Queens of Nothing Catherine
Queens Of Nothing: CatherinePart one of the three part "Queens Of Nothing" series by Xzyliac Ariel.http://iloveyouemilydickinson.wordpress.com
Content
Queens Of Nothing*
*Catherine
Catherine collected typewriters. No one really knew why. Hell, she didn t even know why. Maybe it was the wonderfully nostalgic look of them, maybe it was a sensory thrill to hear her words flowing from her fingers and instantly printing themselves onto the paper, or maybe it was just because no one else was doing it. Nonetheless, Catherine collected typewriters. And she kept them on the shelves in the apartment that was her refuge from the busyness on campus. In this refuge Catherine would feverishly type away at stories for hours and hours in near silence. Then when she was done, or rather when the story was done with her, she would hand it to Pam. Pam was a genius, a silent genius at that. She never spoke much, but her speech very poignant, and if you knew how to interpret it you could learn more from her than an entire autumn with Poe. After a year Catherine had learned how to translate the brief and concise language of Pam. Great meant acceptably Frost-ian, good meant passably Dickinson, okay meant maybe Carroll-esque, and bad meant painfully modern. It was not only something she relied on, it was something she indulged in. Pam wrote A Grecian Fall. Pam wrote An Hourglass At Midnight. Pam wrote The Vogue Of Dresden. To the world this meant nothing. To Catherine it meant everything. They were some of the greatest stories, if not the greatest, she had ever read. Littered with versatile language, vigorous imagery, and masterfully crafted characters. If writing were fashion she would be the heir of Anna Wintours throne. Strong, courageous, and dangerously brilliant. And Catherine collected typewriters. It was her schtick, her thing. Everyone has a schtick. Pam was the quiet genius, Catherine was the hideaway writer. Together they fit as naturally as the sweeping score of Tchaikovsky s Pathetique. It had been 3 weeks since Catherine last sat down to write a story. The inspiration had not yet settled but the words were growing restless in her. She sat at the desk across from the kitchen and pulled out a blank sheet of paper and pencil. She put her hand against her lips and rocked back and forth trying to see what would fall out. A detail, a feeling, anything that could give her a glimpse of the world as her words were ready to pen it. After 5 minutes came nothing, and after 25 came nothing, and after 85 minutes came nothing. It was like an ache or a plea that had nested inside of her. She wanted to write but write what? Then Pam came through the door. Her light presence glided into the kitchen where she started putting away groceries. For a second she paused and looked to see the back of a seemingly puzzled Catherine.
She was trying too hard. Pam had tried to tell her this before but she never listened. Stories are not things you can just sit and create. They are not manufactured. Not real stories. Real stories, where the reader is challenged and the words are vivid representations of an immaculate fiction, are a natural occurrence. The story is in you but it must find you. Trying to find it just means it s going to be harder for it to find you. But she was restless and frankly dangerous. She could kill her own imaginative spark if she continued to tire herself like this. By nightfall Pam was in the bedroom. The TV was flickering in response to the film it projected; A Serious Man. It was a Coenbrothers film, her favorite films. She found them fundamentally human, rooted in an almost provocative and sensual truth, yet somehow still able to make you lose yourself in the immersion of such magnificent fiction. Back at the desk Catherine sat with a bowl of soup still scribbling her conscience onto paper after paper trying to extract from herself something worthy of plot, scene, and ethos. It bothered Pam. While she did not consider herself in the same light that Catherine saw her Pam was not one to act as if a lifetime of bathing in the art of literature had not imparted upon her some wisdom. Catherine was doing it all wrong and she knew it but she had become addicted to the worlds she had put to paper. She longed to return there and it burned in her. Pam took a stack of lined paper from her night stand, walked through the hallway to the desk where Catherine was feverishly writing, dramatically slapped the papers in front of her, and sat on the floor. Catherine looked at Pam in a brief second of curiosity and began to read. The heading of the first page read Queens Of Nothing. The setting established was thewild west. A man of great age, with no name nor identity, stands at the gallows with 100 crimes and 7 daughters to his name. His daughters are all motherless, they live in the same home, the home where he was arrested. After he is arrested the oldest daughter, Faye, rallies her sisters to save their father whom they love deeply and leave town. That morning, with the old fugitive ready to meet his end, the daughters tactfully position themselves around the town square. With speed and charisma they cause a stir, frightening the townsfolk and law enforcement, carry their father with noose and all, and head westward. It was spectacular as always. Her best. It had the humanity of Shakespeare, the eloquence of Dickinson, but greater than all these attributes it felt entirely immersive and swimming with life. It was a part of Pam. It was her own style, her own attributes; it was the first story that could rightfully carry the signature handiwork of Pam in all of her deep and intellectual glory. It felt like phenomena on paper and it left Catherine in a twisted knot just dying for more. More of Pam. Not in a physical sense but in a fictional sense. To delve inside of her mind, to be her, to have her fingers which stroked the pen that wrote the words that penetrated not only the mind but the soul of its reader. It s a masterpiece. It s not finished, Pam said as she pushed herself to her feet. It isn t? Pam walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge The story isn t about the rescue. Pam took a can of beer out, closed the door, and took her first sip. She continued It s about Faye.
Catherine twisted her perspective trying her hardest to see it. It made sense in a way. Faye, the eldest daughter and only character with a name, bands together the only family she s ever known to save her father. Actually, it was beautiful. It completely shifted everything. It turned what Catherine originally saw as a sweeping tale of family into a personal opera of triumph. But yes, it was certainly unfinished. I want you to finish it, Pam said as she walked behind the desk to the chair where Catherine sat. Shocked Catherine replied Me? Why? It s your vision, it s your story, and it s almost perfect. I don t think I feel right about it. Try it, Pam said coyly. Catherine stared at where the story ended. This is ridiculous, she exclaimed as she got up I can barely write my own stuff, and yours is so potent. It s too weird of a mesh. It just won t work. I m telling you Pam looked at Catherine with a quasi-grin and a can of beer in her hand. Catherine knew what she was doing. She was challenging her and despite her constant denial the two both knew she would accept it. I can promise you this, Pam said almost ignoring Catherines cries You won t get anywhere with this method you ve got. Eventually you re going to have to open that door and realize that all good fiction finds you. It s not going to come through the walls. Catherine stood there looking foolish. To some that would ve felt like fair criticism but coming from Pam, the girl who spoke with her eyes and lips, it was a heavy lecture. One weighted with harsh truth and cold realities. Tony s invited us to his place tomorrow. His sister is finally going to Greece. And I should go, right? Catherine asked redundantly. I m just passing on the message, Pam said as she turned into the hall and into her room. The next day had come and gone with relative quickness. In frustration Catherine had not even touched the story. She didn t even want to remember that it was on her desk, although it weighed heavily on her mind. She collected in her mind what she knew of Faye. It wasn t difficult to compound a vision from Pam s words of who Faye was as a woman. The trap that Catherine constantly fell into was trying to decipher the ending that Pam may have intended. She needed to realize that the ending had to be natural, the world was alive and independent of either Pam or Catherine, and that the character had a life of her own. Catherine was merely carrying the torch of the messenger. It had become an overbearing and daunting task. And the party that night did little to ease her. Catherine didn t hate parties per se, but she did find herself feeling completely exposed. All of her social graces failed to protect her from a potential onslaught of strangers and booze. In the company of her
choosing Catherine was a doll but at a party she became an unpredictable whirlwind of awkward mannerisms and one too many conversational gaffes. Pam on the other hand was Pam. Quiet for sure but charming and seemingly fearless as always. The party was a few blocks away, just enough for Catherine to show up reasonably late but not so far that she had an excuse not to show up at all. She needed the fresh air and company anyway. If she stared at the wall facing that desk one more time she would easily have slipped into some putrid form of madness. No, tonight would be a night for new acquaintances and weird relaxation. She dressed herself in her most colorful casualwear, threw on a jacket, a cap, and left the apartment. Pam had already left so it gave Catherine some time to herself in the fresh air. The night made it all ominous but the cold kept her from sinking too deeply into her own thoughts. She walked with her hands in her pockets, her teeth occasionally chattering up and down restlessly. She had developed a habit as a child, to make stories for herself to pass the time and so she did. Though nothing particularly memorable the habit of passing dialog in her head or under her voice between two characters kept reminding her why she loved to write fiction. We all share so many qualities who is to say that one person can t be worth a million? When an actor or actress takes on a role do they find in themselves a character or does the character find something in them? The story Catherine liked but the characters were what Catherine loved. Finally, she reached the house. Tony and Florence were twins. Non-identical, fairly rich, and down to earth. Between the two of them and their father they got the jobs and the resources to move out and into a full house by 18. For a few years they were the envy of all their peers, and even still to some. As Catherine looked upon the house at the top of the driveway a million pungent memories came rushing back to her. Sitting around the fireplace, getting high, and discussing the works of Tennessee Williams and Ken Kesey from sunset to sunrise.Or standing around the bar in the basement debating the poetic legitimacy of Bob Dylan and Jim Morrison.Those were, in the clichest of ways, happier days. As time had grown into everyone the house became less of a small village of young close-knit thespians, writers, and thinkers and more into a riotous place of parties and indulgence. Some grew with it and others, like Catherine and Pam, just grew out of it. But Tony and Florence were still their friends, and with Florence finally living her dream and moving to Greece, who would they be if they didn t wish her farewell? As she entered the front door more than just warm air threw itself into her. The Sounds Hit Me raged from the speakers that were wired from the first floor to the basement. It was a familiar song, appropriate inmore ways than Catherine was willing to admit, and even better was she had stepped in just as its opening crash began. Looking around, the house was daintily lit. The lamps and chandeliers were all draped in thin fabric of various colors to give the house atmosphere. It was Tony and Florence s ironic sense of humor in trying to toe the line between middle and upper class. A type of humor that was lost on everyone but that was made up for by their striking charm and kind personalities. Catherine checked that she left nothing of value on her coat, threw it on the floor with a hundred others, inhaled, and braced the collage of people who had gathered.
People experience the world differently. A lot of people, most people, normal people see the world with their eyes. The lucky people, the blessed people, Apollo s children hear the world. And then there are the cursed people who experience the world in thought and words. Catherine, being one of those people, couldn t help but experience the sensory overload in a thousand little tangents. The socially ironic disarray of all the colors that planted themselves onto the wall and the faces of these beautiful people.The intoxicating sensation of alcohol, tobacco, weed, and sex that lifted itself into the air and gently brushed across the faces of its patrons in the form of scent. The thrilling climax as the beautiful Swedish blonde bombshell Ms. MajaIvarsson daringly begs and dares and demands you to hit her through the speakers. Every tiny detail, every small fragment, came to Catherine in pages and pages of observational literature. In poetry and quotes, the things that fiction breeds from. Much as she might regret the festivities it was indeed both the release and infusion she desperately needed. Pam was right as always. Catherine made her way to the kitchen where she fought with a hundred hands over a Corona, quickly scanned the room for a familiar face (there were none), and made her way into the basement. To the right of her was the bar where men and women, or boys and girls, were no doubt making their selections for a euphoric session of foreplay and fucking. Some were already mastering their art along the walls, on the couches, the floors, the ceilings if ever they found a way to break gravity. To the left of her the floor was divided amongst the dancers and the boppers; the people who loved the dancefloor just enough to move but not enough to really dance. Pam was a bopper, and there was Pam. Catherine walked directly across the stairs and as was her fashion she stood somewhere in the middle between the dancers and the lovers. The air was thick with a hundred different flavors of sight, sound, and smell. She even began to enjoy herself. The Corona was good, the music was sublime, the people were happy. Maybe it had even been so long since she had been to a party, or maybe she convinced herself so well, that it was time to readjust her thinking. Hey! Pam yelled from the dancefloor. She was looking right at Catherine but Catherine only laughed. Pam made her way from the dancefloor and Catherine said You know I don t dance! Pam responded Oh yeah! Neither do I! It was a tacky little way of getting a point across. Letting loose and all that. Pam turned around and headed upstairs and Catherine followed. Upstairs the air was significantly clearer, the rooms were much brighter, the noise was more tolerable. No one was dancing or fucking or anything. Just talking. This was where Catherine decided she belonged. She threw her beer bottle away, grabbed another, and followed Pam to the backyard where a very select few braced the cold either to smoke, or to take a break, or whatever. So, Pam said in an exhausted tone You re here. Yup, Catherine replied Good, good. It s kind of a madhouse but nothing s better for the brain than bouts of insanity. Yeah, I mean I don t hate it. I do feel a little aimless.
Pam gave her a look. A smirk. Catherine knew she was wrong from the get go. There was no aim. That was Pam s entire point. Catherine broke her stare asking Have you seen Tony or Florence? Florence, Pam replied Was upstairs in her room on the phone last I went up but she should be down soon. Tony went out to the store to restock everything. Don t think they expected the entire flock from all of Florence s past lives to show up. Ah, okay, Catherine casually replied. For a few seconds Catherine stood against the house staring at the stars while Pam just stared at Catherine. When Catherine realized it Pam had yet another smirk about her. Catherine could read between the lines and headed back into the house. There was a party and she was intent on benefitting from it. When she walked through the door she immediately heard a familiar voice shouting something unintelligible. Florence s voice was sweet but booming, almost melodic, and deep for a girl. She was a thinker by birth, a photographer by trade, and an artistic Swiss army knife. She had dabbled in sculpting, poetry, painting, modeling, acting, screenwriting, interior decoration, architecture, rock bands, punk bands, folk troupes, DJing, ballet, stripping, fashion, and graffiti before she had finally found her calling into photography at the tender age of 20. And at 21, she was living her dream of moving to Greece and perfecting her art. She had had green and purple hair since she was 12, always got what she wanted, and was always more than excited to share with others. As she made her way through the crowd, stopping every other foot step to shake hands and say a few kind words, she saw Catherine. Florence focused in on her, and darted in her direction. Of all the friends Florence had ever made, Catherine was her favorite and the one she was increasingly seeing the least of. Ever since the two met in 2nd grade watching Catherine grow into herself was almost surreal for Florence. She was becoming a writer, and that excited her. Catherine was always so shy and innocent and easy to be friends with. To Florence she just seemed like a writer, unlike herself who could never really allow the patience to find what she was made to do or who she was meant to be. Florence wrapped Catherine with her soft tan arms and Catherine responded beautifully. For one quick second Florence could imagine she and Catherine were together like she had always dreamed. I m so, so, so glad you made it! Florence said as she let Catherine loose Pam said she wasn t sure if you were coming! Come here! Florence grabbed Catherine by the hand and escorted her through the crowd to a wall completely covered in pictures. Wow! Catherine exclaimed I know right!? Florence said in excitement
The pictures were all taken by Florence. They were breathtaking pictures, but even moreso, they were pictures of places from their youth. A playground where the two pretended they were aliens, the red table where Florence had her 12th birthday and unveiled her signature hair, the middle school bathroom where an envious Catherine and an unsympathetic Florence had more than a few fights. It was all there, vivid and almost surreal, like little rooms that housed their history. The photography was bright, revealing, and fearless. I was kind of hoping you d like it. It was sort of my pet project. Florence said bouncily as she waited for a response from Catherine. After finally finding the words in the midst of her awe Catherine replied I I love it! she said with a smile It s awesome! Whatever laid heavy on Catherine s heart, whatever frustrations she had acquired in her pursuit of artistic validation, they left her for a moment. She turned to Florence and stared into her face. It was the face of a friend, her best friend when all was said and done, and even though the two may have had their differences and their moments apart she had taken it upon herself to immortalize their friendship on this gallant and prestigious wall. It was a memorial really. A fantastic memorial. The two hugged, holding each other tightly for what would be the last time. Catherine felt relieved in a way, she felt like there was still someone in the world whom she could lean on. Pam, she was a roommate and a great mentor, but Florence was something more. She was a part of her life. Florence however felt heartache and bittersweet regret. She had convinced herself that even if Catherine would take her she would never be the soulmate or lover that Catherine needed. Catherine was still searching, and Florence s self-validation journey was over. The two weren t compatible now and she was at peace with it, though it made the inevitable goodbye no better. Florence would carry a secret of love and passion until she died. And just like that Florence was called away by another friend. Later that night Catherine sat alone on one of the couches with her third beer completely full and a new surge of emotions shooting through her veins. Somewhere in this mess in her head she was waiting for it to come to her. She hadn t forgotten about the ending she would pen. Faye, and her sisters, and her father, need an ending. Or rather Faye needed one. She threw Faye in different scenarios in her head. What if she was caught? Or what if she had to fight the law again? Should the ending be good or bad? Should the world around her conform to the lesson she learns or should she conform to the lesson? It wasn t easy, not to find something that could match Pam s brilliance, but Catherine had invested herself so wholly into it that she demanded to see it through. Her mind was stuck on goodbyes. Good goodbyes. You rarely ever hear about sweet goodbyes. All you ever hear about are bad goodbyes, or mournful goodbyes, or awkward goodbyes. And sure, you hear about the beauty in these goodbyes, but what about a goodbye that is entirely alluring?
Finally, she decided that was the thing that was calling to her. It had grasped her, clutched her, found her here in this youthful and vibrant place just as Pam had said it would. Catherine felt inspired, relieved, revived. She was so anxious to return to her desk that she almost wanted to demand everyone leave the room so she could plant herself on the floor and write it all out page by page. She finished her alcohol and headed for the door. She stopped herself short, unknowingly directly in between two people who were talking, and thought for a brief moment. Was this it? Was she ready to tackle this deed which had infected her entire purpose? Maybe it was time to stop the thinking. Maybe it was time to take a leap of faith, to trust what she felt, and to pray for the best outcome. She took her coat, stormed out the front door, and began the walk down the driveway when she heard a voice calling her. Hey, Cathy! Only one person ever called her Cathy. Catherine hated that nickname. It was so unoriginal. So drab and disgusting. It tasted like poison to her ears and sounded even worse when it rolled off her tongue. Cathy. Like some kind of bastardization of the human ability to form spoken language. Almost like a complete parody of it even. It was terrible, it was stupid, and that was exactly why he would call her that. Just to bite into her. Cathy, Tony said I didn t even get to see you and you re leaving already? Sorry Tony, Catherine said Just, I guess I got wrapped up in some stuff I need to do and I got a little excited. Really sorry. No worries. Maybe I ll walk with you? Mhmm. Sure, Catherine nodded In truth Catherine minded very much when Tony was around. The two had a very complicated past, nothing nearly as pungent or longing as the past between Catherine and Florence, but something. Tony and Catherine did the friends who should be dating thing, the friends who almost have benefits thing, the friend who likes the one as a friend but the other feels something more thing, and the friends who hate each other thing. By the end it was all trivial and Catherine was often ready to forget about it, but the sight of Tony always brought it all back. Their relationship, undefined and unmemorable, had grown sour years ago but neither was willing to completely terminate it because each thought the mature thing to do was to pretend none of it ever happened. Tony walked beside Catherine unaware of all the thoughts that swirled in her head. If he knew, maybe he d have realized how incredibly rude he was being. Catherine was having her own conversation, a talk with a force beyond her, something that was giving birth within her a vision of fiction that could not be ignored. Haven t seen you in a while, Tony said trying to ignore his shivering How s everything?
Good, Catherine said matter of factly while shaking her head and staring at him with her big blue eyes Awesome. You still studying literature, right? Yeah.You? Aw, hell.Sociology, a little bit of music. Still not sure what I m gonna do with it all. Yeah, Catherine said with a chuckle I don t think anyone really does. Snow began to fall on the dark streets as the two crossed. It s gonna be so weird having Florence gone, Tony said, trying to ease the conversation into an organic state of liveliness I was wondering what were your plans now. Well I have two friends who are moving in so I won t be alone or anything. You remember Ralph and Darian? I love Darian! Catherine exclaimed. It was true. She did love Darian, though she hadn t seen him for a year. Yeah, he s moving in. I miss him. His poetry and paintings are Godly. Ah! Having him so close by will be wonderful. Hahaha, Tony laughed I m glad you approve! Maybe that means we ll see more of you? Hopefully. The thought that one of the old crew was coming back to the block was exciting for Catherine. Maybe the good ol days weren t dead. Maybe she just needed to go out and live them. It s been great seeing you again. Pam told me how you ve been stressed over your writing. You should really come by more often. I mean I know the gang has kind of dispersed and things have gotten a little rowdy but, well, I mean we re still friends, ya know? Thanks. That really does mean a lot. I ve just been in my head so much. And I want out! Catherine laughed and continued But that feeling you get, you know when you ve created something and it s this work that you can say came from your soul. I love it. It s tough to look inside yourself and not be able to find where the soul is that you got all that from. It s scary too. I mean, what can I do, ya know? If I ever lose that I ve lost myself. Everyone needs to take a break sometime. I mean where do you think you find the words that you pen to paper? I know. I just can t accept simplicity. If you accepted simplicity, Tony said with a smirk Your writing would suffer for it.
And it was true. Too true. Almost disturbingly true. Simplicity can kill writing. Drawing out the mundane, stretching the simple, exposing the complexity behind the stupid things we take for granted like a leaf or a habit or a pillow. That s what got Catherine s fingers punching feverishly away for days on end until her body collapsed in on itself. And she loved it, for all the stupid bullshit that came with it, she wouldn t trade her hyper analytical perspective for the world. The two arrived at the apartment building that Catherine lived at. The snow was sticking to the ground and footprints were beginning to litter the pavement. For the last block or so the two were almost completely silent, only occasionally pointing out an observation. She stepped on her stoop and hugged Tony tightly. She never felt happier to be so close to Tony, who clearly still cared about her even if they both hated that very thought. It was a mutual feeling with a mutual reaction. I ll see you around? Tony asked Catherine smiled and nodded positively before turning the key and heading into the building. Back at her desk, the papers sat almost staring at her. She had read through them one more time before finally deciding it was time to begin writing. Faye would have to say goodbye. In the end, the very person Faye fought to protect, would be who Faye would have to let go of. It wouldn t be the grandest or most dramatic of endings but it was one that she felt was human. It was an ending which she wanted to believe could be as immersive as the story itself. Faye s father would have to leave her. Some way or another what Faye fought for would have to become useless, but her fight would make it worth it. And like that, with the sun rising and a new day creeping through the window, the ending was penned. It was a challenging ending, one that took an incredible amount of faith to pen, but one that Catherine was proud of nonetheless. It was only the beginning, it was the doorway that she needed, the kickstart that had reminded her just how glorious it was to spill all of herself onto these blank pages which begged to be given meaning. Soon, a million tiny stories began to write themselves in her mind, leaping off of everything she saw and heard and touched. Her mind had returned to her and her soul was rejuvenated. Catherine walked to the window, smiling and proud. Outside the snow was building up and the sky was fluorescent orange. Pam came crashing through exclaiming It is cold as fucking balls! Catherine turned gracefully and said I ll make you some tea. She walked into the kitchen and began to boil the water while Pam kicked off her shoes and took off her pants which had become wet from all the snow. She walked to the desk and only needed to read a few lines before noticing that Catherine had finished the ending. She felt a strange sense of pride. It wasn t Pam s story anymore. It was Catherine s masterpiece. Even if it was only the tiniest fragment somewhere within these words Catherine found herself again. That was what made the story. In fiction she found herself again, her essence lied within every word. I finished it, Catherine said from the kitchen It s not the best ending but it felt so natural. You were right, that party and seeing Florence again, Catherine came out of the kitchen with excitement on her
face It just hit me hard. I could see everything like I did before. Every stupid overexagerated little detail of everything just got me going again. Pam continued to stay quiet, smiling, and scanning the pages. Anyway, Catherine said Thanks. I really did need something to bounce off of. I hope you like it. Do you like it? Pam asked. I felt it, Catherine replied tackily with a sigh of relief. Then I don t need to read it. Pam walked into her room and yelled Now if you excuse me, I smell like fucking and I need a shower. For once Catherine felt secure enough about her writing that Pam not expressly grading it didn t bother her. She knew her place, she knew her style. Catherine collected typewriters, Pam was a genius, andtogether they fit as naturally as the sweeping score of Tchaikovsky s Pathetique.
*Catherine
Catherine collected typewriters. No one really knew why. Hell, she didn t even know why. Maybe it was the wonderfully nostalgic look of them, maybe it was a sensory thrill to hear her words flowing from her fingers and instantly printing themselves onto the paper, or maybe it was just because no one else was doing it. Nonetheless, Catherine collected typewriters. And she kept them on the shelves in the apartment that was her refuge from the busyness on campus. In this refuge Catherine would feverishly type away at stories for hours and hours in near silence. Then when she was done, or rather when the story was done with her, she would hand it to Pam. Pam was a genius, a silent genius at that. She never spoke much, but her speech very poignant, and if you knew how to interpret it you could learn more from her than an entire autumn with Poe. After a year Catherine had learned how to translate the brief and concise language of Pam. Great meant acceptably Frost-ian, good meant passably Dickinson, okay meant maybe Carroll-esque, and bad meant painfully modern. It was not only something she relied on, it was something she indulged in. Pam wrote A Grecian Fall. Pam wrote An Hourglass At Midnight. Pam wrote The Vogue Of Dresden. To the world this meant nothing. To Catherine it meant everything. They were some of the greatest stories, if not the greatest, she had ever read. Littered with versatile language, vigorous imagery, and masterfully crafted characters. If writing were fashion she would be the heir of Anna Wintours throne. Strong, courageous, and dangerously brilliant. And Catherine collected typewriters. It was her schtick, her thing. Everyone has a schtick. Pam was the quiet genius, Catherine was the hideaway writer. Together they fit as naturally as the sweeping score of Tchaikovsky s Pathetique. It had been 3 weeks since Catherine last sat down to write a story. The inspiration had not yet settled but the words were growing restless in her. She sat at the desk across from the kitchen and pulled out a blank sheet of paper and pencil. She put her hand against her lips and rocked back and forth trying to see what would fall out. A detail, a feeling, anything that could give her a glimpse of the world as her words were ready to pen it. After 5 minutes came nothing, and after 25 came nothing, and after 85 minutes came nothing. It was like an ache or a plea that had nested inside of her. She wanted to write but write what? Then Pam came through the door. Her light presence glided into the kitchen where she started putting away groceries. For a second she paused and looked to see the back of a seemingly puzzled Catherine.
She was trying too hard. Pam had tried to tell her this before but she never listened. Stories are not things you can just sit and create. They are not manufactured. Not real stories. Real stories, where the reader is challenged and the words are vivid representations of an immaculate fiction, are a natural occurrence. The story is in you but it must find you. Trying to find it just means it s going to be harder for it to find you. But she was restless and frankly dangerous. She could kill her own imaginative spark if she continued to tire herself like this. By nightfall Pam was in the bedroom. The TV was flickering in response to the film it projected; A Serious Man. It was a Coenbrothers film, her favorite films. She found them fundamentally human, rooted in an almost provocative and sensual truth, yet somehow still able to make you lose yourself in the immersion of such magnificent fiction. Back at the desk Catherine sat with a bowl of soup still scribbling her conscience onto paper after paper trying to extract from herself something worthy of plot, scene, and ethos. It bothered Pam. While she did not consider herself in the same light that Catherine saw her Pam was not one to act as if a lifetime of bathing in the art of literature had not imparted upon her some wisdom. Catherine was doing it all wrong and she knew it but she had become addicted to the worlds she had put to paper. She longed to return there and it burned in her. Pam took a stack of lined paper from her night stand, walked through the hallway to the desk where Catherine was feverishly writing, dramatically slapped the papers in front of her, and sat on the floor. Catherine looked at Pam in a brief second of curiosity and began to read. The heading of the first page read Queens Of Nothing. The setting established was thewild west. A man of great age, with no name nor identity, stands at the gallows with 100 crimes and 7 daughters to his name. His daughters are all motherless, they live in the same home, the home where he was arrested. After he is arrested the oldest daughter, Faye, rallies her sisters to save their father whom they love deeply and leave town. That morning, with the old fugitive ready to meet his end, the daughters tactfully position themselves around the town square. With speed and charisma they cause a stir, frightening the townsfolk and law enforcement, carry their father with noose and all, and head westward. It was spectacular as always. Her best. It had the humanity of Shakespeare, the eloquence of Dickinson, but greater than all these attributes it felt entirely immersive and swimming with life. It was a part of Pam. It was her own style, her own attributes; it was the first story that could rightfully carry the signature handiwork of Pam in all of her deep and intellectual glory. It felt like phenomena on paper and it left Catherine in a twisted knot just dying for more. More of Pam. Not in a physical sense but in a fictional sense. To delve inside of her mind, to be her, to have her fingers which stroked the pen that wrote the words that penetrated not only the mind but the soul of its reader. It s a masterpiece. It s not finished, Pam said as she pushed herself to her feet. It isn t? Pam walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge The story isn t about the rescue. Pam took a can of beer out, closed the door, and took her first sip. She continued It s about Faye.
Catherine twisted her perspective trying her hardest to see it. It made sense in a way. Faye, the eldest daughter and only character with a name, bands together the only family she s ever known to save her father. Actually, it was beautiful. It completely shifted everything. It turned what Catherine originally saw as a sweeping tale of family into a personal opera of triumph. But yes, it was certainly unfinished. I want you to finish it, Pam said as she walked behind the desk to the chair where Catherine sat. Shocked Catherine replied Me? Why? It s your vision, it s your story, and it s almost perfect. I don t think I feel right about it. Try it, Pam said coyly. Catherine stared at where the story ended. This is ridiculous, she exclaimed as she got up I can barely write my own stuff, and yours is so potent. It s too weird of a mesh. It just won t work. I m telling you Pam looked at Catherine with a quasi-grin and a can of beer in her hand. Catherine knew what she was doing. She was challenging her and despite her constant denial the two both knew she would accept it. I can promise you this, Pam said almost ignoring Catherines cries You won t get anywhere with this method you ve got. Eventually you re going to have to open that door and realize that all good fiction finds you. It s not going to come through the walls. Catherine stood there looking foolish. To some that would ve felt like fair criticism but coming from Pam, the girl who spoke with her eyes and lips, it was a heavy lecture. One weighted with harsh truth and cold realities. Tony s invited us to his place tomorrow. His sister is finally going to Greece. And I should go, right? Catherine asked redundantly. I m just passing on the message, Pam said as she turned into the hall and into her room. The next day had come and gone with relative quickness. In frustration Catherine had not even touched the story. She didn t even want to remember that it was on her desk, although it weighed heavily on her mind. She collected in her mind what she knew of Faye. It wasn t difficult to compound a vision from Pam s words of who Faye was as a woman. The trap that Catherine constantly fell into was trying to decipher the ending that Pam may have intended. She needed to realize that the ending had to be natural, the world was alive and independent of either Pam or Catherine, and that the character had a life of her own. Catherine was merely carrying the torch of the messenger. It had become an overbearing and daunting task. And the party that night did little to ease her. Catherine didn t hate parties per se, but she did find herself feeling completely exposed. All of her social graces failed to protect her from a potential onslaught of strangers and booze. In the company of her
choosing Catherine was a doll but at a party she became an unpredictable whirlwind of awkward mannerisms and one too many conversational gaffes. Pam on the other hand was Pam. Quiet for sure but charming and seemingly fearless as always. The party was a few blocks away, just enough for Catherine to show up reasonably late but not so far that she had an excuse not to show up at all. She needed the fresh air and company anyway. If she stared at the wall facing that desk one more time she would easily have slipped into some putrid form of madness. No, tonight would be a night for new acquaintances and weird relaxation. She dressed herself in her most colorful casualwear, threw on a jacket, a cap, and left the apartment. Pam had already left so it gave Catherine some time to herself in the fresh air. The night made it all ominous but the cold kept her from sinking too deeply into her own thoughts. She walked with her hands in her pockets, her teeth occasionally chattering up and down restlessly. She had developed a habit as a child, to make stories for herself to pass the time and so she did. Though nothing particularly memorable the habit of passing dialog in her head or under her voice between two characters kept reminding her why she loved to write fiction. We all share so many qualities who is to say that one person can t be worth a million? When an actor or actress takes on a role do they find in themselves a character or does the character find something in them? The story Catherine liked but the characters were what Catherine loved. Finally, she reached the house. Tony and Florence were twins. Non-identical, fairly rich, and down to earth. Between the two of them and their father they got the jobs and the resources to move out and into a full house by 18. For a few years they were the envy of all their peers, and even still to some. As Catherine looked upon the house at the top of the driveway a million pungent memories came rushing back to her. Sitting around the fireplace, getting high, and discussing the works of Tennessee Williams and Ken Kesey from sunset to sunrise.Or standing around the bar in the basement debating the poetic legitimacy of Bob Dylan and Jim Morrison.Those were, in the clichest of ways, happier days. As time had grown into everyone the house became less of a small village of young close-knit thespians, writers, and thinkers and more into a riotous place of parties and indulgence. Some grew with it and others, like Catherine and Pam, just grew out of it. But Tony and Florence were still their friends, and with Florence finally living her dream and moving to Greece, who would they be if they didn t wish her farewell? As she entered the front door more than just warm air threw itself into her. The Sounds Hit Me raged from the speakers that were wired from the first floor to the basement. It was a familiar song, appropriate inmore ways than Catherine was willing to admit, and even better was she had stepped in just as its opening crash began. Looking around, the house was daintily lit. The lamps and chandeliers were all draped in thin fabric of various colors to give the house atmosphere. It was Tony and Florence s ironic sense of humor in trying to toe the line between middle and upper class. A type of humor that was lost on everyone but that was made up for by their striking charm and kind personalities. Catherine checked that she left nothing of value on her coat, threw it on the floor with a hundred others, inhaled, and braced the collage of people who had gathered.
People experience the world differently. A lot of people, most people, normal people see the world with their eyes. The lucky people, the blessed people, Apollo s children hear the world. And then there are the cursed people who experience the world in thought and words. Catherine, being one of those people, couldn t help but experience the sensory overload in a thousand little tangents. The socially ironic disarray of all the colors that planted themselves onto the wall and the faces of these beautiful people.The intoxicating sensation of alcohol, tobacco, weed, and sex that lifted itself into the air and gently brushed across the faces of its patrons in the form of scent. The thrilling climax as the beautiful Swedish blonde bombshell Ms. MajaIvarsson daringly begs and dares and demands you to hit her through the speakers. Every tiny detail, every small fragment, came to Catherine in pages and pages of observational literature. In poetry and quotes, the things that fiction breeds from. Much as she might regret the festivities it was indeed both the release and infusion she desperately needed. Pam was right as always. Catherine made her way to the kitchen where she fought with a hundred hands over a Corona, quickly scanned the room for a familiar face (there were none), and made her way into the basement. To the right of her was the bar where men and women, or boys and girls, were no doubt making their selections for a euphoric session of foreplay and fucking. Some were already mastering their art along the walls, on the couches, the floors, the ceilings if ever they found a way to break gravity. To the left of her the floor was divided amongst the dancers and the boppers; the people who loved the dancefloor just enough to move but not enough to really dance. Pam was a bopper, and there was Pam. Catherine walked directly across the stairs and as was her fashion she stood somewhere in the middle between the dancers and the lovers. The air was thick with a hundred different flavors of sight, sound, and smell. She even began to enjoy herself. The Corona was good, the music was sublime, the people were happy. Maybe it had even been so long since she had been to a party, or maybe she convinced herself so well, that it was time to readjust her thinking. Hey! Pam yelled from the dancefloor. She was looking right at Catherine but Catherine only laughed. Pam made her way from the dancefloor and Catherine said You know I don t dance! Pam responded Oh yeah! Neither do I! It was a tacky little way of getting a point across. Letting loose and all that. Pam turned around and headed upstairs and Catherine followed. Upstairs the air was significantly clearer, the rooms were much brighter, the noise was more tolerable. No one was dancing or fucking or anything. Just talking. This was where Catherine decided she belonged. She threw her beer bottle away, grabbed another, and followed Pam to the backyard where a very select few braced the cold either to smoke, or to take a break, or whatever. So, Pam said in an exhausted tone You re here. Yup, Catherine replied Good, good. It s kind of a madhouse but nothing s better for the brain than bouts of insanity. Yeah, I mean I don t hate it. I do feel a little aimless.
Pam gave her a look. A smirk. Catherine knew she was wrong from the get go. There was no aim. That was Pam s entire point. Catherine broke her stare asking Have you seen Tony or Florence? Florence, Pam replied Was upstairs in her room on the phone last I went up but she should be down soon. Tony went out to the store to restock everything. Don t think they expected the entire flock from all of Florence s past lives to show up. Ah, okay, Catherine casually replied. For a few seconds Catherine stood against the house staring at the stars while Pam just stared at Catherine. When Catherine realized it Pam had yet another smirk about her. Catherine could read between the lines and headed back into the house. There was a party and she was intent on benefitting from it. When she walked through the door she immediately heard a familiar voice shouting something unintelligible. Florence s voice was sweet but booming, almost melodic, and deep for a girl. She was a thinker by birth, a photographer by trade, and an artistic Swiss army knife. She had dabbled in sculpting, poetry, painting, modeling, acting, screenwriting, interior decoration, architecture, rock bands, punk bands, folk troupes, DJing, ballet, stripping, fashion, and graffiti before she had finally found her calling into photography at the tender age of 20. And at 21, she was living her dream of moving to Greece and perfecting her art. She had had green and purple hair since she was 12, always got what she wanted, and was always more than excited to share with others. As she made her way through the crowd, stopping every other foot step to shake hands and say a few kind words, she saw Catherine. Florence focused in on her, and darted in her direction. Of all the friends Florence had ever made, Catherine was her favorite and the one she was increasingly seeing the least of. Ever since the two met in 2nd grade watching Catherine grow into herself was almost surreal for Florence. She was becoming a writer, and that excited her. Catherine was always so shy and innocent and easy to be friends with. To Florence she just seemed like a writer, unlike herself who could never really allow the patience to find what she was made to do or who she was meant to be. Florence wrapped Catherine with her soft tan arms and Catherine responded beautifully. For one quick second Florence could imagine she and Catherine were together like she had always dreamed. I m so, so, so glad you made it! Florence said as she let Catherine loose Pam said she wasn t sure if you were coming! Come here! Florence grabbed Catherine by the hand and escorted her through the crowd to a wall completely covered in pictures. Wow! Catherine exclaimed I know right!? Florence said in excitement
The pictures were all taken by Florence. They were breathtaking pictures, but even moreso, they were pictures of places from their youth. A playground where the two pretended they were aliens, the red table where Florence had her 12th birthday and unveiled her signature hair, the middle school bathroom where an envious Catherine and an unsympathetic Florence had more than a few fights. It was all there, vivid and almost surreal, like little rooms that housed their history. The photography was bright, revealing, and fearless. I was kind of hoping you d like it. It was sort of my pet project. Florence said bouncily as she waited for a response from Catherine. After finally finding the words in the midst of her awe Catherine replied I I love it! she said with a smile It s awesome! Whatever laid heavy on Catherine s heart, whatever frustrations she had acquired in her pursuit of artistic validation, they left her for a moment. She turned to Florence and stared into her face. It was the face of a friend, her best friend when all was said and done, and even though the two may have had their differences and their moments apart she had taken it upon herself to immortalize their friendship on this gallant and prestigious wall. It was a memorial really. A fantastic memorial. The two hugged, holding each other tightly for what would be the last time. Catherine felt relieved in a way, she felt like there was still someone in the world whom she could lean on. Pam, she was a roommate and a great mentor, but Florence was something more. She was a part of her life. Florence however felt heartache and bittersweet regret. She had convinced herself that even if Catherine would take her she would never be the soulmate or lover that Catherine needed. Catherine was still searching, and Florence s self-validation journey was over. The two weren t compatible now and she was at peace with it, though it made the inevitable goodbye no better. Florence would carry a secret of love and passion until she died. And just like that Florence was called away by another friend. Later that night Catherine sat alone on one of the couches with her third beer completely full and a new surge of emotions shooting through her veins. Somewhere in this mess in her head she was waiting for it to come to her. She hadn t forgotten about the ending she would pen. Faye, and her sisters, and her father, need an ending. Or rather Faye needed one. She threw Faye in different scenarios in her head. What if she was caught? Or what if she had to fight the law again? Should the ending be good or bad? Should the world around her conform to the lesson she learns or should she conform to the lesson? It wasn t easy, not to find something that could match Pam s brilliance, but Catherine had invested herself so wholly into it that she demanded to see it through. Her mind was stuck on goodbyes. Good goodbyes. You rarely ever hear about sweet goodbyes. All you ever hear about are bad goodbyes, or mournful goodbyes, or awkward goodbyes. And sure, you hear about the beauty in these goodbyes, but what about a goodbye that is entirely alluring?
Finally, she decided that was the thing that was calling to her. It had grasped her, clutched her, found her here in this youthful and vibrant place just as Pam had said it would. Catherine felt inspired, relieved, revived. She was so anxious to return to her desk that she almost wanted to demand everyone leave the room so she could plant herself on the floor and write it all out page by page. She finished her alcohol and headed for the door. She stopped herself short, unknowingly directly in between two people who were talking, and thought for a brief moment. Was this it? Was she ready to tackle this deed which had infected her entire purpose? Maybe it was time to stop the thinking. Maybe it was time to take a leap of faith, to trust what she felt, and to pray for the best outcome. She took her coat, stormed out the front door, and began the walk down the driveway when she heard a voice calling her. Hey, Cathy! Only one person ever called her Cathy. Catherine hated that nickname. It was so unoriginal. So drab and disgusting. It tasted like poison to her ears and sounded even worse when it rolled off her tongue. Cathy. Like some kind of bastardization of the human ability to form spoken language. Almost like a complete parody of it even. It was terrible, it was stupid, and that was exactly why he would call her that. Just to bite into her. Cathy, Tony said I didn t even get to see you and you re leaving already? Sorry Tony, Catherine said Just, I guess I got wrapped up in some stuff I need to do and I got a little excited. Really sorry. No worries. Maybe I ll walk with you? Mhmm. Sure, Catherine nodded In truth Catherine minded very much when Tony was around. The two had a very complicated past, nothing nearly as pungent or longing as the past between Catherine and Florence, but something. Tony and Catherine did the friends who should be dating thing, the friends who almost have benefits thing, the friend who likes the one as a friend but the other feels something more thing, and the friends who hate each other thing. By the end it was all trivial and Catherine was often ready to forget about it, but the sight of Tony always brought it all back. Their relationship, undefined and unmemorable, had grown sour years ago but neither was willing to completely terminate it because each thought the mature thing to do was to pretend none of it ever happened. Tony walked beside Catherine unaware of all the thoughts that swirled in her head. If he knew, maybe he d have realized how incredibly rude he was being. Catherine was having her own conversation, a talk with a force beyond her, something that was giving birth within her a vision of fiction that could not be ignored. Haven t seen you in a while, Tony said trying to ignore his shivering How s everything?
Good, Catherine said matter of factly while shaking her head and staring at him with her big blue eyes Awesome. You still studying literature, right? Yeah.You? Aw, hell.Sociology, a little bit of music. Still not sure what I m gonna do with it all. Yeah, Catherine said with a chuckle I don t think anyone really does. Snow began to fall on the dark streets as the two crossed. It s gonna be so weird having Florence gone, Tony said, trying to ease the conversation into an organic state of liveliness I was wondering what were your plans now. Well I have two friends who are moving in so I won t be alone or anything. You remember Ralph and Darian? I love Darian! Catherine exclaimed. It was true. She did love Darian, though she hadn t seen him for a year. Yeah, he s moving in. I miss him. His poetry and paintings are Godly. Ah! Having him so close by will be wonderful. Hahaha, Tony laughed I m glad you approve! Maybe that means we ll see more of you? Hopefully. The thought that one of the old crew was coming back to the block was exciting for Catherine. Maybe the good ol days weren t dead. Maybe she just needed to go out and live them. It s been great seeing you again. Pam told me how you ve been stressed over your writing. You should really come by more often. I mean I know the gang has kind of dispersed and things have gotten a little rowdy but, well, I mean we re still friends, ya know? Thanks. That really does mean a lot. I ve just been in my head so much. And I want out! Catherine laughed and continued But that feeling you get, you know when you ve created something and it s this work that you can say came from your soul. I love it. It s tough to look inside yourself and not be able to find where the soul is that you got all that from. It s scary too. I mean, what can I do, ya know? If I ever lose that I ve lost myself. Everyone needs to take a break sometime. I mean where do you think you find the words that you pen to paper? I know. I just can t accept simplicity. If you accepted simplicity, Tony said with a smirk Your writing would suffer for it.
And it was true. Too true. Almost disturbingly true. Simplicity can kill writing. Drawing out the mundane, stretching the simple, exposing the complexity behind the stupid things we take for granted like a leaf or a habit or a pillow. That s what got Catherine s fingers punching feverishly away for days on end until her body collapsed in on itself. And she loved it, for all the stupid bullshit that came with it, she wouldn t trade her hyper analytical perspective for the world. The two arrived at the apartment building that Catherine lived at. The snow was sticking to the ground and footprints were beginning to litter the pavement. For the last block or so the two were almost completely silent, only occasionally pointing out an observation. She stepped on her stoop and hugged Tony tightly. She never felt happier to be so close to Tony, who clearly still cared about her even if they both hated that very thought. It was a mutual feeling with a mutual reaction. I ll see you around? Tony asked Catherine smiled and nodded positively before turning the key and heading into the building. Back at her desk, the papers sat almost staring at her. She had read through them one more time before finally deciding it was time to begin writing. Faye would have to say goodbye. In the end, the very person Faye fought to protect, would be who Faye would have to let go of. It wouldn t be the grandest or most dramatic of endings but it was one that she felt was human. It was an ending which she wanted to believe could be as immersive as the story itself. Faye s father would have to leave her. Some way or another what Faye fought for would have to become useless, but her fight would make it worth it. And like that, with the sun rising and a new day creeping through the window, the ending was penned. It was a challenging ending, one that took an incredible amount of faith to pen, but one that Catherine was proud of nonetheless. It was only the beginning, it was the doorway that she needed, the kickstart that had reminded her just how glorious it was to spill all of herself onto these blank pages which begged to be given meaning. Soon, a million tiny stories began to write themselves in her mind, leaping off of everything she saw and heard and touched. Her mind had returned to her and her soul was rejuvenated. Catherine walked to the window, smiling and proud. Outside the snow was building up and the sky was fluorescent orange. Pam came crashing through exclaiming It is cold as fucking balls! Catherine turned gracefully and said I ll make you some tea. She walked into the kitchen and began to boil the water while Pam kicked off her shoes and took off her pants which had become wet from all the snow. She walked to the desk and only needed to read a few lines before noticing that Catherine had finished the ending. She felt a strange sense of pride. It wasn t Pam s story anymore. It was Catherine s masterpiece. Even if it was only the tiniest fragment somewhere within these words Catherine found herself again. That was what made the story. In fiction she found herself again, her essence lied within every word. I finished it, Catherine said from the kitchen It s not the best ending but it felt so natural. You were right, that party and seeing Florence again, Catherine came out of the kitchen with excitement on her
face It just hit me hard. I could see everything like I did before. Every stupid overexagerated little detail of everything just got me going again. Pam continued to stay quiet, smiling, and scanning the pages. Anyway, Catherine said Thanks. I really did need something to bounce off of. I hope you like it. Do you like it? Pam asked. I felt it, Catherine replied tackily with a sigh of relief. Then I don t need to read it. Pam walked into her room and yelled Now if you excuse me, I smell like fucking and I need a shower. For once Catherine felt secure enough about her writing that Pam not expressly grading it didn t bother her. She knew her place, she knew her style. Catherine collected typewriters, Pam was a genius, andtogether they fit as naturally as the sweeping score of Tchaikovsky s Pathetique.
