Death As Told By the Emotionally Unstable

Another creative writing piece. Yay! I wrote this for my fall semester English 1102 class. The theme of this class was death in literature, if that explains the context of my story. 
 

Death As Told By The Emotionally Unstable

I didn’t ask for this, you know. 

And I don’t know what moron started spreading the rumor that I am this dark, dreary skeletal man. Because I’m not. I’m not skeletal nor a man. They maybe got dark and dreary right, but I don’t have a choice with the cloak. It is part of the uniform. I don’t see why I can’t choose my uniform. I mean I am the Grim Reaper. The Shepherd of Souls.

            They don’t let me make any big decisions. It’s something about me not being emotionally stable enough, which is total bull. I want to see them try to be Death. I have asked them numerous times before that if I’m not stable enough, then why do I have this job. I mean they hired me. Hired me is a sorry description. They like to say anointed, but I prefer threatened. They threatened me. Them in their pinstripe suits. They look sharp, classy even. They actually have a nice uniform. They tell me not to blame them. That it’s not their fault. That if I have so many complaints then I can just go talk to the “Big Guy.” And then they laugh, as I stare at them.

            If you ask me, I don’t even think this “Big Guy” exists. First off, “Big Guy” is a lame name. And second, I have never even met him. And this guy is supposedly in control of me.

            I know what you’re thinking. I could just stop, run away, or something. I tried that. Well I wanted to, but the Pinstripes knocked on my door before I even had a chance to make a run for it.

            I opened the door and they said, “Don’t even try it.”

            I didn’t even question how they knew what I planning on doing, I just responded, “I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to do this.”

            “Why don’t you just take that to the ‘Big Guy’ then?” They said this chuckling.

            “Alright, let me speak to him.”

            They just laughed even harder as I stared at them.

            The next time I tried to quit, I actually wrote a two weeks notice. I had seen people do it all the time on Earth, so I figured it was worth a shot. I made an appointment to discuss it over with the Pinstripes and everything. When I arrived to the main building, Ceci, the secretary led me into a big room where all the Pinstripes sat around a round table smoking cigars. When I walked in, they all looked at me, clearly amused.

            “I would like to put in my two weeks notice,” I announced.

            “The ‘Big Guy’ is going to get a kick out of this,” the Pinstripes closest to me said.

            “Well I’d like to kick ‘Big Guy’” I blurted out before I realized how lame it sounded.

            They laughed.

            I walked out as the door slammed behind me. I didn’t mean to slam the door. It just happened. And this is why they say I am too emotionally unstable to make important decisions. Like I said, total bull.

            Today I wake up from my reoccurring nightmare. Looking in my mirror, I shake my long, chestnut brown hair. I touch my face. I look gaunt. I fear I am turning into that dreary, skeletal man from my nightmares. I stare into my deep brown eyes fearing they will hollow out as I look into them. They don’t, but this still doesn’t convince me. Sometimes I think that the mirror is lying to me. That I really am that dark, dreary skeletal man everybody thinks I am. The rumor had to start somewhere. This is my biggest fear, which is pretty ironic seeing how that seems to be everyone back on Earth’s biggest fear, too.

            Today is Sunday, my day off. The “Big Guy” is religious or something. He doesn’t feel we should work on Sundays. I once asked the Pinstripes what happened to souls that left their bodies on Sunday.

            “Don’t you worry your pretty, little face. The ‘Big Guy’ deals with them,” One of them told me.

            It didn’t really worry me. I was just curious.

            Today like every other Sunday, I go to the Window. The Window is a vast stretch of surface that lies parallel above the Earth. You are free to focus in on wherever and whomever.

             The Window is often reserved for the Pinstripes on weekdays. This is where they do their research. What their actual role is, I am not quite sure. Once I asked them. I shouldn’t have been surprised when they started laughing.

            Like every other Sunday I focus in on him. I stumbled upon him one day. He was so beautiful. So fearless. He was talking about me. He was excited to meet me. Not now, but when his time came. He knew what came after this life had to be so much better. He couldn’t really explain it. He just knew. He was so sure of himself but not in an obnoxious, cocky way but rather in a matter-of-fact, confident way. He even had me sold.

            He has this charming smile. He sees the best in life and in people. He can find the humor in almost any situation. He has two college degrees yet he works odd jobs, and I love that.

            He has been a dog walker for the past two months. I watch him as two Great Danes, Charly and Rover, pull him around on the boardwalk by the San Francisco bay. Even if the smile is off his face, it never leaves his green eyes. It doesn’t matter what he does. I admire how much he loves life, and I love feeling like I am sharing in a part of it. It actually makes this gig as Death bearable at moments. After spending Sunday with him, Charly, and Rover, I head back to my place content. I am always most relaxed on Sunday. Spending Sunday at the Window makes getting up on Monday easier.

            I wake up Monday morning rejuvenated. No nightmares. I look in the mirror and try to find a smile in my eyes instead of the hollowness. I promise myself not to slam any doors this week. Who knows, maybe I will try laughing with the Pinstripes.

            I report to Ceci in the main building to pick up my list of souls for the day. When I open the envelope the whole page is a blur. Only one name sticks out to me in bold print. BENNETT HAYES: SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA. I stop in my tracks. I have never felt faint before, but I think this is what it feels like. I don’t know what to feel. Only one word makes its way out of my mouth.

            “Why?”

            I hear the Pinstripes voices in my head. You can just take it up with the “Big Guy.” Then I hear the horrid laughing.

            In this moment I don’t know whether I want to send the “Big Guy” a thank you note for finally allowing us to meet or to send him hate mail for taking Bennett Hayes’s life away from me.

Bennett and I will meet once, for the briefest of time, and once that moment is over he will move on to the other side, where I will never see him again. I am still frozen in the office as Ceci stares at me.

“Are you alright, dear?” Ceci asks.

I rush out before I vomit all over the floor. I take in the fresh air. I take a deep breath and take the trip I always knew I would have to take. I head down to Earth. I have no choice. Like I said before, I didn’t ask for this. Duty calls.

Creative Writing Piece. Yay!

This is a creative writing piece I did back in my senior year of high school. Enjoy!

 

Installment One: When Somebody Asks You How You’re Doing, You’re Supposed to Say Fine

             You know those movies that make you think to yourself, “Psh, life isn’t like that.” You know those movies. Like the father is cheating on the wife, and in the mean time the daughter takes up a part-time stripper job, while the seven year old son is a child prodigy who has read the dictionary eight times. You know the extremes. The thing is that these movies try to make it as realistic as possible, but funnily enough, the more they try, the less realistic they get. I like to call it the “Only in the Movies” theory because honestly, life is not that dramatic.
            Except mine is. I think it is fair to say my life is more ridiculous than those movies because it is real life. If I were to tell you about my life without notifying you it was a true story, I guarantee you would immediately assume it was some cheesy movie. My life epitomizes the concept of the “Only in the Movies” theory, except it is not in the movies. It is very, very real.

            Exhibit A: My family. Yesterday, for example, dinnertime rolls around. We sit around our rectangular table in our unofficial assigned seats. I guess it was some special occasion because my dad had grilled steak. Medium rare. First off, it was Tuesday. My father never cooks on weekdays, let alone steak. We normally get takeout or cook microwave dinners. You would never know that, however, because it is always very formal looking: The table set, silverware perfectly aligned on the right side of our plate, and a glass of iced water placed on the left side. Our dinner selection, whether it be Chinese takeout or microwave dinners, is placed on a serving platter in the middle of the table. We begin dinner at 6:30, always 6:30, no sooner, no later. If you were to walk into my house come dinnertime, you would assumer it was a formal feast at Buckingham Palace. But seriously.

            This particular night, however, I knew it must have been the equivalent to a formal feast at Buckingham Palace because my dad actually grilled steak. Medium rare. Before I go on, there is something you must understand about my dad. He is a Production developer. And by Production developer, I mean he is a screenplay writer. And when I say he is a screenplay writer, I mean he is a not-very-good screenplay writer. And when I say he is a not-very-good screenplay writer, I mean he does not book jobs. Ever. So I assumed the steak must have something to do with a job he was offered. But then again, the month before we had lobster tails, and the month before that was “Italian Delight,” as my dad called it.
            I remember lobster night quite clearly because my dad and I had an argument. A tiff. “…and he says that if I just give him an initial deposit of five hundred dollars, it will help him get my movie ready to take-off! This is it you guys. This is really it!”
            “Dad!” I interjected. “You’re being scammed!”
            “Are you saying my writing isn’t good enough?”
            “No. I’m saying you’re being scammed.”
            “Rae, I’m sick of your negativity, your cynicism, your skepticism, your pessimism…”
            And he continued on with his list of adjectives to prove his excellence as a writer through his extensive vocabulary. Because that is what a good writer consists of. A large vocabulary, and a large vocabulary only.

            Let’s just say that I ended up being right, but that is a whole other story for another time.

            Anyway, back to steak night. We are all seated in our unofficial assigned seats, my father at the head of the table, and travelling counter clockwise: my mother, younger sister, and my twin brother and I opposite them. As we are seated, I see my dad is about to start his spiel about his movie production offer, when my younger sister, Lyndi, stands on her chair. My mother gasps, horrified, like someone had stripped off their shirt and ran around an ultra conservative Baptist church or something along those lines.

            “Lyndi! Do NOT soil the seat cushion,” she screams. Lyndi ignores her and proceeds to speak as I take a sip of my milk. “Family, I have an announcement to make. I have decided to become a vegan.”
            “What the hell is a vegan?” Jackson, my brother, genuinely asks.

            My brother doesn’t say much at our family dinners but when he does, it is always priceless, and as soon as those words came out of his mouth, I just couldn’t hold it in. Like I literally couldn’t hold in the milk I had just taken a sip of. I spit out all the milk I had just sipped all over my newly proclaimed vegan sister. Lyndi jumps off the chair revolted. My mom gasps again, appalled at the large mess I had just made. I am in hysterics in my chair. I just couldn’t handle the irony of it all: spitting good, wholesome cow milk all over my vegan sister.

            Lyndi yells at us,” I knew you guys wouldn’t understand! You never do!” Overly dramatic, as always. She runs upstairs and slams her door. My dad runs after her. My mom shakes her head, I begin to calm myself down, and my brother shrugs his shoulders. Five minutes pass as we eat in silence, and my brother asks, “But seriously, what is a vegan?”

Internal Dialogue

Today was a lovely day. I got to meet up with one of my best friends Catherine. We do this periodically, and I must say not enough. We were chatting about Harry Potter, Pride and Prejudice, theater, and our idiosyncrasies in our local Barnes and Noble (our go-to location). Then we stumbled upon a marvelous idea.

As individuals, Catherine and I are both pretty intense people, so naturally, together we are a force to be reckoned with in all senses.  We had a wonderful opportunity to perform with each other in a show called Lettice and Lovage. (Yes, we are theatre people if that explains anything at all about our intense demeanors and extreme emotions.) We know how to work with one another. We know what makes the other person tick. We know each other’s strengths.

Cat is very gifted in the verbal department. She is very vocal. She can create very interesting characters through different accents, inflections, articulations, tones, and intonations. Her characters are always very strong through her voice alone. Oh, how I envy her verbal strength.

My strength, on the other hand, lies within the nonverbal department. I wear my emotions on my sleeve, and a person will know exactly what I am thinking just by looking at me. I am very expressive without speaking. My whole life I have received comments on my facial expressions and body language. I am the girl of 10,000 faces.

An extremely talented actor is naturally gifted in both of these departments. An actor needs both of these tools, voice and body, to perform.

So we started thinking of a way we could combine both of our strengths. “What if,” we thought, “we could maximize both those strengths in one character?” So, thus our idea unfolds: a play all about internal dialogue.
I, Kathleen, would be the only person on stage, and my character would be having an internal dialogue with herself. Here is the catch. I do not speak; I am on stage, and my nonverbals are my only tool. Cat would be off stage with a microphone and would be my voice. Her voice alone, would be her only tool. We would have to work together as one character. I would be reacting to Cat’s verbals through my own nonverbals.

Now let me give you a little scoop on actors. We like to be heard and seen. 

Any actor can tell you that they have at least once went through a script and counted how many lines they had. We want to be heard. When we speak, we are the center of attention.

We also like to be seen. I mean, hello, that is why we are on stage. We want people to see us.

So Catherine and I would both have to give up something that is crucial in establishing identity for actors. We give up one crucial tool to focus on our specific strength, and in doing that, we must work together to make a complete character.  Challenging? Yes. We’re excited.

Our goal in this is to bring to light the necessity of both tools. It will also be a very humbling experience because we both have to give up one tool that is crucial to the ego of an actor. I will have no lines. Painful. Cat will not be seen. Painful. However, together we will be seen and heard. Together we are one character.

We are currently working on the script.

Coming soon! (As in maybe next year, or maybe 10 years from now)

The Rules of Storytelling

The Rules of Storytelling:

1. Assume your story is the most important story ever.

2. Always tell the truth, but don't be afraid to exaggerate. When in doubt, fluff it out.*

3. The more excited you are about your story, the better it tends to be.

4. Expression, expression, expression. Facial expressions, hand gestures, and body movement always make your story at least 12 times better. Act it out! Storytelling is all about your delivery. 

5. Use props if available, but don't overuse them. The props don't have to necessarily be accurate according to your story. In fact, inaccurate props have the potential of making your story even more humorous. For example, a table can be used in the place of a car. People can also be used as props.

6. Make sure your story is detailed. A story without details is boring. Details spice it up. However, an overly detailed story becomes too long and hard to handle. So keeping kitchen spices in mind remember, No spices: Tasteless. Too many spices: Ridiculous.

7. Never let anyone interrupt you in the middle of your story, not even if you are tag teaming it. It causes you to lose momentum. If you find someone trying to interrupt your story, increase your volume and talk over them.

8. Don't allow questions until the end. Again, it makes you lose momentum.

9. Side-stories and random facts are highly encouraged. However, the side-story must make sense within your story and the random facts must be relevant. 

10. No matter how poor the response is once you complete your story, never, never EVER end a story with "And then I found 5 bucks." You are just confirming the story's failure. Own your story with pride, because remember, it IS the best story ever.

*Clause: The only time you are allowed to flat out lie is when you are telling "scar"ry stories. If the story of how you happened to get a scar is pretty lame, you can make it have a heroic spin. For example, I am clumsy, and I often have a tendency to trip over my monster feet. So naturally, my clumsy stories turn into heroic stories about how I saved little kids from getting hit by cars.  

I hope you may find this useful for your next story-telling endeavor. Print it out and study it if you must.