On a street littered with dreams, in the intellectual ghetto, stood a cottage and a bungalow. In those residences lived childhood friends. Danielle in one and Donnie in the other. Born months apart, the lived lives so close that they were raised like siblings.
Their first year of school, Danielle got a blank book for Christmas and Donnie a gift-card to the bookshop. At first they were let down, disappointed by these gifts of learning. Little did they know this was their first taste of what was to come.
In between their homes stood a lone oak tree. Donnie, his towhead gleaming in the sun, sat under his favorite tree and read until he couldn't see anymore. Danielle, her red hair streaming, sat on the other side of the tree, thinking until her eyes were blurry with thought. And when the night came, they turned to each other to share what they found, Donnie his books and Danielle her dreaming.
They grew up under that tree. The years passed so quickly, until they were old enough that the boy and girl parts of them interfered with their simple friendship. The first year of high school, Danielle was budding and bumbling. Donnie was blustering and blushing. The two freshmen were unprepared for the change in life that was to come.
Donnie unknowingly went his own way. He joined the school paper and made friends with the intellectual crowd. Danielle sat in the corner and watched with a discerning eye. She catalogued his movement. She lamented at her loneliness. She saw the change, well before him.
Donnie made the best of grades and Danielle scraped by. He starred in the school play. She wrote angst filled poems and read them aloud in class. He defied social convention, embracing his geek pride like a badge. She stood outside her surrounding, watching but never participating.
At night they both lay in bed and wondered at their lives. Violence on the street, as stray shots rang out, woke them up from restless sleep. That violence was background to their growing.
The day came and they graduated. Donnie went onto university. He wanted to learn from the best writers and make himself known. Danielle picked up an apron and shifts from the local cafe. She thought about taking classes at the community college. She wrote stories between serving and took home all the great writers from her local library.
Donnie sent his stories to great magazines. He pursued his career with a vengeance. He met all the right people and shmoozed them all. Like a chameleon, he molded and modified his writing to suit whatever taste the market desired.
Danielle wrote stories alone. She read and wrote, trying all the styles and genera's available to her. And the pile sat unread by any but her. A stack of poems, stories, stage-plays, and screenplays.
Thanksgiving the year they turned thirty came briskly on their hometown street. Like any other year, the two long lost friends returned home to their families. Donnie stood in his tweed jacket and smoked his stinky pipe on the stoop. Danielle walked up the street, on her way home from a late shift.
Donnie smiled and waved. Danielle smiled back, a tired smile, but a smile nonetheless. He looked so well, she thought, so put together and sublime. She looks tired, he thought, so sad with her everyday routine.
They both walked back into their respective homes. Neither a regret between them. Donnie, pleased with himself, because he always wanted to be writer. Danielle, satisfied with her life, because she always wanted to write.
The End.
- ‹ previous
- 50 of 53
- next ›