Shots Fired: A Collection of Oneshots

The True You

Walking into the room, you pause for a minute, looking over the rows of seats- so different form the normal set up. But of course, there’s a speaker today. You pick a chair in the second row, unknowingly choosing the worst seat possible as two long-legged beautiful girls walk in, taking the seats beside you. You shrivel slightly, very aware of your casual shirt and jeans, compared to their business pants and blouses.

                You try to think of something else and look up at the pulpit on a raised bit of floor. She’ll stand there in a few moments. No one knows her name- she never tells the media- and she insists that what matters is her message not her name. The media has started calling her Emmy Smith. You’ve never seen her before, only heard stories and are eager to listen to what she has to say.

                After a few minutes of quiet squirming there is a loud sound of heels tapping on the ground. And she appears, walking up to the pulpit. She’s not an Emmy, is your first thought. No, she looks more like a Kathrine or an Eliza. She looks over the twenty or so gathered, and her eyes land on you for a mere second. You sit up a bit straighter. Then she takes a paper out of her jacket and looks at it. You expect her to start speaking, but there is only silence. Then she smiles and crumples up the paper, resting it on the corner of the pulpit.

                “Planned speeches. They never come out quite right do they?” She smiles. “Here I am with a speech written down and everywhere I go I say something different. Again, planned speeches.”

                “Why won’t you tell us your name?” You swivel in your seat to see a guy half-standing, looking at her expectantly.

                The woman sighs. “Because anybody can say what I am about to say. What really matters is what you do about it. It’s not about who inspires you- it’s about what you do with the inspiration. That’s why attaching a name to these words would be minimizing the you they bring out.” There are no more questions. “Every great thing starts with stars, I always say. Out there, in the great, vast universe there are trillions upon trillions of stars. Why, if we divvied them up, everyone on Earth would get their own personal trillion or more stars. You have a trillion stars, your lover has a trillion stars, you mother, father, sister, brother, why even little Fido has a trillion stars.” There are a few chuckles but you stay quiet. You’ve heard enough people yapping about stars.

                “A trillion stars. A trillion dreams. A trillion opportunities.” You tilt your head to the side slightly and she looks right at you. You tremble. “It’s terrifying, I know.” Her voice shrinks to whisper. “You’re probably thinking, ‘who am I to have a trillion dreams? Impossible.’ Your path has been paved since you were a small child. Your parents picked it for you, and no matter how much you’ve tried to follow your own dreams, you always fall back on their paths. Every time you try to talk to them, they sigh and shake their heads, looking away, turning their back on what you want. And why shouldn’t they? You’re just a young person, confused and unsure. You’re picking crazy dreams- it’s only natural of a young person. Or so you think.

                “Maybe, and let’s be ridiculous here, those dreams and aspirations are not just a side effect of youth. Maybe, oh I don’t know, that wish to be a New York Times bestselling author is not so ridiculous. Maybe it’s time to look at the path your parents paved and the paths you wish to pave and choose which one is right.  It’s miserable to be searching your whole life only to give up and settle with what you have. It’s not too late for any of you. You must look at your wishful paths in the dark forest of chance and hope.

                “It’s your life and you get to choose what to do with it. Next time they sigh or shake their heads, don’t drop your chin and walk away, no, stand up and look at them and tell them what you intend to do. It’s not their choice anymore. You get to live the way you want to.” She pauses, looking at the expressions of those gathered.

                “After all, they are your stars.”

                She leaves. Her words ring in your ears as people around you start to stand, some mumbling about how this was such a waste of time. But you don’t feel like that. You don’t know why her words have hit you so hard- they weren’t so much different from what other people have said. But you stay seated for a long time.

                You stay as the room clears, as the sun sets, as the building empties, until finally the sound of a distant vacuum shakes you from your meditation. You stand and walk over to the pulpit where she stood. You open your mouth, longing to say something, but your courage fails you, even though the room is empty. A sigh leaves your lips as you lean your elbows against the pulpit. Something falls against your arm.

                Frowning you look down and find the crumpled up piece of paper resting against your arm. You pick it up, running your thumb over the creases. Her original speech. What does it say? What hidden words did she write before coming here- words she wasn’t able to say? You hold your breath as you un-crinkle the paper, smoothing it out on the pulpit.

                You don’t find a long speech, no, all you find are four words written in a slanted handwriting. Four words that make you smile.

                Be the true you.

**Prompt: #71 The True You**