No Regrets

This is short story I just finished writing. I'm toying around with the idea of writing something along the same ideas but in a longer form. As it is I'm rather pleased with how it turned out. I feel like it's a bit of a new writing style for me and I was rather happy with the first person tone. I'd like to still tweak with it a little more and make it better but I think I need to hold off for a bit and come back to it after a few weeks or so and see what I think then.
No Regrets


It is but a part of life that past decisions must be reconsidered, their wisdom debated, and inevitably, a few of them must be regretted. Choices of old must be considered with a wisdom gained only by the subsequent result of such a choice. A question must haunt the back of the mind with a persistency created by past regret, the question of "What if..."

The question lingers in the air, in the back of the mind, in the thoughts that mix with memories like new rain upon a long standing body of water.

Sometimes, this question is formed by idle curiosity, rather than even regret. Yet it always contains a strange poignancy, a power of haunting, for it is a question that can never be answered.
I used to regret. My thoughts used to dwell on how different things could have been if only my actions, words, and even thoughts had been different back then.

No longer do such thoughts disturb my mind however. I find myself satisfied- nay, grateful for each event, each choice, for they led me along a path that was to prove a formation of my mind, creating myself into the being I am today. Why should I regret such action and events that have had such a happy result? Why should I be troubled by what could have been, when what is now, is so much pleasanter?

It is true, the question can never have an answer. We can never find out what could have been, but only question and surmise. Not I, however, I have no wish to question, no wish for surmises. I am well pleased with the results of past events and past choices. The past has no power to haunt me. I am free from it.

There is a certain phrase that was uttered in reference to me that comes to my mind unasked for this day. An utterance from years ago, I do not know why I remember it. The words were spoken by a girl, she was simple and dim-witted, why do I remember her? She said, those many years ago, I should come to regret. How wrong she was proved. Poor silly girl, I used to think her very sweet and clever. It is almost amusing to consider one's thoughts back then, as a child.

It is my belief now, that in a child's mind anyone who happens to be friendly and cheerful is considered then both sweet and clever. It is the only explanation I can give for my finding any of my childhood playmates charming, for I was not dim-witted, nor was I simple, yet looking back now I find most of these playmates to have been thus.

Certainly Willa was thus, and if I were to regret anything in my life, I might almost say it would have been her friendship. It is rather painful for me to speak so of someone, I should not do it if I did not feel in every form this girl was a bad influence of my child self.

Days could have been better spent, instead they were wasted, as we whispered in our secret hideaways. Thoughts that could have been directed in productive manners were instead spent on false fantasies of magical lands. Childhood could have been better spent, instead it was spent with Willa.

"David," she had whispered one day, as she leaned against the windowsill.

"Uh huh?" I had nodded sleepily, still caught up with the clouds we had been looking at moments before.

"Don't you ever change. I don't like how people change as they grow up. They lose something, something beautiful that can never be regained, and then they seem to spend their entire lives searching to find that something once more. They can never find it though, and because of that they are left miserable and unhappy. I don‘t want to see you unhappy, I don‘t wish for anyone to be unhappy, but especially not you."

What did she want me to do, stay a child forever? Illusions die, fantasies are crushed, people grow up.
It is the order of things, how things are, and how they should be. Childhood is a short-lived stage of life, it should not be clung to or dwelled upon. It is a time of wasted opportunities and foolish dreams.
We must all grow up. The time of transition between childhood and adulthood comes at a different stage for each, but come it will. I did not expect it to take the form it did, but then, did I expect much back then? I knew nothing of life, of it’s fears, of it’s sorrows. I knew only the passing of each day, of counting stars and chasing butterflies, and Willa.

She was the only one who seemed to remain untouched in the possession of her childhood. While my other playfellows found to their surprise, each in turn, that they had parted with childhood forever, Willa remained the same. She grew taller, slimmer, more womanlike in appearance, yet her thoughts remained a child’s speculation. Speculations on dreams and fantasies and imaginings. I tried to tell her none of it was real, but she wouldn’t listen to me.

“Dreams are beautiful things, David. Don’t let go of them. Hold on to them. Don‘t you remember?” She had said.

I could only shake my head and wonder how she could remain such a child.

It was then I had realized for the first time how simple she was, how near-sighted. Why wasn’t she touched by the cold hand of reality that had so shaken me? Why didn’t she change? I had changed, it was good, it was for the best.

Of course I remembered those dreams. I remember them now, I remember lying on my back looking up at the sky and counting stars. Willa had tugged my sleeve and pointed out the falling star, we had both screwed our eyes closed and each wished. I remember those wishes now, and how sure we had been that they would come true. Perhaps Willa’s did, all I know was my wishes were lost in that all consuming darkness, the darkness of the night.

They were foolish wishes, foolish wishes of foolish children. Why should I remember them now?
I wanted Willa to change. I wanted her to loose that childish way of hers of always hoping, never fearing, knowing no worry, always hope. I wanted her to grow up, to be an adult, to face reality. I wanted that cold hand that had touched my soul to touch hers as well and make her see life as it was. I couldn’t understand how she remained untouched by any of it.

I remember that day, the day when childhood slipped out of my fingers like a sunbeam quickly fading in the evening. It had been my fault, I should have realized we had climbed too high on that steep little slope, I should have realized the edge was sheer and jutting and that Willa was worn out from the climb, but I was a child and I was thoughtless. She had slipped, just like that, and there she had been, lying on the dirt with her face drained of all color.

She had lived, but only just. I thought she was going to die that day and that I had murdered her, but she had lived. When I had found out I had almost wished she had died, I knew I would have wanted to have died in her place, anything rather than that. She was paralyzed, those young legs of hers would never walk again, and it had been my fault.

I waited for her to scream at me, to shriek out those words of hate and loathing. None had come.

“I don’t mind, David. Not all that much. I used my legs so very much all those years, perhaps it is good that I shall rest them now.” She had said with a smile.

I couldn’t understand it. I wanted her to hate me like I hated myself. I wanted her to show some accountable reaction, to look down at her stilled legs and cry at the thought of never running with them across the field with me. I didn’t understand how she could smile, how she could tease.

I know now that she was simply a foolish and dim-witted girl, too simple to understand the reality and hopelessness of the case. She would never walk again. It would never get better. There was no hope.
I couldn’t stand being around her. I couldn’t stand to see the results of what I had done. I had said goodbye, moved off to a boarding school, resolving to leave her and my childhood behind. When I left I could tell that she knew why I was leaving.

“It wasn’t your fault, David.” She had said.

We both knew that was a lie. It had been my fault, it was my fault, she would be forever caged in something that was my fault. I couldn’t believe she forgave me, it was impossible. She only took my hand out of memory of those childhood years, nothing more. She hated me.

“Goodbye, Willa.” I had said, trying not to let her see my hopelessness.

“Don’t go away, David. Don’t go away.” She had said suddenly. “If you go away now you’ll regret it. It will forever be something that haunts you as what could have been.”

Of course I don’t regret it. It was a choice that shaped my being into the man I am today. A business man, a man of intelligence, a man of sense, drive and skill.

Yet sometimes I wonder, what if...

First Person Writing

I’m thinking...

Last night the urge to write was strong, however, inspiration was sadly evasive. I feel like starting on a new story, but I’m having difficulties deciding on a plot line. This always seems the way, whenever the urge to write is the strongest, inspiration as to content of your story is always the hardest to find. Anyways, I was thinking of various writing styles that I could choose from, and I'm finding myself rather fascinated with writing in first-person. It's so very hard to write in first person well. I used to write all my stories in first person, and then I went through a stage where I realized how much easier it was and I felt that it was an easy way out, so I avoided it like the plague.

The truth is though, I think it is almost more challenging to write in first person because of that initial feeling that it is easier, because really, it isn't. I remembering that was what struck me the most when I read "Brideshead Revisited" for the first time. It was the gradual realization that I did not like the character from whose point of view the story was told, and I wasn't really meant to. It's interesting, I think, because when a story is told in first person you almost feel automatically an identification with the person through whose eyes you are seeing the story. It's hard to help- it's one's natural impulse, you are seeing the world through this character's eyes, so you can't help but feel attached to them in some shape or form. So I've been finding stories where it is told in first person but you end up disliking that character rather interesting.

Agatha Christie has written a few of them, another one that jumps to my mind is "Rebbecca," you don't really dislike the young woman from "Rebbecca" however, she is rather insignificant. She seems to be rather unimportant and we end up looking over her, seeing her only as a tool to view the more important, significant characters. The whole thought rather fascinates me, the idea of the character we see in first person being dis-likable or even insignificant as we view the bigger fuller picture of the other characters. I'm rather tempted to try my hand at writing in a styling like that.

Also, sadly, I think I'm in a rather melodramatic mood. I feel like writing a story of cutthroats and pirates and ruffians. Which is strangely out of my comfort zone as I've never written something like that, or at least, not for a great many years. I prefer to write "everyday" stories, stories of ordinary people living mostly ordinary lives. I'm not really sure if I could write a truly melodramatic story anyway, I would have too much fun with it and be poking fun at all the characters. Oh dear, the idea is getting rather more tempting with each second I turn it over, a tale in the first person with a bland, boring character who no one much likes. A melodramatic tale in which I make fun of all of my characters and their dramatics.

I definitely do want to attempt to write something in first-person again. It's really much more challenging, I think now, to write in first person without loosing the identity of your character and making them blah or making them into this super human with perfection in all things. Interesting thoughts to think about.

From the Kitchen...
Crumbs lying on a white plate with blue rim. A red mug, half filled with steaming coffee. An almost empty Coffee-pot sitting on the counter. These are the items our kitchen is made of in the morning.

I'm reading...

*scuffles bashfully* Emily has leaped to yet another book, last night I went and read a copy of L. M. Montgomery's short stories, cover to cover. All her stories make me so happy. I think carry them with me for always. Whenever I'm in a rather gloomy mood I shall whip out one of her books from my purse (that's the other nice thing about quite a few copies of her books, they are all so nice and small and yet plump at the same time that they fit especially well into one's purse) and I shall read a page or two, wherever I am. Then I shall go prancing around throwing flower petals and sunshine at the world.

I'm wearing...

Storybook description time: the girl writing away at her desk hunches over so she can adjust to a better positioning in which she can smack at the keyboard with her long fingers. Her blond hair is twisted and pulled over her shoulder. She looks rather sleepy and shivers for all of her warm red sweater. It is a cold, sleepy sort of morning.

Around the house...

There is really nowhere else I would rather be at the present moment. I'm really quite content sitting here, writing away at my journaling page this morning, though later this afternoon a nap might be nice. Is that too much of a luxury for me to ask for?

I'm listening to...

Pachebel Cannon is playing in the background. Do you know, I think it is fixedly in my mind Wedding music, because when I close my eyes I can picture the bride dressed in white, walking slowly up the isle, with the rest of the wedding party walking slowly after her. I feel like going to a wedding. I love weddings. They are just such beautiful, happy things. *beams happily as she thinks about it* Someone should get married and invite me to the invite me to their wedding. *contemplates* I could write a story one a wedding. *blinks* that could be a simply marvelous idea...I must think on this.

To live the liturgy...

I would like to make it to part of the twenty hour adoration this Friday. I'm not sure if I will be able since it's Eli's tenth birthday, but if not this week I definitely will make it the next week, and I might still be able to go this week, we just need to think how to plan it all.

I'm creating...

I just finished a four page letter and drawing that I'm going to be sending off to Australia today. Good speed to you, little letter.

A few plans for the rest of the week...

This week I'm going to be very good. A good scholar. I refuse to make any other little plans that might distract me from this goal. Emily has been bad girl recently. *hangs head*

One of my favorite things...

A spring breeze in the air, a book in my hand, a warm patch of sunlight out in the grassy yard, just reading. I'm ready for spring to come, can you tell? *beams*