Exercise 1: The Closet- Write a story in which the narrator is snooping around an ex-boyfriend/girlfriend's apartment because he or she still has the key. The whole story takes place in a closet in the bedroom that the narrator retreats to when the ex comes home with the narrator's bestfriend or someone else.
Read Kv's story: Exercise # 5: The Closet (Apartment 28)
Disclaimer: This is purely a work of fiction.
15:30 pm. Friday. For the last time, I am driving along this familiar street. This grey, cemented pavement looks like any cold concrete path in the city. To anybody, it is ordinary, unworthy of one's attention even. But this stretch means so much more to me. It represents a memory, a routine, those 7 years spent with you. It has our story written all over it. It leads me to us. Yes, this narrow road leads me to us, how we were once.
*Just before our love got lost you said,
"I am as constant as a Northern Star"...
I park my run-down '93 Civic in front of your apartment. I remember how you tried to convince me, time and again, to let go of my red, decrepit (but still handsome) Karl. "Why don't you give up this junk?", you used to ask. And my usual line was, "Insufficient funds." In retrospect, though, I can not let go of this 19-year old "junk" because I don't want to. Karl and I have a history that the idea of throwing it away is unfathomable to me. It is my comfort zone. Just like you, it is the intimate, predictable space I'm used to. Just like you, it is the familiar.
As I get off the car and unload the empty boxes from the trunk, I can't help but notice the wilting plants that once beautifully adorned the white gate. Don't you have the time to water them? Or even prune the dying blooms and leaves? It's so typical of you. How you neglect the small things. How you lack the time for a movie or a walk in the park. How you easily give up. You easily gave up. Well, so did I.
And I said, "Constantly in the darkness,
Where's that at?"
I get the key from my pocket then slowly turn the knob. By tomorrow, you will have changed the lock. This is the last time I'll be here. What I have left is now.
I have no time to break in tears, though. Actually, I have nothing left. Only numbness resides in my heart. Every emotion has dried up.
So I go straight to the closet to collect my belongings. It holds our secrets and keeps our memories intact somehow.
The closet is still the way it was when I left a month ago...except for the empty space where my clothes were hung. I run my fingers through your black coats, white buttoned shirts and dark slacks. I remember the white striped shirt. I remember the black and white Fred Perry oxfords. You have always been dapper and sleek. But it wasn't the crisp white shirt nor the oxfords that impressed me. It was when, after finishing our green tea panna cotta, you stood up, walked towards the upright piano, and started playing Clair de Lune. Only Maya, my childhood friend, knows about my eternal love for Debussy's music. I had known then that you play the piano. But I was surprised with how you pressed the black and white keys with impeccable technique and expression. I was even amazed with how you discovered my penchant for Debussy's works. You have always been a good researcher. And from that day on, you have me. You still do now. Sadly, you still do.
"Love is touching souls"
Surely you touched mine
'Cause part of you pours out in me
In these lines from time to time
Surely you touched mine
'Cause part of you pours out in me
In these lines from time to time
Why did you hide the alarm clock in the closet? It is your gift to me on our 5th anniversary. Of course the engraved line at the back is cheesy. "Wake up. Spend your days with me". You are allowed to be cheesy sometimes. The alarm clock used to be on my bedside table. But why do you keep it hidden now? For you not to remember? Or for you not to notice the bare side of the bed that I once occupied?
Oh, but you are in my blood
You're like holy wine
You're so bitter, bitter and so sweet
I chuckle at the sight of the chipped hinge. It was a rainy Saturday night. You were furious. You were shouting at the top of your lungs, accusing me of things I have never done. I shouted back. That night was just one of the wars we have waged against each other. But that night was different. You were raging mad that you picked up the alarm clock, the same clock you gifted me with on our 5th anniversary, and threw it at me. Thank God, you are not a great pitcher. You missed the target and hit the hinge instead. That night was just one of the wars we have waged. But that was the last straw. I packed the clothes I had within reach and stormed out of the house. That night was just one of the wars we have waged against each other. But that was the night I left. That was the night I gave up on you.
I should have seen the cracks. But I was too naive to notice. Who am I kidding? I chose to ignore the signs. I chose to believe that everything was just fine. But nobody can save a sinking ship, neither you nor I.
And yet, the portrait I sketched of you still hangs on the wall. Why is that so? Is it because that framed souvenir reminds you of me? Or is it because it is your image, as seen through my eyes, which is a reminder of who you were?
Filling the empty boxes with my clothes and books is saying goodbye to the closet that we shared for 7 years. The space I cleared is a sign of finality. This closure erases the pain. And with each step I take towards the door, I feel no regret. It was good while it lasted. It was a good fight. But it is time to let go.
I forgive you. And I hope you find it in your heart to forgive me, too. If not now, soon.
If not now, hopefully soon.
The rain starts pouring outside. And classic forgetful me, I left my umbrella in the car. Of course, I should have expected a rainy weather on this May day. I watch heaven's tears fall down from the heavy grey clouds, when I see a black pick-up park in front of my car. A girl gets off the car and goes to the passenger seat with an umbrella in hand. Of course, it is you in the passenger seat. It IS you. You are with her.
You and her standing by the gate; I by the door. And the gaze says it all.
Still I'd be on my feet
I would still be on my feet
Oh, but you are in my blood
You're like holy wine
You're so bitter, bitter and so sweet
I chuckle at the sight of the chipped hinge. It was a rainy Saturday night. You were furious. You were shouting at the top of your lungs, accusing me of things I have never done. I shouted back. That night was just one of the wars we have waged against each other. But that night was different. You were raging mad that you picked up the alarm clock, the same clock you gifted me with on our 5th anniversary, and threw it at me. Thank God, you are not a great pitcher. You missed the target and hit the hinge instead. That night was just one of the wars we have waged. But that was the last straw. I packed the clothes I had within reach and stormed out of the house. That night was just one of the wars we have waged against each other. But that was the night I left. That was the night I gave up on you.
I should have seen the cracks. But I was too naive to notice. Who am I kidding? I chose to ignore the signs. I chose to believe that everything was just fine. But nobody can save a sinking ship, neither you nor I.
And yet, the portrait I sketched of you still hangs on the wall. Why is that so? Is it because that framed souvenir reminds you of me? Or is it because it is your image, as seen through my eyes, which is a reminder of who you were?
Filling the empty boxes with my clothes and books is saying goodbye to the closet that we shared for 7 years. The space I cleared is a sign of finality. This closure erases the pain. And with each step I take towards the door, I feel no regret. It was good while it lasted. It was a good fight. But it is time to let go.
I forgive you. And I hope you find it in your heart to forgive me, too. If not now, soon.
If not now, hopefully soon.
The rain starts pouring outside. And classic forgetful me, I left my umbrella in the car. Of course, I should have expected a rainy weather on this May day. I watch heaven's tears fall down from the heavy grey clouds, when I see a black pick-up park in front of my car. A girl gets off the car and goes to the passenger seat with an umbrella in hand. Of course, it is you in the passenger seat. It IS you. You are with her.
You and her standing by the gate; I by the door. And the gaze says it all.
Still I'd be on my feet
I would still be on my feet
*A Case of you: Joni Mitchell
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