Benevolence [H.S.]

Chapter Eight

Hey darlin's! First and foremost, thank you so, so much for over 1k reads. You've pretty much planted a love bomb in my heart and it's poppin' OFF in there. I appreciate your feedback and overall rad energy more than you know. Time is all we've really got and it's precious, so thank you for choosing to spend a little of it with these words.

Anyway, now for the apology; I'm it's been a thousand years. Just had some stuff goin' on lately and to be honest I've been struggling with the idea of vulnerability and putting something out there that isn't perfect. LUCKILY, there's no such thing as perfect (unless your name is Harry Styles).

So in conclusion, here's Ch. 8, she's not perfect, but I hope you enjoy the ride of Benny & Harry's beginnings.

______

Benny.

Friday, August 1963

"Dropping...drapery...obsequious..."

I scanned today's headlines in the paper while waiting for Allie, marking the good stuff with a flick of my highlighter and leaving damp little smudges everywhere. Every once in awhile I slip onto a really juicy one, little pomegranate seeds in print. These I tuck away for later use.

"Eloquent...valiant...burnished..."

Two weeks. It's been two weeks since my call with Maggie and I've been doing all I can to stay busy and think positive. It's been hard at times, yes, but they say best things in life never come easy. Unless you're one of JFK's lovers.

There was a tension in the air just after mom got the flowers I left, but so far it seems the tensions abated. Even Joey's been in lighter spirits, if ever he could even be more buoyant.

As I was jumping and wiggling and begging gravity to squeeze me into last years shorts this morning, I could hear mama raising her voice downstairs.

She'd been on the phone the better part of the morning, doctor whosit and nurse whatsit running her in circles once again, as once again her experimental treatments brought on some unexpected side effects.

It's a little roux they play, really. Acting as if the doctor gives a rats ass about where and what will help her best when the pharmaceutical reps are breathing down their necks just meters away.

But the day is young, and I know in the end that focusing on these little things we can't control only chips away at the joy we do have.

I skim past the classifieds section for this same
reason, flipping the page and folding it out of sight. Of three interviews at totally separate writing gigs, every damn one was a bust. I mean, how am I supposed to waltz in as a gleaming new professional, brimming with experience, when no one hires you to gain it in the first place?

But despite the disappointment of not landing a proper job yet, it does feel good to just write, and I've been taking Maggie's advice seriously.

I'm not sure when, but somewhere along the line I began writing as if there was an audience just beyond the next keystroke. As if someone was always around the corner just waiting to judge it's validity.

Maybe what Maggie was trying to say is that the most important kind of creation comes from the things we conjure up just for ourselves. I mean, that's the most honest, isn't it? What we do and how we think when no one else is listening?