Year-My Final Goodbye To My Favorite Class, Creative Writing 1 & 2
Aithne Bresnahan sits at her rectangular desk, unnaturally evolved from a maple tree’s body and an older man’s worn hands. The architecture cuts through the negative space of the office, striking the heat particles radiating off of her clients. Aithne calls her desk solemn-a literary type of person-because of the perpetual nature of it, similar to the way a dignified person never seems to end their formal nature.
Three books sit stacked on top of one another-all filled with epigrams-and lined up with the corner of the maple desk. Aithne prefers them not to be there, as she would not have bought a whole book shelf to not fit all her books on it, but she no longer had any room. She reproaches the people who are willing to invest in the same expensive object when the other one is used up, and she would never break those rules she prescribed herself.
The book on the bottom of the pile is her least favorite book of the three, titled “Henry Young”. Henry Young’s character had a rather supercilious manner and the author let the reader’s interpretation of the character rather ajar. Nevertheless, the book played the game of always favoriting the main character, even when he was in the wrong. Aithne decided that she would much rather donate the book than anything else, but she knows her grandmother visits often, and would be devastated to see that Aithne did not like the book that she recommended.
The book in the middle of the pile had characters that seemed to have a fractiousness nature, which contrasted the poetic writing and effeminate swank of the cover. The book is titled “A pink rose in red rain”, a sappy story about a boy who has cancer and the girl who loves him. To spoil it, the boy ends up dying of a car accident-kind of odd considering the plot of the book is that he has cancer-and the girl is left in desolate. The only reason Aithne has this book is due to the one quote she admires, it says “I am trying to be honest, really, I just need to work harder.” which she attempts to do with her fervent spirit and her tolerance for lies.
The book on top is her own book, actually. A children’s book to be exact. She never knew she was good at writing for children, that she was qualified to work with them. Her story glinted at hope for the future, but the world of writing left Aithne turbulent after her unfortunate outcome in writing a film, and so she went to school for psychology. Aithne was already over the possibility of becoming a pseudepigraphy, like de Leon, as her now ex writing agent wanted her to be.
All over Aithne's wall are pictures of places in the world. She hopes to one day visit all those places, since she only has traveled to half, but there is not any time when you have to work constantly. Aithne prides herself on being a viator, but mental health problems do not take a vacation.
There are two chairs and one caramel sofa across from where she is sitting at her desk. They are covered with pillows of scarlet and peacock on top of it, contrasting the plain colors of brown on the couch and the desk. Organized piles of paper are stacked on the table in between the pieces of furniture.
The door creaks open and Aithne picks her head up out of her work to see a small girl with her blonde hair in ponytails with a pink shirt and blue checkered shorts cautiously walk into the room.
“Hello Aya, pick where you would like to sit today.” Aithne speaks to the young girl with kindness and care, like this is not a task to meet with her but that Aithne took the time out of his day to talk to Aya.
“Anywhere?”
“Anywhere.” Aya picked the middle cushion on the caramel sofa, right next to the vibrant pillows. Up close the couch had specks of beige and tortilla with small holes on the seam. The cushion curved upwards and went back down to align with the rest of the cushions.
The first hour they discussed Aya’s anxiety and how she can cope with it, which was easy to come up with solutions, as Aithne's perspicacity was already fully formed and Aya’s mind was more developed than most kids her age. Aya knows she should try to make new friends and break her social anxiety, but her young age makes her have an infinitesimal possibility of blossoming from the stubbornness of innocence.
“If you do not want to rush your coping, then the most important thing is to pay closer attention to the now.” Aithne starts to roll the beads on her purple and silver bracelet, only extemporizing what she was requesting, “I know it seems hard, but I can speak from first hand experience, when you get excited for the next thing, you wish your life away.”
“But I’m only eight, I still have a whole life left to live?”
“I know you do, but life is fast and there is no time to waste. What is something you like doing in your free time?”
“I guess I enjoy drawing.” Aithne opens the drawer in the table that splits the two females. Aithne pulls out three blank pieces of computer paper, a pencil, and a box of markers.
“This is all for you. Draw me something.”
“Right now?”
“Right now.” Aithne peremptorily told her. She proceeded to move some of the organized paperwork so Aya can draw. Aya takes the supplies from Aithne's hands, sets them on her empty section of the table, and proceeds to sketch. Aithne stands up from her chair and languidly shuffles her feet back to her desk, “Tell me when you are done.”
Two hours later, Aya calls Aithne back over to see her work, but to Aithne’s surprise, Aya seemed disappointed in herself.
“What’s wrong? I thought you said you like drawing?”
“I do, I just, well, I’m just not sure I want you to see it.”
“How come?” Aya shrugs her shoulders, “Well, come on let me see. ” Aya puts her head down and hands Aithne her paper upside down with alacrity. Aithne believed in that moment that it could not be as bad as Aya was making it out to be, as drawing is just up to a facultative point of view.
When Aithne flips the paper over a picture of a pistachio green house surrounded by some sunflowers and a simple white body bag just sitting on the doorstep, dripping blood. Aithne's first impression of the art was camp, but at a second look, it revealed to be more than a brainchild. It felt like a vision, or a dream that Aithne had already seen.
“How, huh, what, um, why do I know this? Aya what was your creative…” as Aithne looks up from the drawing, Aya disappears into the shadows, the door closed. “Aya. Aya!” Aithne yells out, receiving no reply from the girl. Aithne goes out of her office into the waiting rooms and asks her coworkers if they have seen her, all of them telling her they didn’t even know she was a client.
Aithne proceeds to head out of the office, clutching Aya’s drawing. As she steps outside the building, her eyes are in shock by how the world beyond her mind looks. A rusty old car in the corner, a man with a broken parachute, covered in snow and ice, a homeless boy asking people for money, and a sad boat, stained with sunscreen attached to the back of a funeral car, all things she has seen before, but not with her own eyes.
“Well, this, this can’t be real.” Aithne said, clutching her head in confusion, giving herself the fantods for the reasoning behind all of this.
“Why can’t it be?” Aithne turns around to come face to face with the person speaking, “Isn’t this all apart of the town.”
“No no It can’t be real because, well, because” Aithne clutches the unknown person’s shoulders for support, “well this is all in my imagination. I’ve imagined these things before.”
“Well of course you did Aithne, for this isn’t reality. You know that, don’t you?”
“No this, this is my reality. I’m real. You’re real. This is all real.” Aithne, in clear denial, whispers to confirm to herself what she is seeing is real.
“Then what is your name?”
“I, I, um, I think it starts with an, um, A. Yeah, an A, right?”
“See, you don’t even know your own name. I think it is best if we leave this world behind for a bit.”
“But this is my world. This is my world!”
“You aren’t a psychologist with a published children's book and a screenwriting credit. There is nobody named Aya. And this world is created by you.” The person had an animus feeling of not getting to the point, which Aithne admired for a moment, only then to be taken back by her comprehension of what was said to her.
“But why? Why couldn’t I figure that out?” The person takes off of their top hat to reveal that they are the “mayor of the town” with the exact same face as Aithne.
“I do not know, nobody does, so the council decided that it is time to step back into reality, just for a little bit.”
“But, but what if I need catharsis?” A bunch of illusions in the shape of humans grab Aithne's body parts and slowly pull them off one by one. Starting with the arm, which popped off like a barbie doll’s arm--almost a sirenic power, but not strong enough to pull off the other one. When the illusions were finished, the only thing left still working was the head.
Colors of the rainbow poured from out her neck, along with words and pictures of the places she has been, or at least went in her dreams. Out poured her psychology degree, and her screenplay that was premiered at the Chinese theater, and her children’s book that was published by a big publishing company in New York. All her dreams poured out of her neck.
“Learn to live without it, and then you can return.” the mayor proceeds to close Aithne's eyes and it reopens in a white bed with purple walls. It is time to snap back to reality.
