I wrote the opening scene into a short story, Luxury’s Legacy. The read falls under romance fiction, based on a love triangle. 

https://docs.google.com/presentation/d/1tMuVHEZvPDtZfhw7DEwYAakxEut8PpyVqE9VHBOOGK4/edit#slide=id.g1e067c991dd_0_145

“Deluded Conviction” is a short story in the form of a movie script. The story doesn’t necessarily have a distinguishable plot, but that’s largely because I wanted it to feel dazed and dream-like, hence the title. The ending breaks the fourth-wall in the sense that as I was writing, I was envisioning an actual movie taking place. I studied the scripts of popular movies like Casablanca, as well as movies I watched for inspiration for my own writing: Taxi Driver, Donnie Darko, Psycho, Barton Fink, and the show Twin Peaks. 

Portfolio: https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1XtioR1utcFJSRApaB1AMk8PdzeI-fXy3?usp=share_link

“Great, now we are lost” Jackson says in an annoyed voice. “We’re not lost, we are almost at the witch’s house, plus we have a map”, Amelia replies. The two continue walking through the darkened woods, branches creaking with every step taken. After many hours passed and no house in sight, they decided to put up the tent and rest. “This is unbelievable. I came out here with you to film your stupid documentary and we haven’t found anythi-“, He was interrupted by the wailing of something un-human. The two stepped out of the tent to investigate when they noticed that the tent was set up right in front of the witches’ house. “How did we get here? We didn’t send the tent up here!” Amelia screams. They panic and hide back in the tent as the wailing gets closer. Panicking, the two hold the zipper shut as hard as they can. When the wailing suddenly stops, an 8 foot-tall entity breaks through the tent with the most negative intentions. Screams were made but never heard.

I pressed my nose to her cheek; my fingers tangled in her hair.

I was only beginning to process her presence.

Begging for our love to be alive, I tilted my head to where my lips would meet with her skin.

Her eyelashes fluttered at my touch.

Her flesh was fresh, and heavy with warmth.

The opposite of how it felt the day before, while she laid in a casket.

Each day I walked through the leaves, coffee in hand, thinking of who I was and what I meant. And each day there she was too. She sat on that bench like a bird perched on a branch—my soft and silent raven. I always laughed a little when I saw her because she always wore this black beret, a trench coat, and sunglasses that made her devoid of any emotion. All I mean is that she stood out. She stood out, yet no one seemed to notice her except me. Like some sort of modern-day siren, she beckoned for me to go up to her and breathe in the smell of her cigarette-coated words, but I couldn’t. I was just some simpleton, you know. I mean, I got up for work every day, got out at five, went for my coffee, and walked home. She was too cool, too glamorous for a guy like me. Each day I walked past her, and each day I wanted to talk to her—ask her why she sat there and what she was saying inside that head of hers. My father had always criticized me for “not having any guts,” and he was right. I couldn’t even say “Good afternoon” to the cashier at the café I frequented daily. Talking was difficult for me; making eye contact was difficult for me; being charismatic was difficult for me. That’s why I wrote. What I didn’t have the courage to say, I’d write. I’d go home and work on my stories. If you could read my writing, you wouldn’t think of me as being such a mouse. Oh, and I wrote about her too.

At some point, the Earth was no longer spitting leaves at me, just cold gusts of wind. I finally got so upset with myself that I let my doubts go and got the nerve to sit on the bench. I purposely got there before she did, and I waited for her imminent arrival. I think I almost barfed a bit when I saw her coming. God, I was embarrassed. So, there she is, standing right in front of me with her hair blowing in the breeze, and she goes: “You’re that guy from across the street, right?” If my mouth wasn’t dry enough, I think my tongue practically shriveled up. Here I am thinking I was being inconspicuous all this time, but now she probably thinks I’m some stalker. “W-what do you mean?” I responded nervously. “Oh, it’s just that around this time I look over at that street, and you’re there.” “I swear it’s you,” she says. So, this was the point where I asked myself if I should lie for my own sake or be honest with this stranger. Except she wasn’t a stranger (at least not to me), and I felt obligated to her. “Listen, I’m so sorry if I seem like a creep, but I’ve just always wanted to talk to you and always held back.” Then she removed her black sunglasses and looked me in the eyes for the first time and said, “Talk?” “To me?” She let out a soft laugh. “I’m not sure what you want from me, but we’re both here now.” And we talked. I mean, we had a conversation. I told her all about my stories, and she told me she was a painter—I remember thinking that was so like her. 

After that encounter, I never saw her sitting on that bench anymore. Like a raven, she came and went. I’m not exactly sure where she went, but I paid it no mind. Her departure relieved me; it awoke something within me. Mice can only be killed by a stimulus, and mine was a bird. 

For Next Time

I look up at the sky and watch the shuttle disappear into the clouds. I had put the people I love before myself, and now I’m paying the price. “Something to think about for next time,” I chuckle to myself before turning to face the asteroid racing towards earth, watching it grow bigger and bigger.

Her Final Minutes

I press my face to the window in an attempt to get one last glimpse at my sister.  I repeatedly wipe the fog off the window that keeps forming due to my heavy breaths against the glass. I break down crying as I realized she had spent her final minutes on earth saving my life.