Sunday, December 18, 2011

You are now in Seabrook, South Carolina.

Driving back to Seabrook brought a great sense of nostalgia. Nothing much had changed since the last time I had been there, and as I drove through the small town I felt as though time had stopped, while the rest of the world had kept moving. Pulling up to the only Inn in Seabrook, I turned off the ignition, resting my head against the steering wheel. Pulling down the sun visor, I checked myself out in the small mirror. I had been careful not to rub my eyes too hard in fear of smudging my makeup, and I dug in my purse for a bobby pin to pin back a strand of hair that had fallen out of place.

“You can do this. You’re just going to visit him, nothing more.”

I pushed the sun visor back up, and stepped out of the car. The weather was nice. It was cool, but not to the point of where I couldn’t wear a nice dress without freezing. I walked over to the admissions desk, where a lady with short light brown hair, and an over the top smile had me sign in before issuing me a key.

“Your rooms right upstairs, first door to the right. Would you like me to get someone to carry your bag to your room?”

“No thank you, I think I can manage.”

I walked to my room, my right hand carrying my bag of luggage, while my left held the room key. Arriving to the door, I turned the metal key into the lock until I heard a click. Turning the brass doorknob, the door swung open and I walked across the crème colored rug, placing the luggage on my bed before sitting on the edge of the mattress. Taking off my heels, I looked around the room. There was a bedside table with a lamp and phone on top, and a full length mirror. Standing, I examined myself once more before walking into the bathroom and running the hot water.

Dear Noah

Dear Noah,

Do you remember the first time we met? It was at that carnival. I was only seventeen and we were just a couple of kids. I noticed you staring at me from the bumper cars with Fin, and it wasn’t until we got off the ride that I realized how handsome you actually were. But that didn’t excuse your abrupt attitude with wanting to hang out with me, and I didn’t want to give into you so easily. When you pulled that stunt on the Ferris wheel I thought you were crazy, but I soon learned that you weren’t, that you were only crazy about making me yours. On that walk after the movie you made me feel as though I was alive for once and as we laid on the street beneath the street lights, watching them change from red to green to yellow, I didn’t have a care in the world. It didn’t matter that I had a French lesson in the morning, because never before had I ever been so carefree with someone. Mama believed you were trouble from the beginning, and she was right. I blamed you for when I couldn’t sleep at night because thoughts of you consumed every inch of my brain, and when my mother scolded me for not paying attention when she was talking to me, or for staying out all night. You were trouble Noah Calhoun, from the first day I met you

The worst thing mama ever did was keep those letters from me, and I’m sorry that she did that Noah. I know that if I had read them I wouldn’t have given Lon a chance and that I wouldn’t have cried myself to sleep for months. They say that distance makes the heart grow stronger and I think they’re right, whoever they are. I knew I was asking for trouble the day I came back to Seabrook to see you. Even after all those years, as I stood in front of you I had to hold onto the car door in order to keep myself from falling. It didn’t help though, because I did fall, I fell back in love with you in every way possible. Or maybe, I just never stopped loving you. I know you think I’ve given up on you because I didn’t immediately tell you that I’d leave Lon, but I couldn’t do that without telling him first. I do love him Noah, and I already know that I should be with him and that’s the problem. I’ll love you forever; please don’t hate me too much.



Leaving Seabrook.

After leaving Seabrook that day I hoped Fin would give Noah my message, and that he would find a way to write to me. The car ride home was silent, my father’s usual humming replaced by the sound of tires running over loose gravel. His warm smile that usually met mine as we harmonized to songs we had danced to when I was a child disappeared, and each time he glanced back at me from his rearview mirror I sank farther down in my seat. Neither one of us spoke a word, my mother’s lips pursed until the next time we stopped for gas and she had to ask me if I needed to use the restroom; a question in which I always replied no to. With nothing but the scenery to distract me, I was left with the constant goodbye I had told Fin to tell you, the words running over and over in my head, as if they were a broken record. After the fight we had the previous night, I was hoping to see you face to face the next morning. As I saw you pull away that night, my head was rushing a mile a minute, and yet, as hurt and angry as I was, all I wanted was for you to come back. I wanted your mouth against mine the way it had been earlier that night as we laid on the floor of that broken down house you planned to own, trembling with excitement and fear at the same time. Closing my eyes, I laid my head against the back seat, trying my best to remember all of the good before it had suddenly turned to bad. With the silence of my two parents, I began to fall asleep, the seat belt pressing into my neck the only thing that reminded me of reality.

You don't know anything about love.

Tears sprung from my eyes and stained my cheeks as I stood in my father’s office next to my mother. My father sat in his leather chair, a cigar placed in the middle of his desk, the ash tray full. I had inherited my mother’s beauty, her high cheek bones and slender, well- proportioned body attracting any man in town, especially ones of wealth and charm. My makeup had begun to run and I wiped my red and runny nose against my hand, my eyes stinging in anger. My tongue lashed words that I quickly wished I could take back, my head pounding from the screaming shared amongst my parents and me. A large clump formed in my throat, as if I had swallowed an apple whole, and I tried my hardest to suppress another sob or keep my voice from cracking. Salty tears stung my chapped lips, and my mother’s stern look blurred beyond recognition. I wanted nothing more than to fight back. I wanted to yell and scream and tell them that they couldn’t tell me who to love; that yes, I loved him, that I loved Noah with my entire heart. But my mouth trembled and I couldn’t speak; my mother’s relentless voice repeating that I was never allowed to see him again. Angry and heartbroken I pushed pass my father who had stood up amongst the chaos. Flinging open the heavy double doors to the foyer, I scanned the empty room for Noah, panicking as my red and puffy eyes saw no sight of him. My blonde curls bounced against the side of my face as I shook my head back and forth, my heart sinking at the sound of the next set of doors closing behind him.

It was the same way I felt now as I sat on the bed across from Lon in the only Inn at Seabrook, prepared to tell him that as much as I loved him, I would always love Noah more.

Follow the white arrows.

It was a Sunday morning, and I woke to the chirping of birds and the faint smell of coffee. A stream of light found its way through the curtains, resting upon my hand. For a moment I didn’t know where I was. My eyes focused on an unfamiliar dresser and bed post, and I called out for Lon, my voice echoing down the hall. No one answered, and it wasn’t until I glanced out the window that I realized I was at Noah’s. My memory reminded me of the previous night; our clothes that were once drenched sat in a pile by the door. Rising, I pulled the comforter around me, the smell of Noah’s cologne still embedded in the cotton. Looking around, I noticed a note taped to the bed frame. Written on the front was my name, his handwriting the same as it was years ago. Inside, there was an explanation as to why he wasn’t home along with directions to follow the white arrows that were placed across the hardwood floor. Dragging the comforter behind me, I quickly followed each one, my feet scurrying across the floor and at the last one I looked up to see where they had led me. In front of me was a blank canvas, held by an easel. My smile widened, and I slowly walked over to the material in front of me; my fingers moving across the black bristles of each paint brush. Pulling over a stool, I sat down remembering the first time I had shown Noah one of my paintings.
It was an activity that seemed to be the only thing that came naturally to me, my troubles and thoughts ceasing to exist as soon as the first streak of color hit the canvas. I had ridden my bike across the road leading to his house, the black tires leaving tracks across the dirt. I balanced the canvas against the bikes handlebars, trying my hardest to keep it from falling. Arriving, I pulled over to the side. Noah was sitting on a chair, an old, worn book in his hands. An older man sat across from him on a porch swing, his eyes closed as he listened to Noah’s gentle voice reciting the poetry. Noah seemed comfortable, the night growing quieter as his voice silenced the “hoo’s” of owls, and the chirping of crickets. It wasn’t long until the older man, whom I assumed was Noah’s father, noticed me. I approached them, the painting hidden behind my back. He greeted me with a strong hand and a warm smile, and I sat down as Noah offered me his chair. Pulling the canvas from behind me I explained my reason for showing up at such a late hour of the night. Noah’s father inspected the painting, and Noah gleamed as he witnessed the approval from his father for the girl he loved.

Ms. Hoffman!!!

Please don't grade me on only having two posts completed! I am working on the other five right now!

Monday, December 12, 2011

Magic Realism Post

After leaving Noah’s I couldn’t stop shaking. Out of all the arguments I’d had in my lifetime, nothing matched this one, and no matter how many times I closed my eyes to keep myself from crying I could still see him standing against the powder blue car door, his face stricken with hurt and fear. Fear of losing me all over again. I wanted nothing more than to stay with him, but I had given my word and heart to my fiancé Lon, a man in which I owed more than an explanation to. By this time I was driving, my hands gripping the steering wheel, my knuckles white. I closed my eyes again, this time trying to block out the yelling that had occurred between us. I swerved to the side of the road, the sound of a car honking fading as I sat there, my head pressed against the wheel, tears staining my cheeks. I looked at the pile of letters sitting on the passenger seat. There were 365 of them, one for every day of the year. Reaching over, I ripped one out from under the string that held them together. The envelope was crinkled, its sealed flap peeled back at the corner as if someone had gone to open the letter, but decided against it. Pushing my finger under the white seal I opened the envelope, pulling out the folded paper. Although it had been years, Noah’s handwriting was still eligible, each letter curving as they formed words that filled each line of the page. As I read the first line, I felt as though I was being sucked into the letter, rather than merely reading the words written on the paper. Suddenly I was standing behind Noah. It was nighttime, the crickets chirp the only sound proving that there was still life outside. He was sitting at a wooden desk, his right hand firmly gripping a fountain pen. He was younger than he is now, although his face showed the same weariness he wore now. His eyes were puffy, his shoulders slouched and he furrowed his brow the same way he always did when he was concentrating. Finally he let out a large sigh, one that filled the entire room, giving me goosebumps. Shaking his head, he said nothing besides one word. “Allie.”

Thursday, December 1, 2011


The summer night had started off the same as all the other evenings spent with Noah. I had memorized the path to his house, my feet walking the familiar dirt road. My hands shook as I approached the front door; the trembling caused more from excitement then from being nervous. I made a steady knock on the wood, my knuckles white from the tight fist I’d made in an attempt to control my hand. He stood there, his figure outlined by the moon light. Each strand of his blonde hair was ruffled as he ran his hand throughout it, his eyes staring at me in the dark. I could feel the blood rushing to my face, my lips turning from coral to rose. Soon his mouth was against mine, my back against the side of the house, his hand supporting my chin. They were hands that worked for a living, worn with calluses and crusted with dirt that would never come off no matter how hard you scrubbed at them with soap and warm water. His heavy breathing filled my eardrums, the rush of blood flushing my face, my heart pounding against his chest. Pulling back, he peered down at me, our anxious bodies trembling from each other’s touch; the silence of night time calming the rush and spirit of young love.