This is a quick story I wrote on the intrigue of writing.

Note: This was transplanted from the blog here for sake having something here.

There have been several attempts at developing stories of wonder and tragedy throughout my life. At first, the stories were variations on the fictions I would consume in the popular media. Kids entering a haunted house only to be butchered. A magical cave of knowledge and life, lions and serpents. Lover’s love among a jarring apocalypse. These are only the stories that I remember. Then, in short, life came along to shake things up. Looking back, the original characters were things that only a child could enthusiastically conceive of – ideal or demonic caricatures of good and evil. But now, things are different.

So what should writing be for me? What kind of material suits me? I think the answer to this is simple. Let’s just do it , and see.

On a bright, sunny afternoon, Carla waltzed into the foyer of The Ritz-Carlton with the pomp of a queen and the grace of a dancer. The moment she strode in the door, she flushed with pride as she felt a dozen eyes turn and gaze her way. Chin up, well rested and heart pumping with excitement, she positively glowed. She wore a meridian blue jumper, caked in mud with leaves still clinging on – the sign of a good night’s sleep. Atop her frayed, wild hair perched a new-looking black beret from which a bright store orange tag still hung. She beamed at the concierge, flirted with the doorman, and gave the receptionist her brightest, most ravishing smile – reciprocated with deadpan glares of course – and rapped her nails on the counter. Finally, she slyly declared: “I’m here to see about my husband, he lives in the penthouse unit. Would you please call and let him know Carla’s finally back!”.

Eyes glazed and lips pursed, the receptionist felt a twinge of pain. Whether it was embarrassment on her behalf or the smell of dried vomit emanating from her tattered person, she could not tell. She had seen this before. Since reason was off the table, the only reasonable thing to do was stall and call for help – which the doorman had done as soon as she strode in. Soon it would be all over, but for now, the game was still on.

“Alright, we’ll be with you in a moment”, she said, and dialed her manager to let him know the crazy lady with the dead husband was back. She was familiar with her case, as it was all anyone could talk about during break that first time Carla rode into town on the reins of her insanity. She hadn’t been evicted yet, and was still clothed in acceptable attire. When she asked to see her husband, it made sense to call and see about a Mr. Lee. She remembered how she had blankly gazed at her when she was told that there was no Mr. Lee, and repeated her question as if she was not capable of receiving her words. How she shrieked and cried in anger when she was told to leave the premises, and how she finally collapsed, the weight of truth too much to bear.

I want to live with love of three things: truth, people, and living. The breadth and depth of these ideas are almost inconceivable, but stories can aid in highlighting certain aspects of these themes. The above short story is about illusion. It is the antithesis of truth, and understanding it may allow a deeper understanding of truth itself.

They’ve developed a process for dealing with these sorts of crazies. The technical term of it is the “Jerusalem Syndrome”. It was a common event for religious individuals of a wide array to turn up in Jerusalem for their religious pilgrimage, only somehow to end up at a street corner, preaching the gospel and convinced that they were in fact, a Messiah of the Lord. Like clockwork, the local hospital would usher them into an ambulance, and trained specialists would see to a return of their sanity. People still speculate about the underlying reasons. Some think it is the weight of disillusionment – the city of God turning out to be just like any other ordinary city. Speculation runs rife when it comes to the root diagnosis of this kind of delusion.

None of that mattered to Ashley as she grimaced and cringed as she tried to make small talk.

“How’re the kids?”, she asked.

“Oh, they’re fantastic. Emily is growing up to be such a beautiful young girl, and Jason’s still learning how to count.”, she replied, “They’re right behind me in fact, they can’t wait to see their father either!”.

No aspect of her story made sense to Ashley, but she went with it.

“How about work?”

“Oh, same old. Cosmetics hasn’t changed since the times of Cleopatra” Carla replied. Ashley decided to flash her a smile – meaningless facade of a gesture, but perhaps better than nothing. She looked her in the eyes and gave a little smirk, but then she stiffened. In her eyes, there wasn’t the same oblivious glazed look that she had the first time she walked through those doors. This time her eyes were aware and, damp, and Ashley recognized this look. Immediately Carla’s brow furrowed as she saw the look of recognition on her face and she looked down. She mumbled something incoherent as she shuffled away from the desk out the door into the blazing heat of July.

This is an interesting topic - the clash of illusion with reality, and the appeal of either under a person’s given circumstances. Here there was no character exploration, no connection nor insight into their motives. But, it’s a start.