A Short Story : Carmen : A Story Of A Story

Trista had always been a normal kid except for her stories. It wasn't that they were disturbing or horrific, they were just unusual. Sometimes they seemed exactly like the kind of thing you'd expect from a kid, but other times, I'd have to look at her and wonder how she came up with such things. It started when she was four, shortly after our dad split, leaving the two of us on our own.

Carmen is a student who goes above and beyond. She is an A & B student and is currently taking two AP classes. She is also very involved in school. She is part of the Organization of Latin American Students, member of the Theater Honor Society, and participates in soccer, cross country and track. Aside from her school activities she also works 25 hours a week. She was honest and said that worked played a big rolled in her low ACT score. Because of all of this she did not prepared and study as she should of. Carmen knows that she is a good student bases on her hard work and transcript but also know that she will need to learn how to manage her time and even work less hours once she is in college and she want to be successful academically.

I remember that fateful day waking up to my mom’s homemade pancakes. She would always get up early on Tuesday mornings and make them for me. They were the best pancakes ever, they were never dry, always light and fluffy. They were mouthwatering, and I couldn’t resist them and I followed the smell to the kitchen.

Awaiting the young hero's return the goddess couldn't help but stare off rather absent minded as the thoughts of the previous entangled within her brain. How would he react upon seeing her after all this time? Better yet, how would see? Seeing her beloved after such a long period of time; if made her heart beat nearly from the confines of her chest. A long sigh escaped her lips while the wafting smell of siring fish danced along the airwaves of the small one bedroom apartment, just across from the kitchen sat a table set for two with a rose in the center. It was romantic; she hoped. Dressed in a little black cocktail dress, and up-class converse green wedges. The lack of heels were, if only secretly a backup plan should he return with another

The summer winds dance through the cobbled streets and tickle the auburn branches, the olive leaves swaying delicately in reply. Burrowed within its protection dwell the many appalling crows that, without the vigilant eye, mask the rare white dove. The dove, whose soft lulling coos could revive the ears of the deaf as Juliet’s tender voice heals my sorrow.

I began my first day at Harbin Ophthalmology on August 10th, so far that first day has been the most eventful. I walked in, introduced myself, and was given a tour by a Technician named Carmen. As we walked around the office I was introduced to many people - most of which I’ve memorized their names. I was given a locker to keep my belongings and shown how what their process is for getting patients through. No one was exactly sure what they needed me to do that first day so much of my time was spent shadowing Carmen as she was examining patients. Forty minutes after I had arrived the Office Manager Stacy met with me to discuss what I would be doing, how long I would be interning with them, and what hours I would be working everyday.

Silent. At the edge of the sky there was a magnificent white patch, a turning page, catching the sun. The rest was ivory grey, with a subtle hint of mauve, just enough to announce the coming sunset. Scanning the horizon were the white cotton balls on cerulean satin, with a subtle layer of dove grey underneath, which was thin enough to let the light through. Stood there like a ghost, a silent observer of the venerable castle, and the clouds. The colossal mountains were shielding the inferior castle. Beyond the towering mountains was a decrepit, venerable and ancient castle like structure. The azure roof was coated and concealed by the thick opaque dust. The roof was as dusty as an abandoned warehouse floor. It was an elderly going paler as it got older and ancient. As I nonchalantly walked up the moaning narrow staircase, a thick mist of cold crisp air blew through me, rustling my hair and sending a chill down my spine.

It was a name he could not get out of his head. He could not stop thinking about her. Her rosy cheeks, her beautiful complexion. She was perfect, absolutely perfect.

It was a calm summer morning as Shirley’s golden hair tossed in the wind as she walked with her father, her emerald eyes glowing with joy and pleasure. She wore a scarlet short sleeve-shirt and jeans that came to her thighs. But this was only the cover. For if you looked deep into her emerald eyes you saw the remains of pain and suffering. If you could see through her cover of scarlet you could still see the scars of torture she could not run from.

But every so often they would get out of control and she would use one of the most effective methods, her Happy Place. It was a large, open room there was one bed with nothing but shear white sheets. Beside the bed was a single insignificant sandy colored nightstand stand with a book resting crooked on its surface. In her imagination she could never picture the wall behind her, she always assumed that it was merely a vortex of infinite tranquility. She assumed the wall was a swirling doorway to some darker part of her mind. There where two walls, one was behind the bed and the other was across from it. Each wall was covered in a warm snow wallpaper with glimmering pearl Fibonacci swirls spaced out across the surface like falling rain. The floor was a light sandy color, a layer of cool fog always hung just above the surface. When she walked the fog when cling to her ankles and swirl up behind her creating small towers. The most prominent aspect was the of the third wall, or lack there of rather. Instead of an enclosed room the third wall was translucent, instead wall-to-wall ceiling-to-floor window took up the entire space. Outside, the windows where hazed over with morning mist and droplets of dew slid gently down the glass. There was a vague essence of Paris, she could just make out the Eiffel Tower. Everything outside the room was foggy, as if her eyes weren’t meant to focus on any one

Her bedroom, with its private view that looked onto San Francisco below, spurred her imagination as she gazed out the windows to the bay. Sometimes, as she played by herself. Her room was her escape, with walls of rich shades of an Amaranthine berry, as evocative and inspiring to a young girl as a dish of sorbet. Her bedroom furnishings were gilded with silver, tasteful but imaginative. And a bedroom that any heir to a huge fortune would

Strangers gazed at her lustfully when they thought she wasn’t looking. At school she was the most popular without even trying- she was practically worshipped by boys. Even her teachers favoured her over other

The weather of the day perfectly resembles my mood. The dark, dreary clouds mimic the brooding anger bubbling up inside of me while my drenching wet window panes depict my damp cheeks. The beads of rainwater rushing down the glass, tracing paths as they go, symbolize the many tears I have shed these past few days. I place my hand against the window, fingertips lightly grazing the glass, and let my hand slowly descend towards the sill. I observe the sky absent-mindedly to see it morphing from a royal blue to the shade of my petite, knee-length dress which is black. Dull, plain, emotionless black. It’s the same dress I wore to Ryan’s surprise party I planned for him.

I wish I could say that it was all good until the very end, I wish I could say that fairy tales

The sky was a grey colour, almost smoke as I walked the cold and wet trip home to the castle. A storm was coming in. As I entered the doorway into the castle, I thought about my mother. She worked for the palace, like me. She was always whistling a sweet tune. So I’ve been told. I