Storytelling, Final Draft
by Malik Turley
Sometimes, knowing where one is going ruins all the fun. And there is fun to be had, almost all the time, though its presence can be obscured by the mundane. The tasks that need doing, the worries that need worrying — all that can, and does, put a damper on fun. BUT, and this is a big BUT — if one can put the worries and tasks and knowledge aside, well, I hope you can imagine what remains.
The young lady in our story is lacking tasks and worries. What a blissful idea, no? She is just young enough to be free of such bonds while also being old enough to fully appreciate life. How old is she, you ask? What age holds this moment of perfection? Well, dear reader, what you’re really asking is when did you miss out. You’re struggling to think back to a time when you were without worry. You’re reaching to find that week or month in your past where you were free of to do lists or external expectations. The young lady hasn’t even been described yet and you’re feeling jealous. You don’t know where she is or what is next for her in our story and, even so, you’re wishing you could be her. Everything you have, everything you’ve experienced, is up for swapping if you could exist in her place, even just for a moment. Think about that.
For her, this is all she knows. She doesn’t realize her life is something you’re coveting. She wakes up in the morning and goes to sleep in the evening without any awareness of you and your hunger. She eats her meals and takes her walks clueless to the idea that anything she has is deeply desirable, especially not to people she’s never thought about. She is, simply, living her life. Or, at least she was up until our story began.
Oh, now you’re feeling worry FOR her, this nameless bodiless lady you don’t yet know. You’re already crafting ways to save her from your personal plight. You want our story to be a happy one. Just for her — that desire has nothing to do with you and all the other feelings you’re juggling in life.
So, she is here, on our page one. She is young, carefree, and standing at her front door about to step out into the world. You breathe a sigh of relief knowing that she has a home, somewhere safe to retreat to should our story call for that. You feel your shoulders relax and the tension leave your forehead. You’re ready to get to know her a bit better, before…well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Issa is standing at the threshold of her house. Ah, another nugget — she has a name. And, since you’re paying close attention, you now know she has a free-standing dwelling. Maybe she’s older than you thought? Maybe there’s still time for you to be her? Let’s continue.
Issa is standing at the threshold of her house with her hand on the door. She’s dressed for a day out and about: comfortable shoes and socks, slightly less comfortable trousers and blouse, and over it all a light jacket and a bright cap. Issa likes color and hats and dressing with intention. You’re thinking now about what you’re wearing and what thought you put into getting dressed. You feel the worry creep in, wondering if what you’re wearing is “right” or if it could be “better” or if it’s as “flattering” as it could be. Just like that you pulled yourself out of our story and into your head, leaving Issa and her story to languish on the page. The realization of that brings you back, though, and you want to know where Issa is going and what’s coming next, and you’re also thinking about doing more with hats in your wardrobe.
She pulls the door open and looks out onto a scene full of color enhanced by the light of the mid-morning sun. Green grass and trees, red flowers ringing the yard, a blue car in the driveway, a yellow bird perched on the gray bird bath. She smiles and steps out onto the front step before taking time to lock the door behind her. So she’s going somewhere far enough away or for a long enough time to warrant locking her door — you’re intrigued, especially since as far as you know she doesn’t have anything with her. Well, nothing beyond her keys, anyway. You find yourself stuck between relaxing into the colorful scene and feeling tension about what might happen to darling Issa with the bright cap. Breathe, and let’s see where our story takes her, shall we?
The weather is lovely and Issa begins to walk away from her house and car. Yes, even though she’s wearing a blouse and trousers she’s walking into her story rather than driving. Would you make that choice? Are you wondering if eschewing the car is perhaps the secret to her worry-free life? Are you doing math after discovering that she’s both old enough to be able to drive and to choose not to? Or are you just happy that our story must keep her fairly close to home, to safety? Issa doesn’t feel your questions or deductions. She feels the sun on her face. She feels the tickle of the light breeze on her fingers. She feels the solid pavement beneath her feet.
As Issa walks, she waves at the people she passes. Just a brief wave, really more of a raised hand. She accompanies the gesture with a smile and a nod and receives the same in return. She knows the people, perhaps not well enough to stop and chat, but she’s familiar enough with them to genuinely engage with them as she heads on her way. You’re curious about these people, and about Issa’s neighborhood. You want to know how she fits in with them or how they fit in with her. You especially want to know if they’re living worry-free, too, in hopes that there’s some magic destination you could visit for a taste of that bliss. While the neighbors are a part of Issa’s story they’re not a part of our story. Let’s move on.
Issa finds her way to the park that sits in the center of town. Town, not city — another nugget! It’s a lovely place, her park. It is even fuller of colors than her front yard and has benches placed throughout so she has her pick of what view she wants to see. Will she pick the bench that faces the small playground, or the one that faces the community gardens, or the one that’s up a bit higher than the rest and overlooks the man-made stream that rings the center of the park? And, most importantly, will that choice be significant to our story? Which bench would you choose?
She’s not alone in the park — the day is too lovely for that. There are children and parents on the playground, and old women in oversized clothes tending to plots in the community gardens. There is a group of artists sitting in the grass with their sketch pads and pencils, doing their best to capture the beauty of the day as if it could be captured without color. They do their best, though, and enjoy the process. There is also, on one of the benches that is placed under the branches of the largest, lushest tree in the park, a single man.
Let us take a good look at him for a moment. He is sitting so tall and so straight that if you were there you might mistake him for a statue. Some sort of deeply lifelike piece of art designed to make you question what “lifelike” means. He, like Issa, is wearing comfortable shoes and socks, and trousers, and a button-down shirt that, simply because he’s a man, isn’t called a blouse. He is also wearing a cap. Unlike Issa, he is a study in monochrome. Everything he’s wearing from his feet to his head is gray. Even his skin seems to have a gray tinge to it, though that may just be a trick of the light. You can see why you might have mistaken him for a statue now, right? He is unlike our Issa in another, more important, way. He is riddled with worry. He’s thrumming with it. His worry is extending out from him in circles, or is it waves? You understand him, far better than you understand Issa, and you don’t want Issa to pick that bench.
Oil and water don’t mix and yet opposites attract. You know both of these things, and have likely uttered both statements even if not in the same breath. Issa is, at this moment in both her and our stories, water. She nurtures, she flows, she *is* in the deepest sense of the world. You feel that. You’ve felt it since you met her at the top of the page. The man on the bench? He is oil. He leaves a mark, he carries, and, as Issa’s opposite, he attracts.
Issa picks his bench. You know she would, even as you fervently wished otherwise. She is drawn to him like a fly to a flame and you worry that the impulse might be just as dangerous for her. You are holding your breath, frozen. She sits on the edge of the bench, as far away from him as the structure will allow, and she looks at him. She sits still, though not as still as him, and studies him.
You want her to stand up, to walk away. She starts to talk to him, he turns his head to face her, listening. You’re leaning forward in your seat, both wanting to know what she’s telling him and wanting her to get up and run. He puts his hand up in front of him, asking Issa to stop without saying a word. Issa closes her mouth. He closes his eyes. Issa keeps hers open. You start to let out your breath, telling yourself that everything is going to be fine. He opens his eyes, staring at Issa. Issa accepts his stare and smiles at him, though you notice that she falters a little.
That little moment, that hitch in Issa’s smile, pulls at you. You feel the worry creeping into Issa, you feel her changing and you blame him, the gray man, the oil made solid. You start to feel bad for wanting our story, wanting something to happen to keep you entertained. You might even be crafting his backstory right now — deciding how he came to be on that bench and who he is to Issa and when she might see him again. But those are other stories, not this one.
Issa looks down at her hands in her lap and he turns away from her again. Is it a trick of the light or does he seem to have some color now, just in his face? Do his shoulders seem a bit less rigid? And what about Issa?
She stands up, slowly, heavily. You feel some relief though it’s tinged with guilt. Issa takes a deep breath and lets it go with a sigh. She takes off her cap. You see it now, the change in her face. You know that look — Issa is worried. You swear under your breath. You knew it was temporary, you just hoped our story would end before seeing it. You wanted to leave Issa as you found her, carefree.
Issa puts her hat down on the bench. She puts it next to the man, next to his thigh. She steps back and watches him as he looks down at the hat, as he looks up at her. She smiles her faltering smile and turns. She walks on, leaving her hat.
You are breathing, aware of your furrowed brow. You are left thinking about Issa, about what’s next for her, now that her worry-free time has come to an end. And then you think of that thing that happened to you last week. That awesome thing that left you with a big smile, and maybe even a little laughter. That moment, however fleeting, where your worries didn’t matter.
You don’t need to know what happens next, or why the man was on the bench, or who he is to Issa, or if he wears her hat. You can imagine Issa’s tomorrow and how her life continues from here. You are the storyteller.
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This is a full short story developed as a part of the 500Words Short Story Project. It may continue to evolve beyond its current state.
