Writer on the Wall

Part I

The setting in my story had to be perfect and the imagery needed to feel authentic. It couldn't just be the feeble imaginations of a teenage girl concocted in the pitiful solitude of her room. No, I needed to find the perfect, dilapidated warehouse to hole up in, get high, and observe every detail in the rusting skeleton and the sunburnt paint, flaking off in huge chunks.

"Oh, that. That was good...shit. I need to write it down...but...driving," I squinted at the road trying to figure out how to jot down the slew of words that felt like water in a drought. "Don't forget, don't forget, um. Something, something, rusting skeleton. Sunburnt paint. Oh, Oh! Phone!"

My hand shot to the passenger seat , my fingers probing for the cold kiss of my Samsung Galaxy S7 Active. The phone was supposedly designed for people that lived an active lifestyle. You know the type. The pristine white folk that are in the L.L. Bean catalogs riding bikes, hiking, water rafting, blah blah, all while wearing perfectly pressed active wear. However, I happen to know that the phone was actually designed for imbeciles who are non-stop juggling the entire world in their hands and consistently watch their phones potentially plummet into oblivion. I am proud to announce that I am certainly the latter.

My fingers finally clashed with the glass, just in time for me to rattle off the sentence one last time. I quickly opened the memo feature and jammed my forefinger into microphone button, annunciating too carefully into the microphone to send my precious cargo into cyber land. As soon as I finished speaking, my perfect muse came into view. She was grossly fabulous, in both size and aesthetic. Rusting skeleton and sunburnt paint, indeed. The front was all broken in windows, covered in dust so thick that "wash me" seemed underwhelming. When the wind howled, shredded curtains flew through the openings. They seemed to be screaming for salvation.

As I got closer, I noticed a swaying sign, half hanging off its metal post. It read Willow Cotton Mill, established 1892. Okay, so it wasn't a warehouse, but a cotton mill had a sort of American gothic feel about it. Below that, stuck deep in the dirt, was a cardboard sign that read "Private Property, No Trespassing. Property under construction," but I didn't see any sign of recent work.

A shiver slithered down my spine and I knew I had found my inspiration after hours of driving aimlessly. I drove around the back and parked behind a row of port-o-johns baking in the summer heat. I didn't need my car being immediately visible to anyone coming down here. With my luck, I'd be slapped with innumerable fines and trespassing claims. Yes, better to hide my car from potential police seeking to ruin my fun in the middle of nowhere, alone, without anyone knowing where I was. I laughed at the thought. My boyfriend, Tyler, always complained I was too brave and frivolous with my life, that one day, I'd get myself into a situation I couldn't bitch my way out of. Well Tyler, I've always proven you wrong, love. Christina Walker is untouchable.

With my notebook and gel pens in tow, I exited my car into a foul sauna. It seems no matter how long a port-o-john goes unused, it will always smell like death warmed over. I quickly sped past the odiferous vapors in attempt to keep the rest of my nose hairs. The back of the building looked much like the front, a ghost of its former glory. I'm sure at one point in time Willow's Cotton Mill was a beacon of turn of the century industrialist economy. Now, it was home only to dust mites, spiders, stale silence, and a small girl just trying to write her magnum opus of horror.

I walked the length of the building, feeling its cracks and examining the ivy climbing its way towards heaven. Finally, I found my way to a door hanging sideways, half off its hinges. A breeze swirled beneath my skirt and through the door, pushing it open just enough to imply a formal invitation. Of course, I had to humbly accept.

As if by fate, I had stumbled upon the most exquisite writer's nook, a former manager's office with a slightly molded desk and a chair with only three legs. The fourth was there, but lying defeated to the right, almost like a used up match stick with nothing left to ignite. I sighed, scanning the room for another form of seating. My eyes landed on a stack of crates that for the most part looked sturdy. I carried them to the desk and plopped them down, making dust dance into the air, fracturing the little light there was in the room. I inhaled too deeply and fell into a coughing fit. I tried to catch my breath but found only dust. I fell into the desk and then simply, fell through. I hit the ground hard, eliciting an unfiltered "fuck" from my coffee-stained lips.

I looked up at the ceiling through the hole I had made.

"Seems the mold was more like rot," I stated into the void. The dust swallowed up my words, natural sound proofing. This place was an oasis for writing, what a gem I had found! Scenery, silence, and solitude, the trifecta of writing necessity.

My head and back ached and suddenly, the inspiration joint I had packed began to call my name.

"Christina, Christina. Smoke half now, half when you're stuck," it singsonged, and how is a girl to fight that reasoning?

I plucked it from my pocket and lit up. I wouldn't be able to write with a headache, anyway. I took a few hits before peeling myself up from the floor and collecting my journal and gel pens. I shoved the lot into the waistband of my skirt, suddenly motivated to give myself a tour of the rest of my newfound facilities.

Upon opening the door leading out to the first level of the main floor, I admit, I gasped. The entire place was too perfect for words. I was entirely convinced that Kevin Bacon would come bursting in to perform an angsty dance of teenage rebellion at any moment. Across the room, I spied another stack of crates. I decided to use a few as a make shift desk and one as a stool to sit on. I plopped my happy little tuchus on the wonderfully uncomfortable wood crate that creaked and slightly gave under my weight. My pens began to dig into my back, reminding me that they were there. I gingerly opened my journal on the crate in front of me, and tossed the pens beside it, smoking joint still between my fingers. I looked over at it, it had suddenly transformed from full joint to smoked ash.

"So much for smoke some later...." I giggled. "Oh well, more inspiration now and less time spent so far away from my fridge."

I took the last few tokes and held them until I didn't feel the wood jamming its way into my flesh through the thin fabric of my skirt. I held them until I felt like my hand was flying across the pages, crafting written images in graphite, immortalized for as long as my journal lived. The building almost spoke for itself through me. Maybe I was just beyond stoned. Either way, the writing came like lightning. I was completely entranced, now adding features to the room I was sitting in from pure imagination. I would sit for a moment with my fingers hovering over the page, giving myself a virtual tour, not of the Willow Cotton Mill, but of the Smith-Allyn Cotton Mill in my story.

I was so entranced, that for a moment, I convinced myself that the sound of tires on the gravel behind the building was just a machination of my own design. But then a car door slammed shut, and the gentle pitter patter of shoes crunching rock shocked me out of my writing stupor. Crap on a sandwich, someone else was here, no doubt the police. I was screwed. I knew I was trespassing, but I also knew I wasn't going to get caught trespassing.

In a rush, I gathered up my things and examined the room, not many options for hiding. There was, however, a flight of stairs behind me leading to the second floor of the mill, which was more or less a giant balcony overlooking the first floor, lined entirely with what I assumed were old cotton gins. What seemed like miles and miles of pulled cotton was still stuck in the machines, all cleaned of seeds with the aid of technology. I found a space between two gins that allowed for a view into the center of the floor below me. I sat, and I waited for someone to enter my line of sight. I waited for what seemed like hours. I just wanted the cop to show himself, look around haphazardly, then leave so I could book it home. My wait for a cop proved futile.

Out of thin air, a man suddenly appeared in the mill, scuttling around, carrying boxes. At least, I assumed it was a man. From this angle it was difficult to make out anything other than a vague body shape and his amorphous black suit wasn't helping.

 As soon as he appeared, he disappeared from view again. I crawled slightly out of my hiding space to get a better view of my guest. He had piqued my interest.