[livejournal.com profile] fandom_muses: Writing Sample

Feb. 28th, 2006 04:31 pm
pez_love: (Jarod Ice Cream)
[personal profile] pez_love
1)What is one thing you've learned from your past?

Nothing. I don’t have a past.

But, I suppose if you look at it another way, I *have* learned something about *the* past. It’s a valuable thing...a thing too many people take for granted. To know who you are, where you came from...it’s a precious thing to know what makes you a person.

I sometimes wonder if my parents were anything like me. Do I like ice cream because my mom did? Do I like doughnuts because my dad did? What part of me comes from my dad? Do I have his nose? Do I really have my mom’s eyes, or do they really come from him?

Little things...*tiny* things, and I feel like I’m the only person in the world that doesn’t have them.

I know a lot of children are adopted, never know their families...but sometimes I think they got a better deal than I did. They grew up and ate PEZ and Oreos. They got to play with X-Ray Glasses and Rubix Cubes. They lived their lives...I simulated my way through mine.

I want memories of my own...that’s one of the reasons I ran away. I want answers, I want to fix the wrong I’ve done...but I also want memories. I think...I think that if I got caught tomorrow and locked away forever in the Centre again, I could be happy remembering my first bite of ice cream. I’d smuggle in some bubble gum and blow bubbles all day long. I can do things now I never could before.

Being a doctor or a police officer or a scientist is okay...but what I’m most proud of is the fact that I can blow bubble gum. That I know how to eat cookies. I even learned how to skip rocks.

I still don’t have a past...but I have a life. And I have a future.

It’s not much...but it’s a start.

2)Describe a dream you had. How did that dream make you feel?

He was outside again, staring at his younger self. All around him, there were clocks...time racing past, moving along without his consent. Lost time, wasted time...time he could never get back, time he didn’t have.

He could hear her voice...melodious and musical, see her as she put laundry up on the line.


She didn’t answer...she never answered.

And she still wouldn’t turn around.

Jarod’s eyes snapped open, body humming with tension until he finally relaxed back into the mattress, rubbing a hand over his face.

His face...*her* face. How much of it was hers? How much of it belonged to his dad? He had her picture and still, she never turned to face him in his dream. She still looked the same from behind, too...long, pretty red hair and a slender frame with perfect, smooth young hands. He didn’t see the aged woman in the picture he’d had altered...he saw the fragment of memory that had haunted him for so long.

And as Jarod lay there motionless, staring up at the cracked ceiling of his latest lair...he knew, deep down, that his mom would never turn around...because even if she had a picture...she still didn’t have a real face.

He was still looking...and had a feeling he always would be.


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