An Awfully Big Adventure

Hour Eight: Spontaneity

8. Write a chapter where your character randomly bursts into song.

According to Chip’s GPS, they have entered Anaheim. It seems as though Chip has been planning the excursion for quite some time, because he seems to have every possible item necessary for the trip.

Currently, they are stopped in front of a Walmart, planning on what to do next. It’s 4 A.M. and the air outside is a little too chilly to be comfortable. The strings on Wendy’s hoodie swing back and forth with the breeze, and she can feel the wind drying up her contacts. She has to blink several times to secure their placement and also to remind herself not to fall asleep standing up.

She can’t remember the last time she was this tired. At first, she was afraid that she would have difficulties sleeping in Dale’s cramped car-- they are too poor to afford even the cheapest motel with Disneyland emptying their funds-- but now, she feels so exhausted that she could topple over at any given moment.

Her hair flies across her face following the course of the wind. She frowns a little bit, because this is not a Disney movie, and her hair will inevitably tangle with even the slightest touch of the elements. How anybody can look super hot with hair billowing in the wind is beyond her. It is safe to say that she had not inherited whatever gene is necessary for forever flawless hair.

It’s cold and her thoughts are having troubles surfacing. The inky blackness of night make her feel like she is drowning, and she doesn’t know how much longer it will be before she drifts into the subconscious. She figures she better make it back into the car before she passes out on the cold, hard ground.

She pulls open the door to the back seat. She had agreed to stay back there, because her legs are far from lanky, and God knows that Chip needs a seat that reclines. Picturing him scrunched up in the back of the car is laughable. He might even find it more comfortable in the trunk. And it’s Dale’s car, so Dale deserves to be comfortable. Right now, it doesn’t even matter at all, because she could sleep anywhere.

Apparently, Chip is as worn out as she is, because his seat is already fully reclined. His eyes are closed, and his breathing comes out in long, hushed, exhales. His eyelashes are splayed across his cheekbones and his hands lie on top of his abdomen.

He is such a beautiful creature, and now he appears unstrung. Relaxed, not panicked, and quiet in a gorgeous sense.

She still wants to take a picture, but her energy is nearly shot, and to awaken him a second time with the flash would be rude beyond measure.

He stirs a little bit when the cool night air fills the car, and his hair flutters into a disarray of angles. Wendy makes sure to shut the door as quietly as possible, but she finds that her body is lacking the strength to even manage to slam the door. Odd, because she’s fairly experienced in door-slamming. It is why she is here in the first place.

Dale gives Wendy a nod and begins to position his seat. Even with both seats reclined, Wendy finds that she can still wriggle her way under their seats. With the back of Dale’s chair hovering above her face, she is glad she is not claustrophobic. There isn’t much wiggle room, and even turning slightly causes her to bump into object in front of her.

Sleep is paralyzing, and Wendy doesn’t even feel the need to move at all.

“Good night,” she whispers to Dale, who is practically lying on top of her, and she doesn’t know how she feels about that.

Her words linger in the air before Dale responds, “Night.” By then, her eyelids have grown ever so heavy, and she can feel herself slipping away. But it’s nice to think that Dale’s voice is the last sound she will hear for the rest of the night.

Dale wouldn’t mind if Wendy’s voice is the last thing that he heard either, but he has never been quick to fall asleep, and right now succumbing to darkness seems ages away. He is miles away from home and his thoughts are even outrunning his physical presence. Though he is at a standstill, his brainwork continues to pace around, agitated in the cramped environment of his being.

And so it goes, him lying on his back, counting sheep and the steady breathing of his companions. In the car and in the world, all is quiet and all is at rest, except for the vibrations of the awakened soul inside of him. They are so still, and he wonders why he is so agitated and how they can possibly be so peaceful. But he dare not disturb them.

Insomnia sucks. He can’t help but feel that Princess Aurora got it off easy. If only he could fall asleep at the prick of a finger. For it isn’t that he doesn’t want to sleep, or that he isn’t exhausted, but it is because he cannot seem to settle down for more than a few seconds.

This makes him agitated, for he is a prisoner to this blurry, awakened state. His eyes yearn for rest, and he can feel his brain beginning to burn out- his body itching for a couple winks of sleep. But then, he can feel his fingers tingling, and his mind starts to scratch around in similar fashion. He knows that if sleep was difficult to achieve a few minutes ago, now it borders on impossible.

There is a pent-up beast inside him, dying to be released, and he thinks that maybe once he is relieved of the horrific creature, he will at last be able to relax. His notebook is tucked into a nook, meant for those “vintage” objects known as maps, on the car door, and a pen is stuck in the cup holder nearest to him, and so he begins to write.

It is all very stream of conscious, because he is unsure of where is thoughts will wonder. But words continue to pour out of the pen with the intention of perfectly implementing into his work in progress. His mind is so fuzzy at the moment that he can’t even accurately determine the clarity of his sentences much less whether or not they are worthy of being deemed a masterpiece.

He writes until his mind is numb, when he has finally run out of thoughts to think and words to write. It is peaceful, the unearthly, surreal quiet pulsing rhythmically in his now-emptied head. Dale clicks the pen once, and puts it down beside him, breathing heavy with the rapid fire scribbling of words.

Something within him has been liberated, and he is drawn away from this bubble of spurted creativity and resides back into the physical world. He becomes aware that Chip is mumbling something beside him, and he know he should try to tune it out- return back to the flow of words that had been spouting out of his fingertips- but he is nearing exhaustion and he can feel the temporary traces of inspiration drying up in the wells of his mind. Dale is afraid that he will be prying into Chip’s privacy, but all is quiet, so any noise seems to magnify in the silence; he can’t help but catch the words coming out of his mouth.

“-pite my evil look. And my temper. And my hook.” It takes a while for the words to process and ring bells in the rusting hunk of grey matter creaking around in Dale’s head, but eventually he places the words. Lyrics from none other than Disney’s Tangled.

“I’ve always yearned to be a concert pianist.” Now that Dale is able to predict the upcoming words, Chip’s muffled speech becomes even more coherent. Though he is not singing, his voice still holds a melodic edge to it, and even when Chip himself is not aware of his sleep-talking, Dale finds it oddly calming. The spirits inside of him dwindle to a rest inside of him. If he is not so tired, than he probably would quietly hum alongside him, but now, his brain frazzled and deep-fried, all he can manage is a small smile as he lies back down in the car seat.

The quiet murmurings of dominant dreams serve as a lullaby, the exact words necessary to coax sleep upon a restless soul. The three of them snooze on, united in a dreamland.

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I'm sorry that this is the shortest chapter thus far. Also, do you think I'm laying on Chip's good looks too strongly? Because, at first I felt like it was natural for a girl to comment on the nice features of the male specimen (lol) but she's supposed to like Dale, and I'm not sure if that's getting across. (I, personally, really really really like Chip. A lot. So my bias might be coming across in my writing...)

Dedicated to Katia, because her username is appropriate.