Tag: character study

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Another Character Study –A Story of Friendship

Posted on by jennrae

The images and sounds of the bus depot would stick with her. No matter how much she tried to stay positive, she always ended up feeling defeated before the battle even began.

All the faces of despair and poverty; the ugliness stared back at her without seeing her. They appeared to be looking through her into the vacant space of nothingness. She was Rhiannon, and she was waiting for her life to be over one day at a time. She lived for the moment, tomorrow was another day. Another day of empty stares, another day of meaningless hellos, and even more meaningless farewells.

Rhiannon pictured a treadmill at the local women’s fitness club. That was her life, one foot stepping in front of the other, alternating, using up time. Rhiannon knew that not everyone felt this way. Her mother’s voice over the phone dripped with urgency, and emotion. She was a powder keg of anxiety waiting to blow up in some poor guy’s face.

Rhiannon felt detached. She didn’t feel sorry for the fate of the victim, nor for her mother the ticking time bomb. That was the problem with Rhiannon. She felt absolutely nothing at all.

“Hey, Rhee, whatcha thinking about?” Her cool blue eyes shifted from the vacant people who lived and died on mass transit, toward the plain yet persistent Annie. Rhiannon had yet to find a way to get rid of Annie, who was oblivious to the blankness and detachment evident in Rhiannon’s eyes. “Well?” Annie hated gaps in a conversation. Conversations were like little books to her; they consisted of a definite beginning, middle, and conclusion. Emptiness was something that Annie didn’t like.

“Look at the people on the bus there. My life is much the same. We’re all slaves to an endless routine which is slowly poisoning us.”

“Rhee, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was thinking, maybe we could rent some movies. Have a girls night in, you know.”

“Annie, isn’t that what we always do? I know I haven’t felt well lately. I know I’ve been a hermit. But that doesn’t mean you have to be one too. It is okay for you to have a life. You’re allowed, I hereby give you my permission.” Rhiannon knew her words stung Annie because she was quiet, something of a rarity when it comes to Annie. Rhiannon watched her nod, and wave. Annie sighed, got in her little white car, an old Datsun, and backed out while another equally small car honked disharmoniously at her.

Was it such a crime to want to be alone? Rhiannon had no car. She used to have one. It wasn’t expensive, although her parents bought it for her. Her brother wrecked it after a wild night of bar hopping. She wasn’t there when it happened. She had stayed home, painting. Painting had once been her true love. Now? She wasn’t so sure. She walked to her apartment despite it being eight miles away. She liked walking. She liked people watching. What was going on in the mind of the old lady walking her mini daschund? Or the fat man taking out his trash?

Annie would be home stewing, her door shut, waiting for an apology. Rhiannon knew that Annie simply wanted someone to take care of, to care for. Rhiannon also knew that Annie was extremely shy. Not in the same way as Rhiannon, not through a lack of caring, but due to a pervading fear of rejection. Loners tend to seek out other loners, and they met and had been friends since high school. Annie had the misfortune of being the new girl, fresh in from someplace in Massachusetts. Rhiannon on the other hand grew up rarely stirring from the same small town. To by shy and to start over from scratch, not once but many times sounded like torture.

Annie’s father was some kind of business man, although what he did exactly was unknown to Rhiannon. It started in school, art class. “There are four of you to a table for a reason. Your final will be a group project. If you don’t participate, you fail the class. That’s it, pure and simple, folks. Many take this class thinking “Easy A”, but I am here to dismiss that myth.” That’s right, Rhiannon’s most enduring friendship was from a teacher’s random seating chart.

Rhiannon tiredly unlocked the door, and pushed herself into the small two bedroom apartment. There was no one set of decor, it was a hodge podge of styles. Her mother would be horrified if she ever visited. Half the place was covered in Rhiannon’s drawings or paintings, the other half had those prints one buys at Michael’s combined with a couple well chosen family pictures. That was Annie’s contribution.

Rhiannon’s photos remained in several scrapbooks kept hidden under lock and key. She only revisited them if she thought she was completely alone, and even then only rarely. To Rhiannon her mother was the shrill concerned voice on the other end of the telephone. That was all. Sometimes she had dreams of the phone ringing, and ringing, but the line would always be dead before she picked it up. She often wondered what the dream meant. Somewhere deep down in the core of her being, perhaps she missed her mom? Or perhaps it meant nothing.

She shut the door lazily, neither slamming it, nor taking care to be gentle.

“Your mom called. She left a message. I think you should call her back.” Annie’s voice was clipped and precise. It was an attempt to project coldness and impersonal lack of feeling. It was a failure. Rhiannon knew Annie was hurt. She even understood why. She simply couldn’t bring herself to care.

“Okay.” Rhiannon briefly glanced at the TV. Annie was pretending to be absorbed by an old episode of Sex in the City. Rhiannon shrugged. She approached the old black answering machine with trepidation. She knew she should return her Mom’s call. What she didn’t understand is why she didn’t want to. Rhiannon’s mother wasn’t perfect, but she was far from an evil uncaring child abuser. She’d always been there when Rhiannon needed her, and she was not unkind. But she did expect success. Success with a capital “S.” The kind that entailed wealth, kids, and a college degree. Perhaps she was simply praying for one of the above.

Rhiannon sighs, and plays back the messages. Three are from her mom, each one getting more frantic then the last. Two are from Michael. He must be back from college. One is a random person calling for a Melinda Richards who once must have possessed this number. They get her calls a lot, mostly solicitations for money. Rhiannon’s opinion of Melinda was mixed. The charity work was not bad, but the old debtors got annoying. Rhiannon wondered how someone obviously in financial difficulties would continuously give money away. Rhiannon’s imagination would conjure possibilities as varied as a simple divorce, to a death in the family. Maybe it was something more extreme; someone addicted to losing money over the phone.

She listened to her Mom’s message again. “Darling, please return my call. I’ve also spoken with your room mate. She seems like a nice girl, so there is no way you can avoid this message. I love you dear. Are you coming to Nathalie’s baby shower? Let me know, okay?”

“Who is Michael?” asks Annie, pretending disinterest and failing.

“Michael is an old friend. You don’t remember?”

“That Michael? From way back then? You were more than friends, if I remember correctly.”

“Yes, well, that was then. I need to call my Mom. Apparently my brother is having a kid.”

“If you’d check your messages you would have known that months ago.” Rhiannon dialed the number, ignoring Annie.

Posted in Fiction, Uncategorized, Writing

Timed Write — First Thing that Comes to Mind

Posted on by jennrae

She walked down the street quietly, hands embedded into the pockets of an overly large beige rain coat. A piece of garbage blew past dancing along the street to some silent tune while the occasional rain puddle stood showing the sky in its natural mirror.

She sighed. Perhaps she just wanted to hear more than the occasional dripping of droplets from rooftops trying to hurry to the ground in their own wet way.

Sometimes she liked to hear her own voice, it almost sounded like it was coming from some other person. Her voice wasn’t how she imagined it would sound like in her head. It was higher, tinnier, distant. Like an echo of what she assumed was her voice.

She was young, wearing a maroon scarf and a small black hat askew. She had her own fashion sense, it was a bit nonsensical. Part retro part comfort, part a little bit detective movie, and a little bit couch potato. She wasn’t sure who she was yet, or who she would become and the impression she gave was of a whimsical and confused teen who wasn’t sure she liked herself all that much.

She knew she liked the rain. It was soothing when it hit her hat and her coat, it made a satisfying plop sound. It made its own music, a rhythmic percussion of sounds that set a tempo for action or just a lengthy walk.

She loved to walk. But, for some unknown reason, when the rain stopped something about the world seemed dark and gloomy. The music slowed down, and everything just sat wet and bland. Everything was just there, remaining around concrete and water.

The clouds were still overhead promising a return of rain in the near future. But in the meantime she was left walking down a largely deserted street wondering if the aftermath of a zombie apocalypse would resemble this.

Everything and everyone needs water, and rain is the form it often comes from. Rain was life, just like sunlight was. A plant would die without water just like it would without light. The air smelled different after a good rain.

The humidity messed with her hair more than her hat did, and she would stop to readjust a strand that somehow got into her face. It was a constant battle between her hat and her hair and her glasses. There was never a real victor, much like the rain or the sun, hair always came back.

Occasionally she would yank a particular strand out and examine the root of it, before tossing it. It would grow back. She guessed that was okay, after all, she didn’t want to be bald. Then again, since she liked to wear hats, perhaps that didn’t matter very much to her. Hair was kind of a symbol of vitality or health though.

People looked at a girl funny without hair. Everyone would probably make insane assumptions like cancer, or some terminal illness if she lost all her hair. Perhaps it is better to have it, so she can blend into the surroundings better. She didn’t want to attract too much attention. she didn’t want any more stares than she occasionally got for the hats she would wear.

A little attention was nice, a lot of attention was scary. She didn’t want stares, a glance was okay, but a stare would be altogether different. She wanted to be different, but not necessarily a freak.

It was a delicate balance that she might not ever perfect. But she was learning how to be herself and sometimes mistakes would be made.

Posted in Fiction, Uncategorized, Writing

Kittenish – A Character Study; Plus an Aside on Time and Ideas…

Posted on by jennrae

She is laying down, curled into a tight ball. Her sleepy almond shaped eyes open gradually taking in the aqua colored walls. Her tiny trim body is contained within the small chair. She jumps up suddenly in one swift graceful motion when a car drives by noisily. Her breathing slows as she realizes she is not in danger.

She walks casually to the door, cautiously opening it. She slinks through the hallway at complete ease by outward appearance. Ready to attack anything within internally.

She seems off guard, but upon a closer inspection, her lithe form is waiting like a tightly coiled spring. Her eyes glance passively about the room. She notices herself in the mirror. Her hair is frizzled and misshapen from sleeping on it. She promptly pats her hair until not one strand remains freakish.

She quickly examines her clothes and studies herself to ensure that her appearance is neat. She looks herself in the eye awhile, appearing to daydream. After she is through, she goes outside into the night. The chill air and dark sky make her feel alive and free. The sounds of the crickets chirping and the owls hooting release the tension in her slow stride.

She continues to walk until she reaches her vehicle. She enters quickly because she begins to feel droplets of rain dampening her hair. She has no plan in mind, nowhere to go. But she doesn’t care. Anywhere will do. She starts up the engine, and curses at it violently because she is impatient. She looks about her noticing the empty soda can, and some cigarette butts in the ashtray.  She slams the glove box in frustration, and gets up and decides to go for a walk instead.

She kicks the car door of the ancient Toyota Corolla and begins to walk aimlessly down the road. Suddenly, she feels lonely, and she wishes he’d stuck around for dinner. Then she thinks again, and is glad he didn’t bother.

She decides she doesn’t need anybody, and no one needs her. She looks up and sees the stars with all their sparkle and glimmer. It annoys her eyes. She is bored with her walk after a matter of yards. She begins to shiver as the cold seeps into her bones. She forgot to put on her coat.

She has had a hectic day between her husband leaving her, and her mother’s visit shortly afterwards. She walked back to her car after one more glance at the night sky.

*Note: This particular writing was from my 7th grade creative writing class. I do not know where my ideas come from, but I do believe time isn’t what we think it is. I think it is possible that my subconscious may be able to pull ideas or fragments from the distant past or the future, or from random writings I may glance at without thinking about.

I am not sure, but sometimes things have come to pass in the future, that I seem to write about years before they happen. This piece has been tweaked a few times since then, but the basic idea is from back then. I wouldn’t get divorced myself until 2002 or 2003. Also, I never was a smoker, but for some reason characters that smoke are interesting to me. Maybe it is all the old movies I watch. Although I hadn’t watched any back then, and that is from the original copy.

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Dragonflies – A Fantasy Character Study

Posted on by jennrae

The sky was a canvas of red swathed in yellow with the evening light while the dragonflies danced above the still waters of the cool lake, weeds puncturing the surface in clumps.

Her eyes danced also to the tune of the flames in the bonfire, climbing and falling like an ancient civilization lost and recently found. She sighed with the despair of the young and bored. Life had offered her many choices and all of them dull. Still, there was much that lay ahead of her and it was this that she craved the most.

******************************************************

Grennick waited for her at the other end of the fire; watching its light toy with her sharp features. His eyes never wavered, but watched with wolfish intensity as she sat there, alone. He would make his move later, he decided. She wasn’t going anywhere; thinking of the future and distant lands he assumed. Anything but the here and now, or the man across the fire whom her father had decreed she marry.

He was much older than her, but this wasn’t unusual. The King liked to reward his friends and faithful with the young tender daughters of his retainers. And why not? Hadn’t the retainers risked their lives only to serve him? Besides, it was the fate of their birth to  be thrown to strange men.

This one was unusual, she had dark hair and eyes that appeared to be at an angle. She was an exotic. He would have to throw her aside if the rumors of her bastard birth were ever proved true, but until then, she might provide some nice entertainment.

The King himself was seated in the longhouse, drinking to the fortunes of the soon to be wedded couple. Her father was at his side, feigning a smile with mixed success. Her mother was nowhere to be found, it was rumored she was too ill to make the journey.

Grennick smiled, unsheathing his knife and throwing it solidly into the tree to her right. She didn’t flinch, or even to notice. Odd girl, maybe bewitched, he thought. No matter, he knew of ways to break the spirit of witches.

****************************************************

Her eyes followed the pattern of the dragonflies over the lake. She watched them move lazily in slow circles, listening to the nattering of their wings. She was everywhere but at her own bridal feast.

Her father would get some chests of gold in recompense, but this would not generate happiness for him. Or for her. She knew that life would be different now, and she could never go back to her olden days of carefree wonder.

She wanted to break free, throw off her invisible chains, and follow the dragonflies over the water, and just keep on, past the mountains and speak with the faeries beyond the glade.

She didn’t want to be wed to the cruel eyes of a warrior. She didn’t want to be wed at all. How could she belong to anyone, when no one knew her value? Not even she knew what she was, or what she could be. She couldn’t say how many or few her worth in gold coins nor did she care.

Her thoughts remained upon the water. Her father pulled at her limp arm, to get her to stand up, and take a seat next to her new lord and master, but he found she would not move. She felt cold to the touch and her eyes took on a glassy look of one who has stared for too long without blinking.

The wise woman was sent for, and attended her, only to confirm to all, that for all intents and purposes, the lady was dead, gone and no longer within reach of voice or kind word.

Posted in Fiction, Uncategorized, Writing

Doomsday — A Character Study

Posted on by jennrae

The end was near. Fifteen minutes till doomsday. She glanced at her watch casually, feeling a sense of detachment from the forthcoming event. She smoothed out the wrinkles in her short lilac dress. If one must die, one might as well do it a New Year’s party.

Things used to be so simple, blindingly simple with a white hot clarity. She couldn’t save the world, and in the end nothing else mattered. She wouldn’t go on, but the massive green and blue globe would continue to dance among the stars.

It would be more accurate to say that she wanted to save herself, and a few chosen people that still entered her mind on occasion. Her mother, her ex, her former best friend, and the kind co-worker. She wasn’t one for attachments or longevity of friendships.

Her pale grey eyes again looked at her simple watch. The band was almost wore out, but there would be no need to replace it now. She sighed, and tapped her fingers on the tabletop with a rhythmic energy she did not feel. It wasn’t like she was nervous. She wasn’t nervous at all. She had been waiting for this moment for years. The ultimate ‘I told you so.’

The people around her were oblivious to her presence and carried glasses of champagne and various concoctions of mixed liqueur. No matter, when the explosion came they would take notice. By then it would be too late.  So why did she remain, casually glancing at her watch? Well, she had no definable reason to go on living. No one to share the pain, the burden of foreknowledge of death and impending destruction.

She sipped at a delicate glass of vodka near her. She felt so tired. She had been up all night, panicking, trying to get someone, anyone, to believe her.To believe in her. To listen to her, love her, cry for her. But to no avail.

Someone looked outside the window and then the people in the large room screamed in unison, and she vaguely thought to herself how odd things quickly fell apart. It wasn’t like the movies where such a scene would be shown in slow motion.

 

Posted in Fiction, Uncategorized, Writing

Indecision –A Short Story

Posted on by jennrae

She pulled the knife out slowly, wiping the blade on the nearest kitchen towel with gentle, precise strokes. The dead man stared at the ceiling with a look of frozen mock wonder and amazement.

She sighed, carefully carrying the knife and the towel to the back sink, making a futile attempt to rinse the blood out. What would her mother-in-law say when Christmas came without a call from her dear boy? Would she just chalk it up to the growing distance that had been progressing between them? Or would she take it as a sign for an overdue visit?

Either way Carol would have to do something with this corpse on the floor, staring above imploring God to intervene on his behalf. Too late, Darlin,’ she said quietly, still holding the crumpled red rag in one hand, the knife remaining balanced on the sink ledge, forgotten for a moment.

What do do now? She was not a pro at this sort of thing, but she knew from the TV shows that keeping blood soaked items was a no-no. They test for DNA traces in the carpet fibers, hair, and even use bugs. So many things can be traced, and there was always that one guy who never gives up on the case. And the spouse is always the number one suspect. Always.

She started to worry, sweat began to pour slowly from her anxious brow. She knew she couldn’t leave him laying here.  She did know that much. Her stomach started to turn uneasy. She glanced back toward the sink in the backroom. No, she couldn’t bring herself to cut him up. But she had to do something.

She urgently looked around the kitchen. Maybe she could just disappear.  Get a plane ticket to nowhere. Who would think to look for her in some small town in Arizona? Or better yet, she could flee to Canada, or Sri Lanka, or anywhere.

She drew the curtains closed in the small kitchen window, eyeing the outdoors with renewed suspicion. What if a  neighbor had heard him yell? What if someone had called the police all ready? What if they were on their way right now? What if, indeed.

She tried to breathe normally, but found it difficult. She had to make a decision now. But he had always made all the decisions for her. She found herself paralyzed and unable to act. There were too  many details, too many choices. She knelt down next to him, and began to cry.

“Tell me what to do, oh please, do get up, and tell me what I am supposed to do now?” This wasn’t how she pictured it in her head. This whole situation was all wrong and mixed up. She reached for his hand, and held it tenderly despite the fact it was now cold and offered her no comfort or solution. She knew then that she was truly alone.

Posted in Fiction, Writing

Danger, Danger…(a character study)

Posted on by jennrae

With steely eyes and a sure grin, she aimed the rifle casually at the unsuspecting deer. She watched as it nibbled absently at a tuft of grass, and paw the ground a bit, oblivious to its fate.  Her partner knelt next to her, shivering despite his thick coat and fur lined gloves.

She wore a little smirk as her fingers slowly tightened on the trigger, waiting for the right moment to strike. Suddenly, the forest exploded in sound as she pulled the trigger, leaving the echo. The deer had a frozen look of fear and went down midleap, twitching, spasming, as its life’s blood trickled from the small circular wound in its majestic chest, eyes rolling back revealing the whites before shuddering still. Silence encompassed them now as the other creatures of the woodland bounded, fluttered, or skittered away with the gunshot, leaving the two hunters completely alone.

The man looked at his partner, the huntress, the killer, the triumphant gleam in her eye of victory, dominance, and superiority. He shivered again, rubbing his gloved hands together to ward off the additional chill he was experiencing.  She approached the corpse and took out her knife. The man found himself looking away, uncertain.  He’d done this before himself, but somehow watching her, experiencing her gutting the animal was different. Something about the look in her eyes as she confidently went about her business, about the lack of stereotypical femininity, bothered him. She became unreal, animalistic; a lioness in her environment.

He had the feeling that he could be next, that he was merely one kind of conquest among many, and that she would carefully gut him, detached from it when she was through with him much like a biology student dissects a frog.  He knew these thoughts were irrational. He knew she wasn’t a lioness. She wouldn’t devour him or break him into a million pieces like glass. But the fear remained and formed an invisible barricade between them.

Ironically, her willingness to learn to hunt was an attempt  on her part to bridge the gap, to break the barricade down. But like everything else, it was her nonchalance, her over capability, her ability to achieve easily that added fuel to the fire of his increasing insecurity.  He wanted to break their engagement but he could imagine the look in her eyes, the “How dare you…who do you think you are” moments. He was paralyzed by the fear of indecision. Like a deer caught in the glare of the headlights of an oncoming car. No matter what he did he heard the warning in his mind,”danger,danger!”