Yippee! It's Throwback Thursday (TBTWriter)! Time to share something I wrote back in the day, accompanied by some fun pics.
All of my posts so far have centered around something I wrote in elementary school, so I thought I'd change it up a bit by posting something I wrote a little more recently...like 10 years ago. Something from my "story graveyard." What's a story graveyard you ask? It starts with a story I began to write and then for some strange reason I abandon it, then completely forget about it. Months or years later, I'll rediscover the abandoned story and curse myself for casting it aside
(this is actually how
Strange Luck came to be written by the way). The stories that don't get an ending are banished to my story graveyard (*sniff), aka a big folder on my computer.
The events of this particular graveyard story are actually all true.
I really did get made fun of for being too pale by a bunch of old toothless French women.
I really did visit this little quirky little town in France.
And, I really did see a woman who looked just like my grandma who had died several years earlier. Her appearance and mannerisms were identical to my grandma's and I kept staring at her, thinking at some point that she would turn towards me and say, "Hello, Amie. Where have you been?"
I titled the story The Wax Paper Baker because whenever I baked anything with my grandma, she always mixed the ingredients on wax paper with a spoon. I always thought that was kinda neat...and weird. My original thought process when writing this story was something about how no one ever really died, like my grandma. I don't really know where I was going with it. Anyway, here's the first and only chapter of the story. I hope you enjoy it :)
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| Cimiez, France |
The Wax Paper Baker
It looked as though I had bathed in silver glitter, but my skin sparkled for
another reason. The salt from swimming in the French Rivera was clinging to me,
only flaking off when I scratched it. Steam rose off the tiny streets in the
hot sun as cars zoomed along the windy turn. From where I sat, I could see the
aquamarine ocean peppered with swimmers, rafts, and tiny boats trolling through
the calm waters.
I had
taken two crowded metros and a bus to the top of the hill, but I still had a
long way to go.
I sat
alone on the park bench waiting for the next bus to arrive in twenty minutes.
There wasn’t a tree, scrap of shade, or gust of wind, and I felt my shoulders
roasting like pink game hens under the sun. It was the first time I had sat all
day and my tired feet ached.
I had
never been to Cimiez before. Many people had told me what a charming city is
was and that I would meet the man of my dreams there. My friend Julie
accompanied me, but, the sun had zapped her strength too, so she decided to nap
at the hotel for the afternoon. The only thing I had wanted to see in this town
was Henri Matisse’s grave. I had already been to Emile Durkheim’s, Simone de
Beauvoir's, Jean-Paul Sartre’s, and Oscar Wilde’s tombs.
I looked
at my wrist watch. Thirteen more minutes left sitting in the inferno for the
bus to arrive. Tempted to just give up and go back to the hotel, I stood up to
look down the skinny road, hoping to see the bus. Just as I did so, two old
women wearing matching white dresses made their way down the road.
I grew
nervous. I barely spoke any French, and I was in a place where only the locals
lived. I politely smiled and lowered my head, hoping they wouldn’t say anything
to me. I listened to them speaking to each other in French, clucking like hens.
They were both at my side now, grinning with toothless smiles. One of the women
suddenly grabbed hold of my arm, which startled me, and she began hysterically
laughing.
She said
something rapidly and pointed to me. She continued smiling and laughing, her
belly rolls jiggling like a jello mold.
My smiled
widened. What was this old loon doing? Of course I had no idea what she
said to me, but I assumed she was complimenting me on my dress.
“Excuse
me, I don’t understand,” I said in a friendly tone. “I don’t speak French.”
I looked
at them and started to chuckle, realizing at once how awkward the situation
was. The old woman was laughing so hard she released my arm and was bending
over now.
Her
friend joined her in laughing.
“What is
it?”
“She says
you are too pale…ha ha ha…You need more sun!”
I shook
my head. Two old French women were making fun of me and there wasn’t anything I
could do about it. There weren’t any other people around for miles and I was
stuck waiting for the bus with them. They continued laughing, and I took a few
steps away from the bench and peered down the road again, cursing under my
breath. I crossed my arms, and examined my skin secretly from behind my
sunglasses. Sure, I was pale, but not that pale. What do you expect when
you’re from Washington?
Finally,
their obnoxious laughing subsided and the bus arrived. I sat near the front,
and away from them. It took several minutes to get to the top, passing a
cathedral, ruins, and busy villagers. I arrived in front of the Matisse museum
and immediately sought refuge under a knotty tree while I got my bearings. An
old sock rested at the trunk. I could see how the town of Cimiez was beautiful
in its own way, but with all of the heat and frustration, I vowed I would never
return.
My map
was ripped in the middle, covered in coffee, and had been folded and unfolded
so many times that it barely held together as I examined it. I needed to get to
the Musee
Franciscain-Eglise et Monastere de Cimiez, which was a short walk down the
road. I checked my bag for water, and quickly noticed that I barely had any
left. I decided not to drink it quite yet, for I still had a long commute back
to the hotel in Nice.
I walked
down the sweltering path, careful to walk on any scrap of shade possible and
found myself in a park, where I collapsed on a bench. I needed to regain my
energy if I was to make it the rest of the way. Children on skateboards glided
past me with curious smiles, whispering to each other in French. I had a
perfect view of some archaeological ruins in front of me. I peered through the
iron-gate, imagining the culture that had once flourished there.
Some type
of insect loudly buzzed above me. I went to look for it, but only found
yellowing leaves. The sound made me want to go insane—sharp, loud, quick, and
furious. No one else seemed bothered by the noise, and for a moment I wondered
if it was a sprinkler nearby that was making the noise and not an insect.
Several people came and went from the park bench a few feet away from mine—a
couple, a young thin woman, a few children, another couple. My attention turned
to the children skateboarding in front of me, staring at me as if they knew I
was not French.
Then, I
saw her out of the corner of my eye—a woman with short black curly hair and
glasses. She was reading something, mimicking the words with her mouth. Her jaw
was slightly droopy, and her eyes were bright and full of life. She reminded me
of my grandmother who had passed away two years ago. I smiled thinking about
her and how funny it was that this woman sitting next to me exhibited nearly
the exact same characteristics my grandmother once did.
The
buzzing lowered a notch. I stretched my feet, preparing them for the walk ahead
of me. I turned again to look at the woman, and she turned to look at me and
smiled. Full, slightly yellow teeth, and kind.
I would
have recognized her smile anywhere. There was no doubt in my mind that the
strange woman in front of me was my grandmother.
Re-reading this story again made it very clear to me that I was still
trying to find my voice, and genre, which is why I think I ultimately
abandoned it. Nevertheless, it was a neat experience visiting
Cimiez and seeing my grandma again in some weird twist of fate.
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| Here's me overlooking the French Rivera on my way to Cimiez. |
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| One of my favorite artists. |
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Here's me with my grandma, grandpa, and brother.
If you're a writer, I invite you to
share something you wrote way back when and/or a pic of yourself. Bad
stories happen, like the one above. It's all part of the journey of becoming a better writer.
Whether you wrote a bad story when you were eight or forty eight,
embrace it. Don't forget to use #tbtwriter when
you post so we can all enjoy your story. If you're a reader, I hope you enjoyed another TBTWriter post. If you haven't checked out my others, you'll love these:
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