Expiring (new story idea)

Fourteen days left.

Peter shoves hard on the glass door, hearing a small bell jangle above him as he steps over the threshold. The young clerk glances up from the small television screen, startled by the sudden noise. He stands up quickly, offering a manufactured smile to the new customer.
The news report, background noise: “Tonight, our subject: early expiration.”
Peter ignores the clerk, prowling to the back of the convenience store. He searches the store intensely, as if some hidden item had been eluding him for years. He stomps past the Twinkies and Snowballs and alcohol, past Cheetos and condoms and Slim Jims to get to the soda rack.
“In an effort to curb population growth after an American victory in Vietnam, legislation enacted by former president Richard Nixon in 1973 made the tattooing of expiration dates onto all children born post-1975 a federal mandate.”
The clerk glances reflexively down at his hand; the tattoo reads DEC 31 2061. He smiles. At the back of the store, Peter pushes sodas back violently, his eyes darting back and forth as he searches for a particular label.
“Recent studies, however, have revealed that those marked with early expiration dates– people marked to expire in their teens to mid-thirties due to statistics determining their worth to society– experience severe depression, suicide, and– more frequently– homicidal tendencies.”
“FUCK!” screams Peter in the back, punching a row of Coke bottles into the back. One of them falls to the floor, hissing and spitting brown foam onto the dirty tile. The clerk, taken aback by the sudden outburst, inches his hand towards the aluminum baseball bat concealed under the counter.
“This has prompted a movement to abolish the Expiration Date Act of ‘73. A bill has been put forth to Congress–”
Peter storms back up the aisle, eyes locked onto the clerk. The clerk is shaking, drawing the bat up and holding it loosely, eyes wide. He can’t be more than eighteen.
“–but it is expected to fail despite mass protests staged outside of the Capitol Building over the last few weeks. The bill, if passed, would only affect children born after its success. Those already bearing an expiration date would still be required to adhere to their own date of death.”
Peter slows, not intimidated by the bat but amused, a small, grim smile on his face as he stares the clerk down. He places his hands on the table, exposing the tattooed characters on his own hand to the clerk’s terrified eyes: OCT 23 2009.
“In the meantime, the county sheriff wishes to relay information to the public about a dangerous local gang that is recruiting those with early expiration dates and organizing them into a destructive and disruptive influence. The gang’s members call themselves the Living Dead, which is often abbreviated to L. D.”
Beneath Peter’s date, the carefully stenciled initials proclaim “L. D.”; the periods are small skulls. The clerk swallows hard.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs.
Peter laughs, a short, harsh bark. He leans forward, blue eyes watching the clerk’s own brown ones with a frightening intensity.
“You got any Cactus Cooler?” he growls. The clerk blinks.
“What?”
Peter lunges forward, grabbing the bat from the clerk’s hands and jerking back, nearly pulling the clerk over the his side. He smashes the metal bat into the cash register, prompting a loud plastic crunch as the clerk cowers back, holding his head in his hands.
“Do you fucking have it or not?!” he yells. The clerk shakes his head violently.
“No, no! It’s d-discontinued!”
“Shit!” Peter swears, turning around and rearing back, throwing the bat as hard he can through the glass shopfront. He stomps back out the doorway and the clerk is alone again.
“If you encounter one of these gang members,” the newscast drones on, “your life could be in serious danger.”
The clerk is shaking slightly, clutching onto the counter for support. As he reaches for the phone to call the police, his eyes flick to the date on the calendar: October 9th, 2009.
His head sways from side to side in pity. The crazy guy that had just destroyed the store was eighteen as well.

Body

Blonde hair that might have looked good if it was washed, faded green eyes, clear skin, almost rail-thin; by today’s conventions, she was very pretty. Her skin was pale, almost anemic. Besides a possible case of anorexia (judging by her weight and height), she had a slight yellow tinge to her skin that signified the early stages of liver failure, symptomatic of heavy drinking. To most people, she might have looked like a typical California girl, yet to me it was evident that her body was being badly abused through alcohol and starvation. Which, it could be argued, did in fact define a typical California girl.
White, cotton blouse. Dirty from the night, maybe a party. Dark blue jeans that were clinging far too much to her skinny little legs. Hollister sandals, bronze toe ring. A ring on her finger, a plain silver band with an opal set into it. Diamond studs in her ears. Cheap, gold-colored bracelet on her left forearm.
She looked like the kind of girl with family problems; a lot of problems, in fact. Maybe an abusive boyfriend, friends that were regularly drunk and stoned every night, trouble with school. Anything could have contributed to the situation she was now in. The situation being, of course, the fact that she was lying on her back in the middle of a grassy field at seven o’clock in the morning, eyes open, staring into the sky with cuts and bruises fresh across her face.
Add that to the list of her problems. She was dead.
“What was the name?” I ask curiously, pushing her head from side to side with the eraser head of a pencil I had found in my pocket. Tammy looks disgustedly at me from behind a clipboard that she’s scribbling on.
“Have respect for a corpse, Taggart.”
“How many times do I have to tell you, Tam,” I mutter, peering into the dead girl’s mouth, “call me Johnny.”
She ignores me. “Her name was Cassandra Halverson. Found her wallet and driver’s license. No cash, credit cards still there. Organ donor.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want her liver,” I murmur, poking curiously at dead, jaundiced skin. I pick up her hand and inspect her fingernails; yellow, like her teeth. A heavy smoker, drinker, possible drug user. “Did you send off samples to the lab for a tox screen yet?”
“Haven’t gotten them yet,” she mumbles, distracted by the clipboard in front of her.
“What are you doing there, Tam?”
“I like to guess at causes of death while I’m waiting for the brass to arrive.” She brushes a strand of hair back from her face. “At the top of the list now is alcohol poisoning, drug overdose, or boyfriend beating. All of which could have contributed to each other.”
Tammy’s a very smart woman. Those were my guesses as well. I peer into Cassandra’s staring eyes; the pupils are heavily dilated.
“Looks like ecstasy. Combined with alcohol could have lead to dehydration…which wouldn’t have been helped by her body type.”
Tammy nodded. “There was a card for an anorexia support group in her wallet. Looked like it was there for a while.”
“To be honest, though, the bruises are at the top of my list. Or some other kind of external damage.”
“Why is that?” she asks curiously. “You think this could be a murder? Sometimes bruises are just bruises.”
“I’m just thinking out loud. Twenty bucks says someone killed her.”
“I’ll take that. You’re not always right, Taggart.”
“Johnny,” I grunt, squatting next to the body and looking down at it. “Did anyone move the body yet?” I wave my hand at the forensic techs combing the field.
“No, but Noriega doesn’t want anyone moving it anyway, so you’ll just have to sit tight until he gets here.” She returns to her list.
“But you took pictures?” I ask.
“Uh-huh,” she says quietly, drawing a line through something on the clipboard.
“You were always very thorough about that kind of thing,” I comment as I reach under the body and flip it onto its stomach.
“Johnny!” Tammy cries out, eyes widening as I disturb her crime scene. “You can’t–!”
She stops, staring at Cassandra Halverson’s back. I look up to her, unable to keep a small, smug look off of my face.
“Seven in the morning and I’ve already made twenty bucks,” I laugh. I gaze back down to the body, to the dark, almost black bloodstain that spreads across her white blouse.
I give Tammy’s horrified expression a grim smile. “Murder.”

PCH

I stood nervous, restless amidst the heavy salt of the sea air, feet clad in fuck-me pumps and body wrapped in a tight mini skirt that hugged my ass like a drunk uncle at Christmas. The thinnest tank top I’d ever worn was clinging to my breasts and making my nipples look like dark sunspots on the surface of a pastel-pink star. So, yeah. It was cold.
It was my third night standing on the side of the PCH, waiting and hoping for someone to stop and pick me up. I didn’t have any choice in the matter; I believe that our destinies are chosen by a higher power, and right now that power had decided to have me by the highway looking like a desperate beach hooker. Not that I minded, of course. I like the way that my life has gone, to be entirely honest. It’s exciting and dangerous, and more than once it’s turned me on.
I can feel my nipples growing hard in the cold moonlight that cuts through the harsh sea air, both from the chill and the anticipation. I hope that God grants me a bounty tonight; he knows how badly I need it, how long I’ve been waiting.
I run my hands down my body, wishing I had a thick coat and yet still relishing my touch across cold skin. I wrap my arms around my shoulders, hugging myself. Hurry up, I think. I’m getting impatient.
I blink. Salvation ahead, perhaps? I can see headlights, the first pair of the night on the lonely stretch of beach. Surely it can’t be so easy, I ask myself and my lord, yet I can feel a strong sense of possibility with this one. I place a hand on my hip and raise my left hand, thumb jutting out.
A modest, humble truck pulls ahead of my casual thumb, its turn signal beating a steady metronome of light across my face. It rumbles over the rough dirt of the shoulder to come to a slow stop behind me, the red brakelights casting a deep pall across the dark ground.
I turn, sauntering closer, inhaling the dangerous scent of gasoline and exhaust, a highway aroma that conjured up images of rough and uncaring men that preyed on the innocent. The truck coughed to a stop; aged but still powerful. The lights beckoned me closer, like bright and promising trinkets that sparkle in the dark of a shrouded flea market.
The window creaks open, and a muscular arm rests casually on the car door. Beneath the cover of the shadowed interior, I could see white, sharp, predatory teeth fixed in a gleaming smile that lazily set its gaze upon me.
“Get on in, sweetheart,” his mouth tells me, but what I hear is “Come get me.”

Sweetheart

When you’re near me,
I hum with happiness.
When you’ve left me,
I feel a hole open up inside.
We reunite
Every once and a while,
And yet I can always simply close my eyes
And feel you next to me,
Your warm body against mine,
Your soft hazel eyes,
Your broad, knowing smile,
The small kisses we share.
I know, I can feel,
That we were fated to meet,
That we were destined to fit together,
And I know I can say I love you
A thousand times or more,
But each utterance of that simple phrase
Can never truly define
The love I feel for you,
That wells up within me,
Day in and day out.

Mother’s Day

She has cared for me for years,
My watchful guardian,
Protector, provider, parent.
She has aided me in all I aspire towards,
Encouraged my thoughts,
The little sparks that could lead to a flame of inspiration.
She is the reason I’m the writer I am today,
Her benevolent influence, her encouragement,
Always towards something great.
She is unique and as perfect as a human can be,
Always caring, always looking out to make our lives better,
Selfless and loving, an ideal transcended into life.
She is my mother,
And she could be no other.

Walking Up to School

I saw a fig this morning,
Red meat exposed,
Dark, mottled skin peeled back.
A burst of crimson against
The gray backdrop of asphalt.
Splattered by a car.
Sad, I thought.
What a waste of good fruit.
My eyes focused,
Lamenting this loss,
And I saw the crimson burst was no exposed meat,
But a red mouth,
Opened in a scream of terror,
And the dark mottled flesh
Was not that of fruit
But of lizard,
And my stomach buckled
And I turned my eyes away,
Walking up to school.

dying eggs

chemical dyes stain my fingertips
with the recklessness of mad scientists
at frenzied work deep in a laboratory, and
I breath deep the smell of bitter vinegar as
the orbs are dipped quietly into vats of colors
that barely change the original white,
a pointless task that we take with a
grain of salt in our labors, our heads slipping as
we realize how little we care,
our feet rumbling restlessly under
Formica tables, our fingers stained deep
with carelessness.

The Classroom Experience

We sit,
Simultaneously entranced and
Exhausted by the talking
That we must listen to.
Nodding heads can rarely be distinguished
Between the interested and the somnolent;
Yet this is no fault or failure of any,
Neither teacher nor student,
Simply the product of the time.
Eleven-forty, five minutes until lunch,
Our stomachs call out with the power
Of twenty hungry Audrey II’s
All screaming for blood,
Or at least pizza,
In our little chairs of horror.

How this post came to be conceived

One evening, a pen and piece of looseleaf met at a bar. After a wild night of passionate scribblings and paper cuts, the two had an awkward breakfast at the pen’s place and exchanged numbers, more out of a feeling of necessity than any real connection. Anyway, for a couple of weeks the looseleaf waited and waited for a call, but no one called her paper phone. Then the looseleaf missed her period and started panicking, searching desperately for the pen’s number. She finally found it scrawled carelessly across her back, and rushed to phone the pen. To the looseleaf’s dismay, the phone was answered by a pencil that was married to the pen, and the looseleaf hung up quickly. Faced with the prospect of having some terrible pen/paper hybrid to care for, she drove, alone, to the city to get an abortion. The pen should’ve used a cap.

Lunch Line

There is a great grand sea stretched out before me, all shapes/colors/sizes of people in all forms of expression: singing and talking and lounging about. I sit at the top of the stairs and observe. Some sit, some stand, some chat, some can’t wait for the floodgates behind me to open and let them into the caf, so hungry that they gnash their teeth and hold their stomachs and tap their feet impatiently to some hidden beat of agitation. The doors swing outward, revealing a stampede of eager cattle to the horrified servers inside. The crowd surges forward, clutching at forks and knives and holding their plates out with tremulous desperation to be filled by sullen-faced kitchen staff on minimum wage and minimum efficiency. They sit, content in their sameness, their insulated comfort as they huddle in pods of tables, separated but equal. It is a wild storm of steel and ceramic and vocal noises, bliss to those that wish to hide amongst chaos. The calm of the storm is granted to all, though all are screaming.

girl, no, woman (finished)

down the street i see
the girl, no, woman.
quiet white ballet slippers,
dark blue dress,
hands clasped about
a small bouquet
of poppies.
she walks,
her body moving with confidence,
an elegant Hollywood style
to her gait,
the poppies lifting themselves
to meet the sun,
walking
towards me.
the girl, no, woman,
her gaze,
all wit and dark hazel,
passed over me with
a faint smile.
her smile,
broad red lips and
gleaming white teeth,
starry-eyed and happy.
an intellectual girl, no, woman,
one with passion
and taste.
now i call her, this angel,
my girl, no, my woman.
my love, my beautiful,
we took time in our dance.
for too long we denied
that what we felt was real.
that your walk was not determined
as you came towards me.
fear of rejection kept me from
calling out to you,
from taking a chance,
when a single kiss
was all we needed.
she walks,
my girl, no, my woman.
down the street
she walks,
poppies at the ready,
held loosely
in front of her,
walking towards me,
happy.

Naomi

Walking out of the restaurant, I remember turning back to take my nephew’s hand and seeing her, heading easily towards me. I remember hoisting my nephew up into my arms and smiling at her, pleased and slightly wary to see her.
Seeing Naomi had always put me into a sense of caution, and I’ve never figured it out. It’s like I feel my every move will be judged for its worth, as if I’m some sort of marionette on display for a queen.
She blinked, as if she couldn’t believe her eyes, seeming not to recognize me for a moment. No surprise there; the last time she had seen me was when I had hair down to my shoulders and a perpetual outfit of jeans and a t-shirt.
I remember that day my hair was short and swept back from my forehead, given some lift a few dabs of wax. I had a goatee and sideburns running down my face, a loose-fitting blue-and-white striped long sleeve, and dark khakis. I looked like a completely different person.
And I was. The looks and the confident smile took her off guard, I could tell. Where were the downcast eyes, the sloppy clothes, the quiet demeanor that had defined me for so long? I liked the effect, I have to admit, the changes that have made me into this person.
The wariness I felt was gone; the balance of power, which had always been firmly in her court over the years we had known each other, had shifted my way. She gave me her trademark one-armed hug, a lazy movement that belied her true lethargy, and I returned it with another broad smile.
Back from when my family and I moved from Meiner’s Oaks into Ojai proper is about how long we had known each other. I remember her mom, Diane, was friends with my mom; she would always cut my hair at her Contempo beauty salon.
(Not until years later would I realize that it was a woman’s beauty salon. Before that I had just assumed men never came around while I was there.)
We had met through the parental connection, along with some other kids from my neighborhood. Always there was that uncomfortable caution I felt with her, the feeling of the marionette, of the caged animal watched by its captors. Perhaps not that extreme, but you can understand how I felt. Intimidated, perhaps because she was one of a precursor of those girls I would encounter throughout school life; pretty, popular, and with next to zero interest in me (for some reason, the latter was an attractive quality).
But standing in that parking lot with her, as we talked about college and plans for the summer, all I could think of was how short she really was. Almost half my height, really. It almost made me laugh, though of course I didn’t. I had been wary of this small girl? Afraid that if I said the wrong thing it would haunt me for the rest of my life? This was the real evidence for me, the final fact that I had changed from quiet, unassuming and passive Luke to someone who could actually interact with those around him with confidence and poise.
We said our goodbyes, and I gave her one last look into her deep brown eyes. I couldn’t see anything, least of all anything scary or intimidating. They were just blank, and that made me sad. I could see the choices she had made had never been the best they could have been, and it reflected in those deep brown eyes.
I remember she turned and walked away, and I gave her one last look before turning and taking my nephew’s hand.

Thoughts processed early Wednesday morning

“A good woman will pick you apart,
a box full of suggestions for your possible heart.
But you may be offended, and you may be afraid,
but don’t walk away, don’t walk away.”
-Land Locked Blues, by Bright Eyes

I took this advice close to my chest, hugging it near while it became clear I’d found the right woman for me. A beauty with intellect and shrewd words that weave together stories and actions and, yes, criticism, a biting wit that could build you up or take you apart. She looks into your eyes and tells you what can make you better, not with cruelty or malice, just simple, unfiltered truth. And here I discovered that she is the kind that cares the most, a woman who cares enough about me not to shelter me with worthless platitudes that work like counterfeit money: looking good on the counter, but being ultimately worthless.
There are countless generations of moms that will do anything to make you feel like you’re the greatest person on the earth, yet those words do not motivate change or move you at all. One such as myself will remain in a stagnant state, an unchangeable mass that cannot move through life or beyond their basic forms, unless acted upon by another force stronger than themselves. I have found this stronger force, this woman who pushes my boundaries and my limits, who continually inspires me to change.
There were times where I resisted this, when I claimed I liked the way I had always been. But as days and soon months went by, I realized that as I changed I began to like myself more. I had been dissected and found out for what it was that could be improved upon, and soon I came to enjoy these changes that were coming towards me.
Before I met her, I had never tasted eggplant or spring rolls or even sushi. I had never worn a button-down shirt unless required, never actually held my attention to a project of any kind for more than a few weeks. Now I crave California rolls on a daily basis, never leave home without looking good, and I have been going strong for eight months with a story that I write with her almost every night. There are times when I’ve asked myself if I do this for me or her, and I’ve realized that I’ve done it for me. I can see now that I needed the outside energy and motivation from this wonderful woman to change myself, to know that I really can push the limits that are all around me, so I can change who I am to reflect my passing age.
I really feel like I’m rambling right now, which is probably because it’s so damned late, but all I can think of is one last point that I need to make: I love this girl, for reasons I know and reasons I don’t. She makes me laugh, she makes me learn, she makes me feel lucky just to be in her presence. And I know that we’re connected, through an immutable bond of friendship and love that can’t be adequately described just with words.
She is my friend, my love and my companion through life and fiction all around.

More Pics

Crimson Hearts Drawings….

Drawings BleuPoppy did...

My good friend Jessica and I wrote a story together called ‘Crimson Hearts’ for many, many years. Here are some drawings I did during that time I hope you guys like them!

Constitution Rap

The Constitution!
Basis for the institution
That we call the USA.
Thinking about it, you may say, hey!
Remembering this should be eas-ay.
How hard can it be?
And I laugh at you, for you just can’t see
How difficult knowing 27 amendments can be.
But this document is the most important thing
To happen to our nation since, well, nothing!
This huge piece of paper defines our rights.
And it’s the product of all those huge fights
With the redcoats! We took ideas from all over, to make this thing rock:
Montesquieu, the Brits, even John Locke!
Our rights are numerous, they cover a lot of ground.
Thank God for that, cause with anything less we’d be drowned
In oppressive government and tyrannical ruling.
The exact same thing we had spent so many years trying
To escape!
Now listen here, I’ll tell you how
Your rights are important; they protect your brow.
We’ve got freedom of speech! The right to say
Whatever you want, from bullshit to hearsay!
Right to bear arms! In case the government
Becomes a dictatorship and goes to shit.
Freedom of the press, freedom of religion!
Freedom of assembly, freedom of petition!
We got right to a speedy court case,
Equal voting rights for all, regardless of race,
Gender, and age.
These rights make sure we’re all on the same page.
So come to AP Gov if you want to learn some more,
Cause learning government is never a bore!

My Thoughts on Emy Reynolds

There are many people in the world today that can be called true artists, those devoted to their art in a fashion that I myself can hardly imagine. They put their mind and body and soul into their work, and it always works out to inspire countless others.
Emy Reynolds and Piper Denney proved themselves to be absolutely shining examples of such artists last night, when I saw a fantastically enjoyable show of theirs at the Ventura Theater. These two (as well as their accompanying cellist, a woman whose name I unfortunately do not know, and James Denney, who was great on the drums and synthesizer) always emit such a positive energy whenever I see them onstage, almost a glow of creativity. In addition, Emy’s voice is always such a pleasure to hear; her deep, beautiful singing complements the lyrics that she always manages to make profound and new.
I have known Piper and James Denney for quite a few years now; I have seen them become accomplished artists in their own rights, both continually astounding me with the quiet energy that they bring to any stage that they play upon. I love them both very much, and immensely enjoyed seeing them playing with Emy last night.
I first met Emy Reynolds during my time at Nordhoff, a quiet girl that I had always liked simply because of the pleasant energy she could send to someone with just a happy smile. My sophmore year was the first time that I saw her perform, and I can recall my surprise when this pleasant girl transformed into a powerful young woman with an equally powerful voice on the stage, a true testament to her immense talent. Since then, the simply profound effort that she puts into her work has never ceased to amaze me. From Libby Bowl to the Ventura Theatre, it’s always lovely to see her perform.
I want to say thank you to Emy and Piper, because they have proven to me that there are good, creative people still in this world, even coming from such a small place as Ojai. Thank you both, for without you I would not have the courage to put myself out for the world, to take what I have and make something beautiful.

Art

Elegantly swept back white hair lying gracefully on his head, the butler enters carrying a silver platter. The tap tap tap of his polished shoes echo on the marble floor, stopping to set down my food and then pivoting to leave, tap tap taps fading into the distance.
I absent-mindedly pick at the food, my eyes locked to the blank canvas, a creamy white expanse that desperately needs to be filled with color, any color, any color better than no color at all.
Movement catches my eye and my head slowly turns to face the window.
Outside it’s a warm summer evening, a world apart from the air conditioned palace that I gaze out of now.
Outside I see a young man, his ragged clothing betraying his social standing. Let the audience note that my house has the wonderful view of a freeway overpass so that the cars flashing back and forth below can inspire me further, both bright and dark colors transcending their way onto an empty canvas, moving into a work of art.
The youth holds a black spray can and he slowly shakes it back and forth as he stares at his own canvas, a rough and slate gray piece, the side of the divider between the overpass and oblivion down to the cars that flash back and forth.
I notice the belt strapped around his waist with several other cans attached to it, all the colors of the rainbow ready for him to use. Basic, really.
I stand here with my palette of paints, tubes of color ranging from the azure of Paul Newman’s eyes to the precise shade of one verdant scale on the back of a komodo dragon. My brushes, with their sable hair and and lacquered handles.
The scruffy boy has several belts looped loosely over him as well as around his waist, all with ragged leather catches holding spray cans of various colors. Dull and dented, oxidized metal obscuring their true qualities. Pathetic when compared with the luxuries that I have, but admirable in the sport he participates in.
How brave this child must be, standing unwaveringly over certain death speeding below him, to make his mark on society in any way that he can. An incredible testament to the spirit of people, to the will of human society; this boy is a god, painting his message over a sea of speeding constructs of subjects that quake in the light of his glory.
Nevertheless, the adult in me, attempting to quash such creativity over my awe, realizes it’s a Wednesday; this child should be in school.
Perhaps he should. Yet at the same time, he piques my curiosity. I call to the butler, voice distracted and quiet.
“Do you see that boy?” I ask. He nods stiffly.
“Bring him here.”

Regret

There are no words for the regret that I feel right now.
I am not a confident person. When I have feelings for someone, when I feel very strongly, I will rarely act upon such feelings. I push them into a closet while I hope the person will, in some way, notice the way I feel and will pursue me the way I want them to. It’s an unfair way for me to put things this way; I realize this now. It puts the weight of my expectations and hopes on another person. It’s really a form of laziness, and it’s utter bullshit. I don’t know where my lack of confidence comes from, or if there’s even one root thing to blame for it, but the fact is that it doesn’t help me. It doesn’t give me anything, it doesn’t help anyone else, and it certainly doesn’t make anyone feel good or even valued. I don’t consider the fact that someone may have feelings for me; I really don’t. It’s not something that comes up as possible in my mind. Again, this stems from my confidence issue.. But this is not and should not be an excuse.
The fact is that there is a woman I care for now. I don’t call her a girl, despite how close we are in age. She is and always will be a strong and beautiful woman. She makes me laugh, she has made me cry, she is one of the most interesting and intelligent people in my life. Yet when I’m around her, there’s no end to my unease. I can’t deny my feelings. I want to touch her, I want to hold her in my arms. I want to kiss her and tell her that I love her. But I feel we’ve crossed that almost impenetrable line of friendship already. I don’t want that to be. I love this woman. When she walks, I can feel a sense of purpose in her steps, the walk of someone who knows life, who can take the world easily and walk through hurricanes and earthquakes without a scratch on her. She is tough, she is kind, she gives the harsh truth when she knows she must. But the barrier of “friendship”, which in and of itself is a lovely thing, is not what I want from her. I want love to be shared freely, I want to be able to touch her without feeling like she’ll push me away.
But with what’s just transpired, I can’t help but feel that I’ve lost her. Perhaps as a friend too; I don’t know. Why? Because I’ve never really told her how she makes me feel. She makes me angry and confused and sad, but the truth of the matter is that I perpetuate these feelings onto myself. The way she really makes me feel is wonderful. When she talks to me, over the phone or in person or even over the internet, I get this feeling of reverence: because the fact is that she’s talking to me, not someone else. She makes the effort to be with me, to visit me or see me in some way, even just to talk to me, despite the distance between us. The part that feels good is that she does it for me. She does it because she cares for me, she talks to me because she likes me. But what I haven’t been seeing is that this is not normal for people who are just friends. This is not what friends do, but it’s not a bad thing, far from it. At the very least, this is not what friends that I typically have do. And even though I feel this way, even though I know what we’ve been talking about, even though there were hundreds of hints that she felt the same way that I did, I never acted. I never showed the interest in her that was deserved. This is the reason for my regret, why this pit in my stomach is feeling deeper with each passing minute. I never did a thing to make myself and her happy, to at least try to do that.
I don’t know what to do now. If we can only be friends because of what’s happened between us, then that’s the way it’s going to have to be. But I hope that’s the worst that happens, because I can’t lose someone this important to me. I can’t lose her and I don’t think she wants to lose me either. Because I care for her. I know I do. It’s the reason I keep going to visit her, the reason I try to talk to her every night. And I know she cares about me; she wants to see me with equal enthusiasm, we have some sort of conversation almost every day. She tells me so much that she cares for me, and that I’ve been choosing not to see this is ridiculous and hurting devastatingly right now. I wish I could turn back time, I really wish I could. But I can’t. I want to still have her be a part of my life, I want that so badly. And right now, that’s all I want. To ask anything more would be unfair to her after what I’ve done.

The Time We Had (Film Class Script, Final Draft)

FADE IN:
INT. BEDROOM
COLE lies in his bed, stares at the ceiling fan as it slowly revolves. He is a young man in his twenties, with short brown hair, skinny, pale, depressed, a drained figure.
He rubs his forehead and looks over to the phone, which sits by a bedside table.
He then looks at his watch: 1:00 AM. He sits up on the bed and looks around his room.
The floor is covered with discarded clothes, pizza boxes and Chinese take-out boxes and burrito wrappers are scattered around on the couch and a table and on top of the television. An old acoustic guitar is propped up against the wall, looking as dingy as the room it’s in.
The walls are plastered almost religiously with posters of classic rockers; nothing post 1980, bands like Led Zeppelin and the Rolling Stones.
Cole rubs his eyes and stands up, kicking the clothes and takeout detritus out of his way as he heads to the door.
He grabs a set of keys hanging from a nail that’s been hammered into the back of his door.
INT. HALLWAY
Cole comes out of his single-room apartment and locks the door behind him. He shoves the keys into his pocket and trudges along the hallway. There is graffiti all along the walls and a generally dismal air about its character.
Cole spies a sleeping hobo in the lobby, a blanket cast askew near him. Cole steps over the man and leaves the building.
EXT. STREET – NIGHT
Cole drives through city streets, his car looks like it might fall apart at any moment, rattling and creaking loudly as he drives on.
COLE (V.O.)
I remember the first time I met her. It was at my first job out of college.
FLASHBACK:
EXT. STREET CORNER – DAY
Cole sits on the sidewalk, his guitar on his lap. He plays a Dylan song, something that won’t put a strain on his meager singing talent.
COLE
(singing)
…and wished, that he’d gone straight, and watched out, for a simple twist of fate…
Several people toss money into the open guitar case in front of him, but the majority of them pass him by.
A particularly pretty girl walks by him, giving him the slightest smile but no money. This is SARAH. He abruptly stops playing and stares after her. He calls after her but only Cole’s voiceover is heard.
COLE (V.O.) (CONT’D)
I asked her if she didn’t like my music. She laughed and said she did. Then I asked her if she was Jewish.
She tosses her head back and laughs, shaking her head no. Cole smiles at her.
She is relatively tall, perhaps slightly shorter than Cole, with brown hair and a bright smile. Her eyes are a vivid, almost turquoise blue, and she moves with a fluid ease usually reserved for models on a runway.
COLE (V.O.) (CONT’D)
We ended up going for coffee. My treat.
INT. COFFEE SHOP – DAY
Cole and Sarah sit in the coffee shop; Cole’s guitar is in its case, leaning against the wall. They laugh over something, both drinking coffee. A waitress comes over with their bill, and Cole leans over to his guitar, cracking open the case and drawing out some money, handing it to the waitress. He smiles back at Sarah.
She opens her mouth tentatively, as if she’s about to say something.
COLE (V.O.)
Her name was Sarah.
END FLASHBACK
INT. CONVENIENCE STORE – NIGHT
CLERK
Four dollars and sixty-five cents, please.
Cole blinks, coming out of his memory. He rubs his forehead and reaches for his wallet.
The convenience store is a typical 7-11 knock off, the CLERK a creepy, unhealthy-looking guy, the only kind that would be working at a gas station this late.
Cole takes out some money and hands it to the clerk. He gathers up the two energy drinks he’s bought and starts to leave. The clerk stops him.
CLERK (CONT’D)
You don’t want change?
Cole turns back.
COLE
No, thanks.
INT. CAR – NIGHT
Cole drives again. He drinks the first of his energy drinks and rubs his eyes, trying to stay awake in any way he can.
It’s about 3:30 in the morning by now. He turns on the radio and finishes his drink, tossing the empty can in the back. On the radio is quiet jazz, Miles Davis or John Coltrane.
He rubs his eyes again and sighs.
FLASHBACK:
INT. COFFEE SHOP – DAY
Cole and Sarah sit in the coffee shop again. Sarah talks animatedly and Cole listens intently. Miles Davis plays in the background.
COLE (V.O.)
She loved cats, Miles Davis, Robert Rodriguez movies, Barbara Kingsolver books…
Sarah looks demurely at the table, takes a bite from a bagel.
SARAH
I keep blabbing on, I’m sorry.
COLE
No, no, it’s good to get to know you. Tell me more.
Cole leans forward and touches her hand.
END FLASHBACK
INT. CAR – DAWN
The smallest tear forms in Cole’s eye, and he quickly brushes it away. He blinks and focuses on the road.
The clock reads 6:15. Cole’s finger stabs at the radio and switches it off.
EXT. CAR – DAWN
Daylight is starting to illuminate the road, the faint rays chasing the darkness away. The road is empty and long, a desolate stretch of highway with only dawn and Cole’s lonely headlights pulsing down the strip with dogged determination.
INT. CAR – LATER
Cole’s phone beeps. He fumbles around in his pocket and brings it out. He opens it and sees a text message from someone named Kim. It reads, “are you coming to work today?” Cole shuts the phone and shoves it back into his pocket. He looks at the clock.
It’s 7:00. Sun is coming through the window, a bleak, almost wintery light that only serves to irritate rather than give warmth. Cole squints and takes out a pair of sunglasses, slipping them on.
EXT. PORCH
Cole’s car is parked haphazardly out in front of a house.
Cole himself sits in the car, staring over at the house. He turns to stare out of the windshield, lost in his thoughts. Through the window, something very faint and out-of-focus can be seen walking through the door of the house and towards the car. Cole’s eyes close out of sheer exhaustion.
COLE
I didn’t really know why I was at Sarah’s house; I just was. I had no idea what to say to her, no idea of what to do–
A tap comes from the window; the thing coming from the house comes into focus as a MAN.
Cole blinks with surprise at the sight of him, then quickly rolls the window down.
A moment of silence passes between them before the man speaks.
MAN
Can I help you?

Cole looks confused, concerned.
COLE
Who are you? What are you doing here?
MAN
(with a small laugh)
I live here. What are you doing here?
COLE
This…this is Sarah’s house.
MAN
Well, I live with Sarah.
A multitude of emotions cross Cole’s face- shock, anger, despair, an emptiness that spreads to slacken his body. He looks up at the man, mouth hanging slightly open. He can’t speak.
Without looking at the man, he starts the car. He rolls away slowly.
Sarah’s boyfriend watches him go. He looks like he’s going to say something, perhaps shout after Cole, but he doesn’t. He turns and walks into the house.
INT. CAR – DAY
Cole looks like a zombie as he stares straight ahead at the freeway, just barely going through the motions of driving, not really concentrating, his mind in a daze. As he drives listlessly, his voice can be heard, low and emotionless.
The clock reads 9:30.
COLE (V.O.)
And just like that, it was over. Everything Sarah and I had been through, every experience we shared…it felt completely worthless now. My memories were a heap of junk on the side of the road that no one wanted.
Cole’s phone buzzes, and he glances at it to see a new text message from Kim. It reads “where are you?” He stares at it for a moment before closing it again and turning his attention to the road.
EXT. OUTSIDE COLE’S APARTMENT – AFTERNOON
Cole slumps into his apartment, an emotionless mask drawn across his face. The bum is now propped up just inside the doorway.
He holds his hand out vaguely for some change. Cole digs into his pocket and pulls out some wrinkled bills, dropping them into the bum’s hand.
BUM
Bless you, man.
INT. BEDROOM – AFTERNOON
Cole steps wearily into his room and sits on the edge of his bed, staring at the wall.
The clock reads 1:00. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. It comes out in a deep whoosh of air, and he lays back against his bed.
His phone buzzes again. It’s another text message from Kim. It says “Call me.” After a moment, Cole presses a button on his phone and presses it to his ear, listening to the phone ring.
COLE
Hey, Kim.
INT. COFFEE SHOP – A FEW WEEKS LATER
The coffee shop is relatively empty, as it’s still fairly early in the morning; maybe they’ve just opened. A pretty girl in her early twenties with a dark barista’s apron over a blue t-shirt is wiping down the tables with a rag. This is KIM. She is fairly short, with medium length dark hair (maybe closer to black than brown) and dark hazel eyes.
A bell tinkles lightly at the front as the door opens: it’s Cole. Kim looks up and smiles broadly, as if seeing him has made her day better. Cole looks equally glad to see her.
KIM
Hey, Cole.
COLE
Hey.
Cole walks over to the counter and grabs another rag. He starts to wipe tables down with Kim, and she glances over at him.
KIM
How are you doing?
Cole stops wiping down the table and stares straight ahead. He looks healthier, happy, much better than he used to be; perhaps he’s given up the junk food. He smiles and nods.
COLE
I’m actually really good.
He laughs a little, shaking his head. He looks at her as if to say that she’s the cause of his happiness.
COLE (CONT’D)
I can’t believe I got so worked up over someone like Sarah…
KIM
She’s an idiot anyway.
Kim saunters back to the counter and tosses her rag behind it.
Cole looks surprised at what she’s said, and absentmindedly starts to wipe down a counter.
He steals a glance at Kim, who’s watching him.
COLE
Do you mean that?
KIM
Yeah.
She turns shyly away to start making coffee.
After a moment, Cole comes around the bar. “Raindrops” by Regina Spektor starts to play, and Cole walks up to Kim. She looks up at him and gives him a bright, quizzical look.
KIM (CONT’D)
What?
Cole puts his hand over hers.
FADE OUT.