Part Three

Although this takes place later within the story, it is acctually a flashback.

"I don't think this is going to work out," Ryan whispered into Nickoli's ear. Both were seated on some halfway comfortable couch in a hotel room someone had rented for a graduation party. The words caused Nickoli to snap back to reality just as she turned her head to look into Ryan's eyes.

"What do you mean? Of course it will. We had it all planned on when I come back to visit, and when you come to see me-"

"But do you think it's fair? Do you think I should just sit back here waiting for you to come home? What if you meet someone--"

"I won't," she interjected quickly.

"You don't know that," Ryan shot back, watching as Nickoli's eyes went ablaze.

Standing quickly, Nickoli glared down at Ryan, searching for the words to say, but when she found none she turned and left. Pushing through the crowds, she waited until she was in the parking garage before she began to put the cigarette in her mouth, trying desperatly to light it.

Coming close up behind her, Ryan took the aflamed cancer stick from Nickoli's hand and threw it to the ground, violently putting it out. Spinning on her heel, Nickoli began to open her mouth to shout at the person before catching sight of who it was.

"Save me from the lecture, just this once," Nickoli pleaded coldly, holding her hand up to stop him, turning now to head for her car, the sound of her boots hitting the pavement echoing against the vast cement walls. All Nickoli wanted was a temporary escape from this argument, for when she was calm and ready. Not now, not like this.

"You can't run from your problems forever KiKi!" Ryan's voice boomed behind her. Stopping in her tracks she looked over her shoulder, she took a moment before replying.

"You can't predict everything that's going to happen," she snapped before continuing on her way, reaching her car, soon exiting that parking garage.

How Ryan beat her to her own home would forever be a mystery to Nickoli's mind. Avoiding this discussion appeared to be futile, but instead of going to the front door, Nickoli pulled into the garage, leaving him outside of her sanctuary. Nickoli was buying time, hoping that her luck would change and her seemingly now ex-boyfriend would be gone.

Ofcourse, Nickoli wasn't that lucky.

Still waiting at the door, still as cute as he seemed when he got angry, was Ryan. For however upset Nickoli may have been at him for his accusations, she admired his paitence, even if she wouldn't say it aloud. Nickoli braced her back against the wall and took deep breaths, trying to calm down, the tears lining her eyes as she opened the door, looking up at him while staying silent.

"KiKi, we need to talk about--" Ryan began, stopping when he saw the look on her face. He reached to wipe away the tear that had fallen, but Nickoli pulled away, escaping his touch. Recoiling his hand, Ryan watched as Nickoli stood there broken by his words, yet still strong enough to stand before him, tears sliding down her cheeks building up the shield she would wear for years to come. Taking in a deep breath, Ryan watched as she thought and planned how to speak to him. Nickoli always seemed to want to plan the words that would mean the most, but only in her head. Keep them locked up to herself before it was time to say them because they caused a tingle on the back of her tongue.

"No, we don't," Nickoli stated clearly, "not now at least." Taking a step aside she let Ryan in, shutting the door of both her house, and possibly her heart.

Drop a Heart, Break a Name

She listens to Fall Out Boy. She wears skirts over her jeans. She wishes he would see her, but that's just in her dreams. A sea of pink when the day called for the two colors that when mixed make green. She had spirit the other four days of the week, let her have her break, alright? She thinks of learning the Craft. She sings random things. She wishes she would say yes, but she doesn't know about her dreams. She has a faded A that once upon a time she carved into her arm. She wears converse, wondering if they make her "scene." She wishes she wasn't such a chicken, but that would require doing something. She writes in her notebook for everyone but herself. She wishes it was for something more than a grade. She daydreams of her movies, and plans everything that she wants people to say. She wishes for a better life. She wants her father to not be a dead beat. She wants her step dad to shut the fuck up.

If a dream is a wish your heart makes, what the hell does her heart want?

She dreams of death and drugs, embarrasment and humilation, of boys she wants and girls she needs, but nothing ever comes true. She's too scared to get anything she wants. She's too afraid it may not be what she really wants.

She wears rainbows. She wants to be big in the business. She wants to go to college, but doesn't want to do the work. She hates her life and loves the people in it. She dreams big, oh yes, but she does very small. Someone help her in this world.

Two Decades from Now

Looking in on my life 20 years from now, I see myself in a comfortable home. Not some huge five bedroom house you see on MTV Cribs by any means, but a nice, 3 bedroom, 2 bath with the signifigant other of my dreams (sometimes I see a man, other times a woman) and two children, living our average life, except for the fact that every once and a while someone recognizes me- A.M. White as I'll be known, some will grow to just call me A.M.- and I politely sign their books and let them go on their merry way.

How did I meet my better half you ask? How could two people you wouldn't think of together end up living together (and hopefully married if law permits)? In college, sophomore year when I'm allowed to go out of state and explore who I truely wish to be. It could have been in a class, or library, but most likely a party where we hit it off, having fun of sorts. Their goal in life providing a more secure income and lifestyle, but definantly no plain jane 9 to 5 desk job that everyone dreads, oh no. They admire me for my big dreams and creativity, not to mention those moments where you question if I'm a natural blonde.

So hear we are, in our adult life, the first child born soon after we got out of college and married (again I say hopefully), the second child, although adopted, means as much as the biological in our hearts. They're able to brag at school about how their mother wrote this movie and that book, people will not believe them until they see me come to get them, trying to focus on the road while keeping the idea I was working on flowing in my mind.

My first few films were indie, and very low budget. Made more for the fun of it than for the money. Everytime I watch them I'll think "she should have done this, he should have said that, this should have been longer, I should have been more vague," but I'll still love them, all like babies, keeping them organized, blushing when my mother gushes about my talent. My first major feature film will be based on one of my books, drawing more people in that way.

I won't care how good or bad it does, just to see it in the theatre, knowing that somebody somewhere enjoyed it. That is when I will care. I would love to win an Oscar for my writing, but I don't need some statuette of a naked man to validate everything my life is based around. I write because I like it. My way of life is doing what I love, and what I love is my family and my life. Sure there are times where there is a deadline I have to meet, so I close myself off and get to work, but there will also be times where it's out of my hands, so I have time to take care of the ones I love.

So now, as I take a step back from my life two decades from now, I can conclude that I will be a happy writer, but even more so, a happy mother.

Too Little, Too Late

As I walk into that old building
the memories flood me
of simpler times,
of tears I cried,
of smiles and laughs and pride.
As I walk into that building I see
everything is smaller now,
everything is real.
Memories of her on the tables,
photoes and binders and such.
My eyes grazed over them,
my hands too nervous to touch.
I entered that dark theatre
at the door next to the chair.
My heart skipped a beat,
I almost thought she was there.
I knew she wouldn't be,
I knew I was wrong.
That was why I was there,
that was because she was gone.
Now my turn for the microphone,
and I go up there to speak.
Oh crap I'm chewing bubblegum,
Oh shit, I'm too nervous to speak.
I tell my tale, I go sit down,
Carolyn Munn, I loved you.
I will never let you down.
As I walk out of that old building,
I walk out with a sad smile.
She was there to help me
she was there to love us all.
Even if we can't hug her,
no matter how hard we cry
That love, that bond
will hold us forever strong.
Her love will never die.
Life will be harder now,
and I'm glad I was able to speak.
I didn't even know her that long,
but she'll stay with me for an eternity.
As I write these words on this paper
I think back to these times
and I can't shake the feeling
that Miss Munn will be back.

Part 2

This portion takes place a bit later in the story.


The sound of someone running down the hall woke both from their seperate dreams. Nickoli wiped her eyes and sighed heavily, forcing her eyes shut to have another glimps at her cruel mind.

Ryan was still inside his room, seated on the floor, staring at the door handle, trying to clear his mind of what he had just imagined. It felt so real, he was almost scared by his imagination.

At the sudden thought of it, Nickoli turned and opened the door, feeling the urge, wondering if there was a reason to let herself think that way. Standing across the hall with that same lost, curious, wanting look on his face was Ryan.

Taking the fact that he wasn't just standing there staring at a hotel room door, but at Nickoli as a good sign, Ryan found the courage to walk a little further, standing in the middle of the hallway, waiting for Nickoli to meet him there.

Leaving the safety of the room and her tears, Nickoli slowly met Ryan, her mind in too much of shock to consider what she was doing. Hesitation filled the air as she debated on reaching for his hand, fearing it would lead to a less worthwhile version of the dream she had unknowingly shared with the man before her.

AP English Lit, and how I hate it

One thing that always seems to come up in AP is the question "Why did the author write this?" as if writers have some big philisophical plan on what they're going to write so then highschool and college students can study it. I can personally say that when I am writing, that thought doesn't come close to my head. I don't write because I want it to have some big prophetic meaning about life or something, I write because the mood strikes me, or because I see something I think I can do better. It bugs me to no end when I am asked "Why did the writer write this" because it doesn't seem likely that someone would sit down and say "I'm going to write a book about how this personality trait can affect everybody" I see it more as they sit down and think "What kind of story do I want to write? Who do I want in it? Where should it happen?" and let it go from there. My greatest desire is to write a story that started from something so random you would never think it was something that would be studied in a class and then find out it is, but when it is, and the teacher asks "Why did the writer write this?" for a student to raise their hand and say "Because she just felt like writing about that character. No more, no less"

Plot

When I think about plot, I don't like it to be right there in your face screaming "THIS IS WHAT IS GOING TO HAPPEN", but I certainly don't want some weak little slip of a plot that's barely holding anything together. I think the art of writing is knowing how to have a strong plot that doesn't completely murder your characters as people. Make the person and their life shine through, and the plot be the Tinkerbell guiding them to the outcome of them all without distracting you.

Having an "implied" plot makes the audience a part of the story. Let them guess for a bit on what is happening/has happened and then reveal at the end the truth of it all (or hell let the audience think what they want while you know the truth) so then they have to work at finding the plot. Letting the plot be so easily seen can lead to a boring story that just won't interest people.


When I write, I don't focus on plot. My usual thoughts when I'm beginning to work on a story is "who do I want in this" not "what do I want to happen." Plot for me always seems to be a second thought, letting it happen as I bring my characters and their problems into it. Like with "Sick Satisfaction" all I knew was that I wanted this argument right at the beginning. I didn't know it as going to end the way it did, or that Jayson would become so violent or so far in denial. I just started with the first line, knowing that was the driving force of the story.

Now with plot comes the whole first person or third person ordeal. I tend to use both, depending on how I want things to go. If I haven't gone through it, and have no idea on how I personally would feel, I go with third person, so I can obseve the characters and what they do, watch as they do right and wrong and cause their lives to be destroyed or become the best thing ever. I opt for first person for things like this, when I'm asked to write on a topic dealing with me. When it's my opinion or my methods, how am I supposed to explain it as if it is some other person going through it? They're my thoughts and my ideas, purely of my own for the most part with a dash of some inspiration from the outside world, because you can't form an opinion or a story, or anything really without some knowledge from the outside.