2010's Best Writer/ROUND 1/Ashley

by Ashley in California

Running Away

It was an early spring afternoon a couple years ago, and I decided to take a walk in the park. I was poor at the time, living on parent allowance and a small paycheck from my late afternoon job at the local library. I was also in my first year of collage, and was dreaming of becoming a famous fictional writer. A couple days ago, though, my professor read my writings and said I didn’t have the “stuff”. Naturally, that got my spirits down, and my thousands of dollars into collage seemed wasted.

While on my walk, I observed a small path of blue tulips. One flower somber feeling that pulses through you. It’s rather a strange thing to say, considering not many people have seen blue tulip petals fall from their stem. But it’s not unheard of either.

Then, out of the blue of my evening stroll, a huge force hit me on my left side so hard, that I fell on the cold cobblestone path, with whatever toppled me on top of my torso. As I slowly opened my eyes, still stunned in aftershock, I saw that the person who had stumbled upon me was a little boy of only about nine years old. He had uncombed, light brown hair, brown eyes, rugged denim jeans and a simple black t-shirt.

“Oh, I’m sorry lady!” The boy said as quickly as he got up.

“It’s alright,” then I joked, “What’re you running from?”

He replied, “The real world, lady.” With that, he took off deeper in the park.

I stood there with fascination left inside of me. His remark made my mind think in wonder. Isn’t fictional writing like running away from the real world? Isn’t that what it’s all about? I felt incredibly dumb, and hurried my way home in mischievous inspiration.

The next day, I gave my new story to my professor for insight after class. He looked at me with pleasant surprise.

“This is quite intriguing,” He smiled, “You got it. The ‘stuff’. It’s nice to know that there are young people like you nowadays. Persistent.” I laughed in flattery.

On my way home, I was in a dreamy state of pride. Maybe collage wasn’t a waste, after all. I looked at the sky, and it was a crystal-clear, majestic light blue, just like yesterday. I knew that I had to go to the park again. If the boy was going to be there again, I wanted to be there again as well.

Walking on the same cobblestone path I did yesterday, I turned my head looking for the young boy. I simply needed to thank him; he practically saved my entire career and life. Soon enough, I saw him again. He seemed as if he were searching for something as well, his eyes wandering all around him.

I called to him, “Little boy!” He turned to me, dumbfounded.

“Um, hi,” he said as he walked to me, “Why did you need me?”

“Oh, I wanted to thank you. For yesterday,” I replied, “I owe you for inspiring me to continue my writing career.”

“Huh?” he asked, still confused.

I laughed, “Basically, I’m taking you for ice cream. Come with me.”

His entire face lit up. “Wow!” he squealed in excitement, “Thank you so much, lady!!”

When we arrived at Baskin Robins, he was literally jumping off the ground in exhilaration. I was satisfied with his reaction, and ordered him a large and me a small cone of chocolate ice cream. We went back outside to enjoy our ice cream in a relaxed, leisurely walk.

While we were walking, he gave out a contented sigh. I smiled, and asked, “Like your ice cream?”

He gleamed back, “Yeah! Thanks so much again, lady!”

“No problem.”

We were crossing the street to go back to the park, and all the sudden the boy turns his head the other way. He shouts excitingly, “Mom!!” I become excited as well, wanting to meet the mother of my inspirer. But my excitement quickly turned into terror.

He runs hastily across the street, and forgets about the cars passing by. I screamed, “No!! Watch out!!” He looked back at me, but by then, he was already flung high into the air and landed square on his head.

Tears jerked at my eyes and I sprinted to the boy. I could still feel his heart, but his skull was most likely broken and his brain beyond repair.

I sobbed and shouted, “Who is the mother of this boy?!”

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“..La..dy?” the boy whispered.

I looked up, thankful that he was awake. “Hey there..”

He gave a weak smile. “Hi.” He looked around. “Where’s Mom?”

I sharp pain pierced at my heart. “She’s… not here… The mom you saw wasn’t her.”

“Oh.”

There was a disappointed silence.

“I guess she likes to do that,” He said quietly.

I asked softly, “What do you mean?”

He replied, “Mom disappeared when I was five, I think… I don’t know how old I am anymore…. She left for work, and didn’t come back. So I’ve been looking for her…”

“Oh.. I’m so sorry,” I whispered, and looked down so he wouldn’t see my eyes watering from pity.

“It’s okay. I know she loves me,” He says hopefully, “She just forgot to show it or something.”

I gave him a compassionate expression, and hugged him. “I’m so sorry. I can’t understand why anybody wouldn’t love you.” I felt him nod and tears ran down his cheeks. We remained like that for a while, and when I pulled back, his eyelids were closed. I checked for a heartbeat, and it wasn’t pumping.

He had died, and with a tired, relieved smile on his face.

Whenever I go back and think about him, I sob for what seems like forever. I feel like he brought life into me, though. It shows all throughout my writing career. He made me realize the freedom of writing. He made me realize that writing is like running away; deep into a world of abstract reality.