exactly did you come?" I asked him again. "I'm off the clock," he said as he starred at the fireplace. "I came as a friend only checking on a friend. "Are you documenting this as a checkup?" He nodded. "I'm documenting that you came by today." Psychiatrist twisted his lips. He explained to me this habit came as a result of dipping tobacco at an early age. I didn't understand it, but I had never dipped. However, I smoked and continued to do so. Like my misunderstanding of dipping, he misunderstood why I smoked. As a matter of fact, this topic drug on for hours during one of our meetings. I'd never question it again, because we both failed to understand the differences in our addictions, and discussing something so meaningless for hours on end was a waste of my time. "You think you could let me read some of your book when you have a large portion of it written?" "It's a biography, sort of, and-- I don't know what that has to do with it, but no. You can read it when I'm finished." He huffed. "I suppose I can wait. Bring it with you to our next meeting. It'd be interesting to watch you while you write it." I thought for several moments. "Can we meet somewhere other than the office? I need somewhere to write that's not quite so dull. It'd hinder my creativity." "Didn't you just say that it was a biography?" "I still need a dose of creativity. I need interesting ways to word my sentences, and so on." The coffee began to mix with the resonance of the burning wood. My wife envied the combination of smells. It reminded her of old romance though were hardly old in our first years of marriage. Psychiatrist sat while I stood waiting for those last few drops of coffee to fall within the pot. He could have used my wife’s cup if I hadn’t have thrown it away. I recall it breaking when it hit the bottom of the trash bag, and I believe it broke a little piece of me as well; I took a long break afterwards. 

“So that’s all you’ve been doing? You’ve been writing?” Psychiatrist asked. 

“Well,” I started with his cup of coffee. The black burned and boiled the cups white insides, though it’d never scare like my flesh would. I handed him the coffee, and I sat in the recliner before I’d answer his question. Psychiatrist stared at his cup for a few moments, then rose himself. I watched him walk into the kitchen. 

“I don’t like black coffee,” he said.

I exhaled holding my cup with two hands, gravity pulling me within the cushions of the chair. “You’re so ungrateful,” I said blandly enough in hopes that he’d not react harshly. 

“If there wasn’t any sugar and milk, I’d drink it black.”

As I blew into the rim of the cup, I took the moment to stare at my living room. I removed so much within the last few months. A shelf used to sit beside the fireplace, but now nothing but it’s ghostly footprints remained in the dusty floor--which reminded me that I needed to sweep and polish the wood again. I smirked; I may even replace the floor with what I originally wanted. My wife would never know. She had the hardwood put down, and I pitched a fit for carpet, and something more solid. She won, obviously, and that was okay then. Now, I could replace it. 

I blew into my coffee, and attempted a sip. She’ll never care if I replace it now. 

I threw the old shelf into the backyard, and I’d let nature handle it from there. The couch and loveseat still had their new smell. I ordered them new just a few weeks ago from a shady site, and I suppose luck was on my side. They arrived safely, and the descriptions on comfort was very accurate.

The coffee burned my top lip. 

Psychiatrist came back to his spot on the couch.

“I’ve been starring out the window when I’m not writing,” I told him.

“Which window?” he asked.

“My daughter’s window.”

He hummed to himself. “I thought you were calling that your office?”

“No, today I’m calling it my daughter’s old room.”

“Now it’s her ‘old’ room?” He drank, but I still couldn’t.

“It doesn’t matter if it’s her old or new room.” I starred at the mahogany curtains. “It’s just a room, and ‘new’ and ‘old’ are only descriptions of time. Time is nothing but an illusion.”

“We’ve had this conversation before,” he rose his head. “I think time is something more physical than what we think.”

I shrugged. “It could be that too. I just know that the time here and the time there don’t reflect upon one another. You’d think that we were all sitting in the same space-time system, but I’m still confused about it.”

Author's Note

(Writers note: correct grammar if you wish, but I'll focus on the grammar part later. I'm just looking for overall thoughts. Yes or No. What's working and what's not working. Thank you for reading! And thank you Erin for the cover art. XD Background music for the moment is in the link if you wish to play it. My music playlist is a bit strange though. Be warned. Lol.

http://youtu.be/W0W1c_qH9sQ

Thank you for reading.)

Reviews

[Rachelle]

Some grammar issues, friend. Awaiting the next installment before I make any final conclusions. However, if you intend this to be read in mobile format, may I suggest that you break your big paragraphs a bit. No grammar issues in this matter but for the sake of aesthetics and ease of readability. Speaking from a layout point of view.....

[Christoph Poe]

Well, you're going to really love what I've done to it now. I went to add more, and it removed all spacing on the first half of the piece.... Just look at it! fedbaiovp herwiuoqhp ewiuofj idsoa gherwiuoQH GEFIAS;O ghDVJSIp GHDVJSO; aGHEUORW

Now I've got to go back and space it again. I'm pretty sure this happened because I copied and pasted the first half from a macbook, and added the second half from a PC....

ANYWAYS, thank you for reading! I'll try to get back to you when I've got a large chunk finished. :)

[Rachelle]

You've got OS issues. Try copy-pasting and editing everything on one OS to smooth everything out. Can't write much. My laptop crashed and I am not comfortable writing with a Mac which I reserve specifically for imaging and coding. But it looks overwhelming on my smartphone. Looking forward to resolution of your layout issues....