Shirley

      A sizzling anger settles down on top of her frowning upper lip. As she opens it to shriek more indignities at me, I try to make sense of the incoherent mumbles spewing from her mouth. Shirley’s rage varies from time to time and usually it comes out in frightening bursts. Nonetheless, even with her unpredictable behavior, I still put up with her because she’s the only one I have left.

            A default of mine has always been blindly pursuing impossibilities. My stubborn streak used to be looked on as “cute” by my parents, but that changed over time. Everyone left the moment I announced my affinity with literature, and the dedication I would put into creating a writing career. Eventually, I was forcibly removed from my own home and told to,” get my filthy charcoal hands and write a damn novella elsewhere.” That was when I met Shirley.

            Man, Shirley sure was something else. Our bonds never turned romantic but she did end up becoming a best friend and the only maternal figure in my life. She was, in her own words, a publisher and editor seeking for the next extraordinary American writer to turn her rich and get her out of this stinkin’ poverty. Yet, through out these lonely December days, she was the only one to stand by me while I moaned and wrote out my first novel. Towards the middle however, we seemed to hit a dead end with the book.

“I’m trying to tell you Nick,” She grounded out my name like it was a disease, “All the work we’ve put in these last few months is going to end up in the dumpster if you keep delaying the main character’s goal. God, I can’t even remember what the guy was suppose to be doing with all these side characters you keep introducing. And what have you been doing? Sitting on the couch and watching cartoons all day. You need to stop freaking procrasti-“

            “Stop it,” I raised a palm up,” Shirley, I have to ask what exactly do you even know about writing? You’re just a publisher trying to mooch me off for some money. Another thing, don’t you even dare accuse me of being lazy, I know what I’m doing and-“

“I’M JUST TRYING TO HELP!” She screeched the words out and grabbed her scarf. Before reaching the door, she gave me one last look, as if she were waiting for me to stop her. But we were never lovers in the first place, so what obligated me to chase after her? She’s stressed time after time, her independence and self-reliability.

The door slams and the sound leaves a cold feeling in my stomach. There’s a thousand questions left unanswered as I struggle for sleep at night. Why do I still care about where Shirley has gone? Why do her words still repeat in my head now? All this time I assumed there were no real feelings between us with Shirley denying any lovey-dovey relationship and my own self- assurance of friendship. For a minute, a desire to run to the airport and find her overcomes me. The thing is though, I don’t chase, not ever for her or anybody else. Besides Shirley would nag about me oppressing her desire for freedom or some crazy stuff like that. It’s better just to wait and see what happens.

The next morning, it snows and I trudge my two defeated feet all the way to across the street. There, I recognize the blue of Shirley’s SUV toppled over another car. People passing by shake their heads sorrowfully and I realized that she’s dead.

The whole way home I’m sobbing and getting stares from random people. The snowy scenery probably looks beautiful right now but all I can think about is Shirley with her green, glowing eyes and her plump, long body. While the world is blurring, I feel so lost and I run home, expecting to see Shirley there in an apron, cooking spaghetti or whatever, but no one’s home. Because I have no one now, no one to cook food when I get home or help me write that stupid book.

You need to stop procrastinating

A feeling of determination suddenly floods my stomach. Gathering any courage that I had left after being so bluntly isolated from my family, I pick up a pen and write. Through each stroke, I imagine Shirley standing over me and commenting on every faulty part of the story. I get rid of the useless characters I used in the beginning to prolong the story and get to the climax. When I finish, I decide to add one last line.