Untitled.

Will mental illness destroy them and their love, or can they overcome it?

“Four letter word for ‘inescapable outcome.’”

“Any given letters?” I mumbled, only half paying attention to Foster.

“Ending in E.”

I tapped my pen against the blank notebook in front of me, pretending to ponder on the word he needed. What I was really thinking about was what I wanted to write next. Usually, I didn’t write unless inspiration came to me, however, right now, I was really feeling the urge to write, but I couldn’t think of exactly what I wanted to write about.

“Do you all know what you’re going to order yet?”

Both Foster and I jumped at the sound of the waitresses voice so close to us. “I, uh.” I ran my finger down the laminated menu, stopping on a random option. “I’ll take the B.L.T. With chips, please.”

“Eating light today?” Foster teased me. “I’ll just take a cheeseburger,” He learned in a little towards her name tag. “Mary-Ann. American cheese, lettuce, tomato, all the works. With fries.”

As soon as she had everything written down, she tore our ticket out of the tiny book. “That’ll be right up.” Her monotone voice matched her short stature and frizzy red hair.

“Thank you,” Foster and I said in unison, his loud baritone voice echoing over my mumble.

“A diamond shape? Wouldn’t that just be a diamond? Five letters, middle letter is O.” He was getting frustrated with the crossword puzzle in the Independent, the daily newspaper for the great city of Ashland, Kentucky. He had been doing them religiously every single day since the day we graduated high school just because he thought it made him look more like his father. It wasn’t that the puzzle was particularly difficult; Foster just isn’t the type to think too in depth about things.

“Rhomb. Did you pay attention in any of your math classes, mister business major?”

He squinted, his bushy eyebrows furrowing together, as he carefully filled in the four tiny letters with his classic Number 2 pencil. “My speciality is more algebra, not geometry. Besides,” He took a huge sip of his Diet Coke. “We can’t all be born with your brains, Vanderpol.”

I shook my head and focused back on my notebook, unable to think of a reply. I could agree, but I don’t want conceited, and I really didn’t want to hear his rebuttal if I disagreed either. “Help me think of something to write,” I said instead after a few moments of silence.

Foster sat the newspaper on the table and gave me the most ridiculous face of confusion. You, Marion Vanderpol, need my help for inspiration? Are you okay?” He tried to touch my forehead with the back of his hand, a gesture of a parent, but I swatted him away.

“Inspiration hasn’t been coming so easily nowadays,” I admitted. “Here lately, it seems like I just can’t get my thoughts down on paper.”

He looked like he was about to say something, but the waitress was heading our way with our food. “One B.L.T. One burger.” She sat the plates in front of us then out her hands on her hips. “Anything else I can get you?”

“We’re fine for now, Mary-Ann.” Foster gave her one of his “charming” smiles, as he called it. A smile he would give to anyone he was trying to impress. Why he was trying to impress this woman, though, was beyond me.

Mary-Ann sighed and seemed to almost roll her eyes. “If you all need anything, just let me know. I’ll just be back here.” She jerked her thumb towards the counter in the back of the restaurant that led to the kitchen, before turning her back to us. The fat Italian man on the back of her shirt winked at us until she retreated back into the kitchen.

I picked up one of the over salted potato chips that were on my plate and examined it thoroughly before taking a leap of fate and putting it in my mouth. You could practically taste the high blood pressure. “What were you going to say?” I asked after finishing my bite.

“Oh, yeah.” Foster’s mouth was full, but he began to talk anyways. “Write about the next person who comes in here. Make up a story about them.”

Looking around the tiny cafe I mumbled, “Does anyone even come here anymore? I mean, it’s 12:38; it should be the middle of lunch rush, and we’re the only ones in here.”

Foster shrugged as he took another monstrous bite out of his burger. “Give it time. Someone is bound to come in at some point. Hell, you could even write about sweet, ol’ Mary-Ann back there.”

“Yeah, she’s an interesting character. I think I’ll wait for someone else,” I mumbled, taking a cautious bite of my own sandwich. To my surprise, it was actually really delicious.

“So,” Foster wiped at the condiments that had accumulated around his mouth. “How’s working with the old man going so far?”

I shrugged, looking at the passing cars outside the window by our booth. “It’s okay, I guess. It’s not my dream job, but it’s easy money.”

“You’re just kinda like a secretary, aren’t you? Filing papers, making phone calls, all that good stuff.”

“Yeah, something like that,” I mumbled. Despite knowing that I didn’t particularly like working for my father and not for myself, Foster still brought it up constantly. It should surprise me or make me angry that he always does, but, again, he’s not the type to take hints or understand things the first time around.

To my surprise, however, I think he noticed my change in mood this time, because he changed the subject. “Have you sent any samples in yet?” Not that this conversation was going to go any better than the one before it, but it was something different.

Again, I shrugged. “Is it even worth it?” I sat my sandwich back down, staring at the plate in front of me. What was the point of sending in samples of my writings and photography when I knew that there were better people out there who are probably going to be trying to do the exact same thing as me and are probably way better than me? I’ve been wanting to send some samples in for the past couple of weeks, but that one little shred of doubt keeps holding me back from doing it. “No one will take them. They’re not even that good. They’re all still rough drafts pretty much.”

“They’re all actually really good, and anyone would agree with me, especially the paper. Those shots of nature or of some of these local buildings, any local publication would kill for those. Hell, you could probably even start your own magazine or something and write everything yourself.” Foster stuffed the last bit of his burger in his mouth and continued. “The worst someone could say is no, but that should only be motivation for the next time you send something in. Plus, maybe if they say no they could still give you tips on what you would need to do for the next time you submit something.”

He was right, of course. He usually always is about these things. I finished off the last of my chips, giving him the illusion that I was thinking hard about what he said, but I was really only thinking about how it would still probably never happen because of my inability to follow through with anything anymore. “Maybe one of these days,” I eventually mumbled.

“You’ve got to start speaking up. I can’t hear you half of the time.”

I snorted. “Yeah, I’ll start speaking up when you stop talking with your mouth full of food.”

“Hey, I don’t-”

He was interrupted by the ringing of the small bell hanging on the door. A young woman, maybe a few years younger than our twenty-five and twenty-three, hurried in, struggling to hold the stack of books in her hands.

“Start writing, don’t just stare!” Foster whispered from across the table.

“Well, uh.” I pushed my plate and glass of water around, scrambling to find my pen. “What should I even say?”

“Just describe what you can about her to start out with. You can do the rest or add more later on. Just get what you can right now.”

“Average height, young (20-22), natural (?) curly, dark brown (black?) hair.”

Foster game me that confused look again. “Look at all the little details, Vanderpol. Not the common things.”

I tried to make my staring discreet, but the girl didn’t seem to notice anything around her except the books in her hands.

“Two rings-not the wedding type. Nicely painted red fingernails.”

When she finally looked up from her hands, she tried her best to wave towards the back of the restaurant. “Hey, Mary-Ann. Who ya workin’ with today?”

“Northern with a hint of southern accent.”

The waitress finally cracked a smile. “Just old Jack and Sean. Marissa is off today. What are you doing here on your day off?”

As soon as she reached the back counter where Mary-Ann was leaning, reading a Living Well magazine, she emptied her hands. “I just came in to check my schedule. It is posted, isn’t it?”

“Holding both novels and textbooks. College? Waitress.”

“Yeah, it’s posted on the door back there, sweetie.” Mary-Ann still hadn’t looked up from her magazine.

The girl walked behind the counter and out of sight, saying a quick hello to the people in the kitchen before disappearing out of my sight.

I looked down at the half-page of notes in front of me. “What was the point of this again?” I asked Foster.

He finished off his Diet Coke before answering. “You wrote down things you were thinking, didn’t you?”

“Well, yes.”

“Now use what you have and write something. Better yet, if you really want to work on your writing, make up a fake article about this girl. You know, for practice.”

That was a good idea, but what could I make this “news article” about? She looked like she was probably still in college, but with the amount of books she was holding, she looked like she could have been a teacher or a librarian at the very least.

Author's Note

Any type of review is accepted. I just wrote this in my notebook and transferred it over, so if you see any type of grammatical or spelling mistakes, please let me know. Also, this is just the first little bit of the first part of the story, it's not anywhere close to being finished yet. Thank you for reading. :)

Reviews

[LastMonth]

Soooooooooooooooooo. Okay. This is a piece of the puzzle. Not even a ground piece. This is. This is a Sky piece. Blue and 'Meaningless'. Alone? It is what it is. A Piece of blue skies. Maybe a touch of cloud here and there. But not much beyond that.

But,

The texture is fine. The little blue pixels are carefully weaved and matched together. And that little bit of cloud..? It's gorgeous, fluffy and imaginative.

As 'Meaningless' as this piece is, it shows a few things.

1. You wanted to write. That is the vibe I'm getting here. You wanted to create.
2. This comes naturally to you.
3. The level of quality is quite good. I found myself frowning when I reached the end, not because I was unhappy with it, but because I wanted more.

So then, when will you give us more? :)

[antidarkness]

Thank you so much for this. It really means a lot. :) I hope as soon as I can find the inspiration I can put up the rest of this part!