At school today, I was the bathroom monitor. I read short stories to keep my mind from going numb, like my ass was from the uncomfortable seat. It was disheartening.
But then the attractive, young substitute who likes to paint and sketch and play guitar talked to me, and that went well, in spite of my social shortcomings and inability to keep from being awkward.
After school, Melanie and I enjoyed a late lunch. Stomachs satisfied, we decided to indulge our creative appetites and went for a walk along the railroad tracks near Melanie’s home. I have always wanted to take off running along tracks, to follow them to remote destinations. I imagine it’s an anachronistic desire, but it lingers all the same. We left the tracks to follow tracks in the dirt before heading back. It was definitely inspirational, not only visually but audibly as Melanie gave me awesome, awesome advice.
As inspired as I was though, I fear I fell short with this prompt. Critiques are encouraged! I would love to make this piece better. It falls flat, particularly at the end.
But, that being said, I hope you enjoy it.
THE PROMPT: “Not-So-Anonymous Commenter” You’ve been writing a blog for a number of months now without issue, and then suddenly you’re confronted with an anonymous commenter who posts unwarranted slams against you. A techie friend helps you use the commenter’s IP address to get the address of this rogue. You head to the house ready to pick a fight – but when you knock on the door, the person who answers is someone you know.
As an aspiring writer, I knew that it was important me to have a blog as a way to get my name out there and as a way to connect to my readers. I stumbled at first, trying to increase the amount of subscribers and figure out what kind of posts readers would want to read, but after a couple of months, I really hit my stride.
And then March happened. I hate March. Come to think of it, I have always hated the third month of the year. I can trace this intense dislike back to school, when March would roll around and time would slow impossibly because there wasn’t a single day off in the whole month. March was long, tedious and more often than not, brought misery through overstaying its welcome, and its gray, damp weather. I hated March, and maybe karma is the reason I suffered my first internet hater during March. Some nasty man or woman tore apart my writing, which would be fine if they offered a critique, but the anonymous hater didn’t. The attacks on my writing became attacks on my personal life, and I became incensed. I was enraged, to be honest, and I employed my techie friend to help track down the physical address of the hater via the IP address. I was fairly surprised when the address turned to be less than ten minutes from my own.
I picked a day towards the end of the month and drove over. Steam was pouring from my ears, and I knew my face and most of my neck and chest were flushed. The anger and anticipation of the confrontation became a palpable heat that radiated from me. I parked along the lawn of the house across the street, marched over and banged on the door. I was seething, and thought it might be best to forget the whole thing – at least until I calmed myself and brought myself under some sort of semblance of control.
Then the door opened.
My jaw nearly cracked against the concrete. Standing before me was the boy I had been in love with for all of middle school and most of high school. I hadn’t seen him in years, and was surprised to find that he had not really changed. All his physical traits and personality quirks I had found so attractive as an adolescent remained – as far as I could tell.
“Pam? What are you doing here?” He was smiling, as if I was coming to have drinks and catch up and be all cutesy and nostalgic.
“What the hell is your problem?” I roared. His face fell almost instantly.
“What?” His eyes darkened with what must have been genuine confusion, but I was not going to let up.
“Don’t act like you don’t know why I’m here! Been reading any blogs lately, huh? Left any rude comments?” I was leaning further into his home, his sanctuary, eyes wide and wild and breathing ragged. I hoped I was scary and intimidating.
He looked away and started picking at the paint on the doorjamb. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He was an awful liar and he knew it – hence why he avoided eye contact and looked for a physical expulsion of his nervous energy.
“Bullshit! If you don’t like my writing, that’s one thing, but to call me pretentious and a fraud is awful! What did I ever do to you?”
He was shrinking in size somehow. He mumbled, “I’m sorry. I just –“
“Go to hell, asshole!” I turned and stormed away. I was proud of the dramatics of my exit, but also that I allowed my anger to have free reign. He had been rude and mean – that was plain and simple. There was no reason I had to listen to him excuse his actions, or try to rationalize his actions with some contrived explanation, or endure his apology that would be forced and anything but sincere. I felt vindicated, and decided that my next entry would be all about confrontations, and how sometimes they’re necessary. Everyone has a right to defend their creations, and everyone has a right to express their emotions.