2018 Writing Scrapbook

The Writer

The boy had quite the imagination. He had to have one if he was to depict the world accurately. For wasn't it an artist and writer's duty to depict the world with as much wonder as possible. This gift, it gave him the ability of sight, the ability to see beyond what others saw. The boy deemed that it was the ability to see people's stories. To write them down. To see into the souls of others.

This soul-searching was quite an easy task. You took in their movements, their actions, their body language, and deciphered their personality. And he'd selected a new target.

Rather than succumbing to the boredom of relaxation on a sweaty July camping trip, he'd discovered quite an amusing sight- eight babbling college students had set up camp directly next to him, and proved to be the perfect candidates.

He opened up a notebook and jotted down his notes.

July 27th, 2013

I've previously discovered that stereotypes are not as they seem. There is no such thing as black and white, light and dark, but merely an infinite number of shades in between. But I fear I've found an exception. These figures bear a stupendously similar resemblance to the popular fiends that terrorize the high school. I will describe them each.

"Nathan?" he picked up his pen. "Nathan, are you stalking some poor people again?" Looking in the direction his head was pointed, she caught a glimpse of his subjects. Blowing a puff of smoke from her cigar, she commented, "Aw, she's cute! Don't stare at her tits too long, okay buddy?"

Erica- I've decided to replicate her story first. Long wavy brown hair, dark. Hazel eyes. Olive skin. Average height. Mother commented to not spend too long "staring" at her sizable "tits". Sweet, bubbly, talkative, but left out as a third wheel. Self-conscious and wishes to make herself into a woman worthy of surpassing her friends with a higher status.

Elton- Old-fashioned family; strict rules. Erica's boyfriend. Tall, dark hair, light squinty eyes. Treats the more timid Erica as though she is simply a toy to hang over his arm, an occasional bit of fun in bed. What Erica really needs is a person to confide in and unlock her potential.

"Are you writing about people again?" his sister asked.

"Yes."

"You know, why do you do this? Are they characters? A writing prompt?"

"No. I'm telling their stories. They deserve to be heard. To be understood."

"Oh, Nathan, you're such a sentimental dork. No wonder you don't have a girlfriend! You're writing about people you don't even know!"

"Shut up, Emily!"

He continued to write, weaving a tale about how this clique revolved around the ringleader, Bethany. The girls- The Leader, The Slut, The Fattie, The Third Wheel. The boys- The Ass, The Jock, The Alcoholic, The Cheater. None a story that he desired, but all stories that bonded them together, whether through friendship, possessiveness, or the pursuit of bettering themselves in a way only deteriorating their morals could accomplish.

Nathan watched them trifle with each other's belongings, throw hissy fits, and screaming at their boyfriends for reasons too little to comprehend. And so he scrawled:

They are shallow, too shallow to have any real meaning in this world, yet they don't seem to realize it. They will either overcome this or seek bad fortunes for their remaining days.

As he wrote this, he watched Erica as she sobbed, as she ran into the river in the dead of night. She looked back before she touched the water, maybe looking back to see if Bethany or Elton were following her. Maybe she was looking back to contemplate if there was an alternative, a more logical option.

But Nathan doubted it. She was looking back on life, and she ran into the river, never giving it a second thought.

And she never came out.

My theory has proved to be correct.