For Lack of a New Beginning

This is an assignment I did in my fiction writing class, senior year.

For Lack of a New Beginning

The laces from Tara’s broken in red high-tops waved out of the passenger side window as she reclined, enjoying the wind on her face. Bryce’s dead stare following the headlights was boring her; he had been quiet since they left the city.

“I’m gonna miss it. At least parts of it,” Tara said, glancing at him hoping for any response, even just a nod.


“I just seriously needed to get the fuck out of there.” Realizing he sounded harsh, he changed the subject a little. “I hated the Richmond sidewalks.” Bryce didn’t even turn to her. His chestnut brown hair barely moved, even though his window was down. “The amount of crooked and missing bricks outnumbers the actual amount of bricks in the entire city.”

Tara turned back to look out the open window. It was darkness; nothing else but farmland and only a handful of houses spotted the land for miles. “I don’t know about that. Plus, you’ve got to love the mess of a city to live in it. It’s kind of like when you fall in love with someone, you have to love their faults.”


Rolling his eyes Bryce finally looked at her, for the first time in at least a half hour. His eyes were tired, she could tell by the bags under his eyes and the vacant stare. “I don’t see it like that. The sidewalk seriously looks like a child took a handful of bricks and dropped them, like toy blocks into a sandbox.” He bent his left knee and rested it on the door, right foot still pushing to stay at seventy. He always wore dark jeans with a cigarette leg and a shallow v-neck. Tara liked that about him though; she didn’t mind his predictability.

“I know. It’s fantastic,” Tara said, digging into her bag and fumbling with the radio knobs.
“Which station is classic rock?”


Bryce pulled a lighter from his pocket and lit her cigarette for her, which was dangling from her lips begging for a flame. “It’s not even safe, you know that? People get raped and shot every day I bet, and we never hear about it. No one says anything and it doesn’t get as far as the papers.
People are afraid of their own asses so they don’t say anything.” He shut up, only long enough to light his own cigarette and take a long drag. “You have pepper spray, right?”

Tara leaned her head back onto the headrest, her hair a mess from the wind. Her jean shorts cut off mid-thigh and her fitted gray Beatles t-shirt sported a ketchup stain on the left shoulder.

Outside the window her shoes tapped the beat coming from the radio. “Of course. My mom bought it for me when she found out I was going to be living in Richmond. I’ll get a rape whistle if that makes you feel better,” her sarcastic tone didn’t ease the mood. Bryce fell back into his trance and the two didn’t talk for nearly an hour.



“I have to pee.” Tara crossed her legs, just to hold it off a little longer.

“You really can’t hold it? We’ve only been on the road for like, two and a half hours,” Bryce checked out signs on the side of the highway and noticed a rest stop.

After parking, Tara grabbed her purse and raced to the bathroom. Bryce laughed and stepped out of the car to stretch. He spotted a vending machine and fished change from his pocket.

Standing in front of the graffiti-covered glass, he scanned the rows of junk food. The top was all crap; generic chips that he had never heard of, some garlic pretzel sticks and barbecue flavored jerky. At his eye level was the good stuff; all the essential candy bar brands, Twinkies and those little chocolate cupcakes with swirly white frosting. The very last pack of cupcakes.


Bryce noticed a distant sound of feet hitting the pavement and it grew closer and faster. A little boy, about five years old, pushed the thin brown hair out of his face to reveal a red Kool-Aid stained mouth.

“Can I please get my snack? My mom is waiting in the car and said I have to go fast!” The boy turned and pointed to the car. Bryce turned and the mother waved through the car windshield.


“Sure man, go ahead, I’m waiting for someone anyway.” Bryce stepped back while the kid’s face was pressed against the unsanitary glass. “Aren’t you a little young to be up this late?”

“Trip to Grammas’.” The boy looked up at Bryce and rolled his eyes.


“Oh I got you. So, uh, just keep your fingers away from C-4, I had my eyes on those cupcakes.” He laughed and the boy just stared at him. He put in a dollar and pressed the faded buttons.

From the spinning shelves slowly fell the last pack of cupcakes. Bryce’s mouth dropped open.

“You’re fucking kidding me right man? I’ve been driving forever and you’re gonna take the last goddamn pack of cupcakes? You know those were mine!” Bryce hovered over the boy, yelling at him. “Great, fucking great. I get bought out by a two year old.”

“I’m five!” The boy kicked Bryce in the shin. “And you’re an asshole!” He ran back to his mom’s car before Bryce could snatch the cupcakes from him.


“Fuck.” Bryce put his head against the glass, biting his lip and holding his shin as if it would help. He pushed random buttons on the vending machine and out came a pack of two condoms. “What the-”

“Hey! Sorry I took so long.” Tara came around the corner, refreshed and happy with a pack of chocolate cupcakes with the swirly white frosting. “I love these things. I haven’t had them since my mom packed my lunch in elementary school. What’d you get?”


Bryce shoved the condoms in his pocket. “Nothing. You ready to get back on the road?”

Tara’s smile faded and she focused on her cupcakes. “Yeah.” Bryce started back to the car and she followed closely behind. “Why have you been so distant lately? We’re best friends and you’ve never acted like this around me. All of a sudden you’re being reserved and quiet, nothing like you.”


Bryce kept walking. He knew that he hadn’t been acting the same, but didn’t want to say anything to further ruin the mood. “Tara you know I don’t mean it.” He turned and walked backwards to face her, putting out an open hand for her to grab. “I’m just anxious about leaving the city and getting acquainted with something new. I’m sure you are too, you’re just better about handling it.”

“I guess so.” She grabbed his hand and rested her head on his shoulder.


“Where the hell did you get those cupcakes?” They sat back in the car and Bryce grabbed the
pack out of her lap.


“There was a machine on the other side of the building, by the girl’s bathroom.” She broke the last cupcake in half, offering it to him. He shook his head after contemplating for a minute. “You sure? Because I know you love them.” He shook his head again and Tara insisted he have it; but she didn’t hand it to him.

Bryce spent the five minutes of the car ride cleaning cupcake off his face while Tara messed with the radio. She kept telling him it was all in good fun. He just laughed and licked the icing from his fingers.


The road in front of them was never-ending. They drove for hours and Tara fell asleep across the front bench seat, resting her head on his lap. Bryce had one hand on the wheel but kept one on her head, occasionally running his fingers through her wavy brown hair. He knew she was definitely asleep, but swore he could see her smile a few times.

It must have been three or four hours before Bryce looked at the time again. He didn’t move much so as not to wake Tara, but his legs were numbing at this point. “Hey. Tara? I’m gonna pull over to stretch soon.” He rubbed her shoulder to wake her gently. She looked up with her glossy light brown eyes and smiled at him and put her head back down to keep sleeping.


A dirt road stemmed off to the side of highway into what seemed to be the middle of nowhere; just fields of grass surrounded them. Bryce pulled off the road into one of the fields. The bumpy ride woke Tara and she perked up, looking around to figure out where they were.

“Why are we in a field?” She turned to him, confused and concerned.


“Pit stop.” He put the car in park and grabbed a blanket from the backseat under all the boxes and random clothing hangers. She followed him out of the car and leaned against her door to stretch and let out a yawn.

“What time is it?” Tara looked around, trying to find the moon.


“Come here.” Bryce laid a blanket on the back trunk and jumped up to lean back against the window. He patted the spot next to him for her to join. “It’s just about dawn. Let’s watch the sunrise.” Tara laid down and looked up at the sky with him, eventually inching close enough to put her head on his chest.

The sun slowly crept up over the horizon. The flat land and lack of trees or mountains made the sunrise a little less dramatic, but it still held its beautiful orange and pink color.


“How long have we been friends?” Tara tilted her head upwards to meet his face.

“I’d say about five years, not counting the three months we dated.” He smiled and looked down at her. “Why?”


“That’s a long time,” she said, sitting up and crossing her arms over her knees.

“Not really. People have been friends all their lives. We have yet to get that far. But don’t worry, we’ll make it. I promise I won’t let you get away.” He sat up with her and looked ahead towards the sun. It was still rising but had taken more of a yellow color; not as exciting as its previous pink color, but still stunning. “I love the sky. No matter what state it is in, storming, snowing or just blue, it’s always gorgeous.”


Tara laughed a little. “You’re such a softy.”

“We’re in the middle of nowhere right now and I’ve never felt safer. Not even taking into account that we’re out of Richmond. But that we’re away from just about everything right now.” Bryce looked at her, waiting for a response.


“Away from everything but each other.” She nudged him playfully. “But that’s not so bad.”

They got up to fold the blanket and Bryce stuffed it into the back seat through the window. Tara sat down and fidgeted with the keys lying next to her.

“Alright, let’s hit the road if we’re going to make it by noon.” He put out his hand for her to give him the keys.


“I think on a long road trip like this, you can really let your mind go. Pretend you’re driving anywhere but your actual destination.” She turned completely sideways in her seat to face him, sitting with her legs crossed. “It makes the journey that much more exciting.”

“I agree. But I don’t like when my ass goes numb from driving for twelve hours.” Bryce kept his hand out for the keys.


“I’m just saying it makes it more of an adventure; and even more so when you’re with someone who appreciates it the same.” Tara leaned across him, sticking the keys in the ignition enough to turn on the classic rock station. “Let’s take our time; I’m in no rush to start over yet.” She grabbed Bryce’s hand, leaned back and stuck her feet out the window; laces waiting to wave along the highway.

Bryce started the car and smiled at her. “Neither am I.”

Get high.

It seems as though all we are good at is the flow. That point in the middle of something where after we’ve gotten past the starting point, we just go with it. Like that moment when you’re running and you get past full body exhaustion and the lack of ability to breathe, and then you just do it; you just run. It’s a high, a second wind that your endorphins grant you to keep that easy flow going. Once your throat gets dry from no longer breathing in through your nose, you stop and pat yourself on the back for “finishing.” Is that what it’s like when we start a project? I’ll procrastinate the shit out of a paper, but once I get started and get past that first speed bump, it’s all downhill from there. At the end, the conclusion, we struggle to shut things down and revise all of it. But thank God for the middle of it all: for the flow, for the endorphins that get you so high you will literally pat yourself on the back for doing so well. Indulge yourself in natural self-producing speed, and maybe you’ll get shit done.

This was a leisure assignment for an english class my junior year of college. The assignment was to write about absolutely anything. I took a piece from something i've written before and fixed it up a little.



Something Like a Daydream

I swear I’m not lazy. While I’m lounging on the couch with Cheetos spread across my T-shirt and Blue Moon in hand, I’m not vegging out; I’m daydreaming. It may seem that my blank stare into the television is just my mind hooked on the show, but I don’t really give a crap about My Super Sweet Sixteen. I picture myself on the couch next to one of these stuck up bitches yelling at her dad about how her car isn’t expensive enough. Sweetie, I say to her, I am the third owner of a car that makes screaming noises when it starts. “My BMW isn’t the right color!” or “My Range Rover has the wrong color interior!” I’d rather picture your dad pulling the car around the building to reveal it to you and your guests and accidently running over you.

I can’t help that I have constant daydreams; they’re almost like monologues. They occur more often than actual dialogue. I walk around Richmond and talk to almost every person in my head that I pass. I ask people where they are going; I ask them what they are thinking about. I ask them if they noticed me like I noticed them and I even answer back for them. I talk to the construction guys off Main St. all the time. They say that they want a lunch break. I say, “I know how you feel.” We share a laugh and I pass by, waiting to pass by again the next day, and again and again.

A lot of the time my mind just wanders to random things. I ask myself why I walk so fast. I step twice in the big cement squares, once in the small ones. Completely avoiding the cracks, I’ll skip once to continue the number sequence that my feet grow accustomed to. I wonder what triggers my obsessive compulsiveness. I never use the thumb on my left hand for the space bar. Is that just because I’m right handed, or is it like that for everyone? I walk by a guy in basketball shorts, and wonder if he’s ever thought of that. He says that he hasn’t, but he knows what I’m talking about. My right thumb begins to feel overworked so I do my best to forget about it.

Sometimes my daydreaming isn’t as pleasant as making conversation with a store clerk or a random person. I’ll sit in my apartment alone and play out the worst possible things. Maybe my boyfriend Matt is there next to me and I picture us watching The Fresh Prince at three in the morning. There’s a knock at the back door and I can’t see outside; it’s too dark. I turn the key and the glass rattles as I pull the door open. I get pushed inside by someone in a black ski mask; so cliché, right? He forces me over to the couch and shoves me next to Matt. He points his gun at both of us and says if we move he’ll shoot. He wants us to beg for our lives and tell him why we deserve to live; we have to tell him why he shouldn’t he shoot a load of lead into our chests. He yells and I can’t hear what he’s saying because all I can think about is how to get him to leave. He points the gun at me first and Matt grabs my head, pulling it close to his chest. He wants to protect me and all I want is to take that bullet instead. I hear a loud crack and I look up. My mind starts to show me things way too vividly. The rush of blood falling from Matt onto my-
I have to stop myself before I puke. I can’t stand that I daydream about these things all the time. I tell Matt about it and he says it’s not normal. I say that it is and that I probably just share it too often. I try to give my mind a break from the stress I put on it by thinking about murder and other gruesome things.

I walk around Richmond and begin counting my steps; in reality this time. By the time I get to three hundred and sixty-two, I find myself on a street I haven’t traveled yet. I follow the signs and listen to what they tell me. No right turn. Turn left. I imitate the illuminated walking man and cross the street as it directs me to. I’ve only passed four people by the time I made my next turn. I like to give people lives, backgrounds, personality. A boy about the same height as me walks by with his head down; walking fast. He just left his apartment because he had a relationship talk go bad with his girlfriend. Walk it off man, just walk it off. Two girls pass me and one of them is talking about the stress her mom puts on her to do well in school. Her friend is thinking about how it’s normal for that to happen and how she just wants her friend to shut up and ask her about how horrible her day was.

I pass by another girl. She has a Kelly green hooded sweatshirt on and she’s walking fast like I am. I can tell that she has her own monologue. I make eye contact and smile without teeth, just to suppress a possible awkward walk-by. She does the same and I can tell that she had a conversation with me in her head. I leave it at that.

Ten years from now, I think, will I still be counting my steps? Will I still be walking dangerous city streets early in the morning? I wonder if one day I’ll run into someone else on the sidewalk, they have their head straight forward, subconsciously stepping in each block twice while they talk to themselves. I wonder if we both notice that we are doing the same thing, that we are both simultaneously having conversations with each other in our heads; daydreaming.

In my head I stop walking. I jump into an imaginary car and drive fast away from the lights, speeding away from the sound of the city. Long and slowly winding roads carry me somewhere I haven’t been before. My music is loud enough to the point where I am not paying attention to it; but it is only background music to my thoughts that are even louder. Background music to the movie playing out in my head; where I am talking to other drivers on the road. I ask them if they are driving because they want to be away from routine. I tell them that it’s my favorite thing to do. They smile, nod their heads in agreement, and accelerate.

Trees pass by but they appear to be crazy streaks of color; like my eyes are using a long exposure time. I look in my rear-view mirror and they slide along the edges of the road, opposite my direction, as if on skateboards. The sun rises behind me and the road turns into blue and orange blocks like a board game and my tiny green VW Bug is a game piece.

Daydreaming is supposed to be where a person is not aware of their immediate surroundings and they place themselves in a blank stare; only a quick movement or something that arouses a sense will break them of their trance. So what is it called when I am completely aware of my surroundings and all I do is give them a different life, more life?

I would say I daydream about 80% of the day. It’s surprisingly common to have morbid daydreams, or dreams that consist of worrying. Some professionals have related it to obsessive compulsiveness. Maybe I’m just daydreaming about what I’m terrified of; death or loneliness. I read somewhere that if you think worst-case-scenarios when doing normal every-day things, that it could be manifested from how I feel about myself personally; whether it’s weight, appearance, or age. I think most of it has to do with my mood, which is an obvious answer. If I’m feeling happy my daydreams will usually be positive. But if I’m in a bad mood my daydreams will be morbid and vengeful.

However, sometimes I’ll be as happy as can be and in my head I’ll ruin all of it. Maybe it has to do with recent tragedies I’ve experienced over the past couple years. I’ll be counting my steps on the way to class and my mom calls with, “your aunt died this morning.” And there goes my chance of doing well on my history midterm. Or March 27th, I wake up ready for the day only to get a phone call saying my friend was shot to death that morning. I think all these things and more play into my gruesome daydreams.

Sitting in the library working on a paper, I daydream about someone sitting alone at a table for six with headphones on. He’s staring at his laptop like I am, but he’s belting out Madonna’s “Like a Virgin” with no shame. All of a sudden everyone on the second floor joins in; even the security guard who came to shut us up in the first place. Daydreams are just my way of connecting reality with my own imagination; whether it is twisted and morbid or conversational and fun.

I fancy these distractions because they give me something else to think about; something else to daydream about. It could be that I get so bored with what’s going on around me that I have to imagine things being better and more interesting. I don’t mind going on car rides around a board game, or talking to strangers in my head. I only look forward to these moments when I can escape reality.

the start of it

First of all, I'd like to be clear that this is a blog of things I've written; everything from school assignments to things I've written throughout college and have yet to share. Feel free to comment, not comment, whatever. Read, re-read and re-visit.