I wrote a beginning to a story a few weeks back for my Creative Writing class. We were never given the chance to write a story in second person in high school… Hell, we were hardly even taught what it was. All we were told was that it consisted of “you” instead of “I” or “he/she.” I had absolutely no business writing a story from that type of perspective–but I did it anyway.
One of my favorite things about my professor is that he’s completely open to anything we want to write. He doesn’t dictate assignments or give us specific prompts, he just says, “Hey, you can write about *insert cool topic here* if you want, but I’m not going to tell you what to do.” So, I figured I might as well give it a shot. I’ve gotta say, I’m pretty proud of how it turned out being that it was my first time attempting a short piece like this. Part of me wants to keep writing it and see what it turns into, but it was difficult enough to get it this far. And no, I didn’t do all this talking just to leave you guys hanging. I wanna share it with you, so… Here it is.
Leaving Behind a Note
The door clicks shut behind you. As you walk into the woods, down the dirt road to the old bridge, you realize you’re alone. Your quaint woodland house, encompassed by fallen maples and sticky pines, is the only one this side of the bridge. Pausing, you turn around. You hear your neighbors howling in the distance and you ponder over what poor animal they’d trapped this evening. You turn back towards the city lights and wander down the beaten path, stopping in the center of the old bridge.
You’re dressed elegantly in a black maxi-dress with a light blue jacket to match, your hair falling in soft curls over your shoulders, ruining your ruby lipstick every time the wind blows the wrong way. Brief glimpses of moonlight peek out of the clouds, lighting your path for only a moment. You look up, only to see nothing shining back at you. The evening was cloudy, dark, and you find yourself wondering why you decided to come to the bridge in the first place. It’s the middle of the night, yet here you are: waiting on a bridge, staring up at the bleak night sky and listening to the smooth rush of the stream. If anything, it was peaceful.
I should just leave, you think, looking back out over the river and leaning against the edge. There’s no reason for me to be here.
You lift your hand off the railing, turning to walk back towards your small house in the dew-covered woods, and a slip of paper catches your eye as it floats to the ground. A long, tiresome sigh escapes your lips. How could one letter have forced you to do this? It’s been months since the death of your husband, but this is the first time you’ve left your house. And for what? Some little note that was given to you by a man you’ve only once met in passing.
Reaching down, you pick the crinkled sheet up off the stone and stare at it. The words seem to drift off the page in the dim light, but after hours and hours of reading over the message, you know it by heart:
“On the darkest night of the warmest season,
Meet me beyond the lights on the stone
Where the dirt trails end
And the grass no longer grows.”
You built your house in the woods on the outskirts of the city for a reason. You didn’t want to deal with all the commotion and constant noise that came from living in an apartment. You preferred to be surrounded by gentle creatures, green grass, and the smell of the freshwater stream as it flowed through your land. Where industrial life began, your peace ended.