a writing portfolio
[short story writing 271]
there's a jar of blue pearls on the table. and next to it, some string.
nimble fingers pick them up, and one by one joins them in painful matrimony.
when she is finished, she hangs it around her neck; a...
prompt cue: Imagine the fifty-year-old you. What would you say to yourself at 20/21?
They had told her if the government got their hands on it, they'd all be executed.
They had said that even if they could smuggle it out, it could get lost in a sea of space debris and interdimensional trash.
But what if it makes a difference?
So, she took a deep breath, smoothened the old, blue tinted paper, and in wobbly, scrawling letters—began to write.
Dear Fishy-squishy,
If you're reading this; everything went according to plan. I don't have much paper, much ink, or much time—so I'll be quick. It's the year 2050—yes, I am writing to you at the depressing age of fifty. Well, not too depressing. It does have its moments of glory. Why am I writing, you wonder? I write to you in hopes of changing our life. You see, there were three irrevocable decisions that I made at your age that have made my life miserable. However, I cannot tell you all the facts. What I am doing is illegal, and my identity and what I've done must be kept secret. But please, help me. For you are the only one who can.
In a year, you will meet someone. And with him, you will fall in love—for the first time in your life. After being thoroughly soaked in bliss; he will ask you to marry him. Do not marry this man. You will want to; desperately. He will seem like a beautiful enigma, one of those mysteries you will want to get to the bottom of. But you are in the eye of the hurricane—and his swirling dark winds will crush you beneath them. He will leave you in an oblivion that will span centuries. He is a liar; and when he drowns, he will drag you and hold you down with him. You know what? Just, stay away from him. I will be violating thirty different statutes by giving you a description of him (and contrary to what people believe I am not a criminal) but I will tell you this. He loves blackcurrant jam. Stay away from blackcurrant man, Fishy. He will drag you to Hell. And to answer that lingering question that you are probably thinking of now; yes. You will find someone else. And he won't be like blackcurrant man; he's the total opposite. You may think you want a Heathcliff, but you need a Hareton. A Newt Scamander, if you will. And together you will be, "a cosmic disaster in the making"—his words not mine.
On to the next item on the agenda. A few months from now, you will once again attempt a fad diet—wanting to desperately lose weight. Since time and paper are of the essence—let me be frank. You will fail. You will fail and you will try again—and again and again. And you will keep failing until the wizened age of fifty. Worst of all, it will take a toll on your mental health—something that is extremely precious. Some days, I still fight for sanity. I cannot stress this enough; just eat healthy and exercise lightly. Don't try to mold yourself into a torso that your bones themselves will struggle to hold. Don't try to slice your best parts away thinking it will help. At twenty, your mind was a terrifying place. Don't let those whispers win. They're just whispers, Fishy. Don't go handing them a megaphone. And all those friends that barely talk to you until they need you? Those albatrosses that hang around your neck; guilting you into destroying yourself for them? Cut. Them. Off. The ones who are worth it will stick by your side—you'll know who they are. It will be better for you and your mental health. And trust me, in the year 2050 you'll need to have your head screwed on right. You are smart, capable and beautiful (yes, beautiful. See paragraph two for proof)—don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Even yourself—scratch that—especially yourself.
My last piece of advice to you is the most important one. It is the one you must heed with utmost precision. Utmost caution. One the eve of the year 2025 you will receive a publishing offer. It doesn't pay much, and the firm isn't very reputed. You need to take it. I didn't; I like you believed my writing wasn't good enough. Who would want to listen to the ramblings of a twenty -year-old nobody? It was one of the biggest mistakes of my life. You are worth it. And that little startup company is now a massive conglomerate, and all publishing firms bow down to it in irrepressible respect. But that is not why I want you to take it. I need you to take it because it will jump start something amazing—something so insane that you wouldn't believe me even if I told you. All your dreams aren't fantasies, Fish. There so close you can almost touch them.
Please, these be extremely small, insignificant choices. And you may think that these difficult decisions—yes, they will be difficult—will not affect anyone but yourself. The things you believe are important are really not. The important ones are—like Hemmingway's iceberg theory—the ones that hide beneath the surface. Your dreams; make them come true.
I know you probably have a lot of questions that I can never possibly answer. But that's life isn't it? Full of beautiful mysteries and erosive pain. Every time you find it difficult though; remember me. I am right there—in front of you—waiting for you to come to me. You are not small; you are not insignificant and your decisions affect millions. Trust me, in 2050 you are a pretty big deal (why do you think I used codenames?). Well, not in the way we want to be, but I trust you to correct that. The fate of the world depends on you, Fish. No pressure though.
All my love, Fishy-Squishy 2050
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