|The Quiet One (standard:horror, 2771 words)|
|Author: Chrysalis||Added: Sep 17 2000||Views/Reads: 2809/1331||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|Are you ever intrigued by someone who seems as if they exist only on the edge of reality..Dont you ever wonder..about the quiet ones?|
You know, I don't really know where she came from. The rest of us in the creative writing class were a loosely knit group. Most of us were acquainted from other classes at the college and we knew each other fairly well. At least as far as stuff like..where we were from..dating , married or single..gay or straight..etcetera. She was a bit of a mystery. Not a very interesting one, mind you, but a mystery nonetheless. But she was so..bland looking, it was easy for her to fade into the blond woodwork of the tables and chairs and the few selections of desks strewn about the room. I mean, her hair was..kind of a vague blonde color...Tan. Or beige maybe. Blended well with her washout skin tones and her pale lips. I couldn't tell you what color her eyes were. The few times I glanced at her, her eyes were either downcast, her chin tipped awkwardly in her narrow palm..or rivetted unblinking on the professor. But her eyelid color was a pinkish grey. I know that well enough. She never talked much but that didn't surprise me. People like her..the quiet ones..never say much. I always wonder how people like her end up in classes like creative writing and drama and such. The others of us..well, it's not that we're so special or anything, but we're pretty confident. Cocky. We all sit around patting each other and ourselves on the back for being so gifted and so smart and so talented. There's one in particular in this class. Karl Middendorf. He's a real piece of work. Personally, I don't really care for him..or his style. But he does have a way of..convincing you of his superiority. He's the literary king of our group. He's not afraid to let anyone of us know it. I spend alot of time rolling my eyes and guffawing over his overblown comments and terrible jokes and the way he rips up other people's pieces. We spend part of the class each week sitting around in a loose circle of chairs and the prof reads various stories or poems we've turned in and we critique them. Karl always sits with his long legs spread, one foot lolling out to the side in his loafers if he comes from his financing job, or his reeboks otherwise. He folds his arms over his slumped chest, his head tipped to the opposite side of his sardonic lopsided grin. I sometimes find myself tracing the pattern of the fluorescent lights on his glossy brown hair if I get bored and my mind wanders. Which it does alot. Which is probably why I noticed the quiet girl so much. You know, it's odd. I can't even think of her name. It was...hmmm...like her, it was so innocuous, not even the syllables of her name stands out in my mind. Cindy or Sandy. Something like that. Anyway, during these readings that the prof did, i could always tell which ones were hers because the tips of her ears blushed. Just there. Not her face or anywhere else. She'd sit there gripping her hands tight in her lap over thin legs, all of her barely discernable from the light wood chair and the light toast carpetting except for two twin glowing red bits on either side of her head. I seem to recall that alot of what she wrote was pretty good. In a..well..a bland, prosy sort of way. Her images seemed vague though. I always had a sense that I never quite knew what she was talking about what with her penchant for ghosts and mists and vampires and the like. And she never seemed to quite finish her thoughts. All her pieces and stories seemed like long fragments of dreams and images. With no distinct begining or end. At the end of every story,..I'd retain a few blurry images in my mind that she'd created..but I'd totally forget what the point of the story had been. I wonder now if she'd done that on purpose. Like any truly good writer. Karl, now..dear God..Karl just loved tossing his opinions about like candy at Mardi Gras. He loved nothing more than to bite into someone's fragile little story..offered up the way it was by the prof like a dainty dish and sink his large chops into it and shake it about like some big dog with a chew toy. Most of us could take it pretty well.We all knew how Karl was. And to tell the truth, though he didn't always do it in a ..well..a diplomatic fashion shall we say..most of the time he was pretty well on the mark. He truly was talented. His writing was very good. But so was his criticism. He knew his shit. He just didn't know how to deliver it with roses. He liked nothing more than to really piss one of us off with his Click here to read the rest of this story (189 more lines)
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