This section is for my fragmented writing pieces or short stories that I think are my best writing scribbles.
1. Fragmented Dream
“Ice cream you scream we all scream for ice cream.” That is the sound you hear by little children in the streets while they chased down an ice cream truck playing its happy tune.
The ice cream truck slows down and stops for the little children. The ice cream man puts it in park, goes into the back of the truck, and he rolls up the truck window. The children line up to get their fudge bars, drumsticks, ice cream sandwiches, and rocket popsicles. Each child either holds a few dollars, spare change, or some quarters from their piggy banks waiting for a taste of a frosty treat of summer.
The summer heat was so bad you could fry an egg on the sidewalk and probably a side of bacon too. But, humans do exaggerate stories from time to time…even little children. You could see the little children licking their lips as the money was exchanged for a cold, creamy, sugary treat. Personally, I hated ice cream ever since it was invented, but that’s another story for a different time.
The year is 1972, in the Midwest somewhere I believe. I sometimes lose track of where I am or where I’ve been. I hate the heat as well and I would rather be in Alaska, Russia, or the arctic somewhere if I had my way. I could survive the weather there, but nourishment might become more unobtainable if I go somewhere where humans can’t thrive.
I can feel my stomach growl softly and pangs of hunger threatened to tear right through my belly. I had to find something to shut it up. Anything will do. I looked around the street and there is nothing but nice houses and white picket fences. If you ask me everything was too damn perfect…an OCD person’s heavenly dream I suppose. I must be in a suburban area where all the women are perfect little house wives named Debbie. They bake, cook, do the laundry, and raise the children. They never ask for anything more and think their little life is perfect while living the American dream. Meanwhile the husband ain’t so perfect and is having affair with the neighbor’s wife…or some crap like that. Am I ranting and babbling again? I do that sometimes. Get used to it. My point being is that nothing is ever as it seems and if it seems too perfect you should try on a pair of different glasses. You know instead of the rosy colored ones.
I looked towards the children and slowly wet my lower lip with my tongue. My body slowly moved in calculated strides towards what I now deemed as my prey, or what you would call…breakfast.
One morning I decided to sit in a small café down the street from my job. I had just graduated from high school and got my first job as a hostess at a fancy Italian restaurant. My birthday is next month and I will be turning nineteen. I met a guy at work. He asked me out. He is our delivery boy. I never really talked to him before, but I decided to give it a shot and got out with him.
I am not the type of girl that was popular in high school. I am just a plain and simple shy girl. No, I am not a geek, a goth, or a jock. I am just me and I hate labels and stereotypes. The boy that finally got the nerve to ask me out is a junior in college. I cannot wait to start college in the fall. I got one of those artsy scholarships to a fancy art school that is hard to get into.
The guy I am seeing is tall, medium built, smart, confident, and he is funny. I do not know why I did not talk to him before. He asked me out to this little café a week ago. Do not worry, it was a good date and he was a perfect gentleman. Did I tell you that I love small café’s? I love to sit in them, order coffee or tea and write. I love to write poems and stories, it is like a sanctuary to unwind and be alone. You could be yourself and know it is a safe and peaceful place.
He loves to read. I love to read too. We are a couple of bookworms that fell in love at the first cup of tea. He goes to UCLA and he studies medicine. He loves kids, but he’s allergic to dogs. That’s okay because I am a cat person. He likes Voltaire and Chaucer while I prefer Emily Dickinson and Robert Frost. He likes old rock music while I like Chopin. He is a big Beatles and Elvis fan. During the whole date last week it seemed everything just clicked and I was on cloud nine. I think he is perfect and he might be “the one”.
I was supposed to see him again today. I was supposed to see him in the café again. I looked out the window and notice a big accident on the street. A big SUV ran a red light and hit a small yellow Volkswagen. You know, the kind you slug a person in the shoulder if you see it pass by. There are a lot of cops on the scene. I wonder what’s going on. People are starting to gather. The ambulance is here. There is a lot of commotion. It’s all happening so fast. A woman arrives at the scene. She looks familiar for some reason. Oh…that is my mother. She must have been on her way to her book club. Why is she crying?
The cops are taking a man out of the SUV. They put cuffs on him and they have to hold him up. He staggers as he walks. It cannot be, but it is the guy I have fallen in love with. I looked at the Volkswagen and realized that it is my car. I am the one laying out on the pavement covered in blood and glass. What is this feeling? He seems not to have a scratch on him. The medical examiner zips me up in a big black duffel bag. All I can feel is over whelming sadness and rage.