Grade 12 Creative Writing Portfolio

          “Come on man, get up. It’s already 9, and I gotta go to work. I can’t stick around all day to make sure you get your shit done.” After a moment of loud groaning, a raspy voice crackled from the futon in the corner in response. “Oh come on dude, close the shades, why you gotta do that? My head is pounding.” A bare arm stretched out from underneath the off-white comforter, and began blindly scavenging the nightstand for the ever-so-familiar-shaped pill bottle. In a moment of relief, the sullied fingers quickly uncurled in surprise, snatching the bottle from the table and retreating back into their coven. The little red tablets jingled in delight and danced their way into the palm they knew so well. How many today? Four? Maybe five? Whatever it took to cease the pounding, was always the answer. Then all at once they were gulped down with the nodding back of a head.

In the midst of Kent's muffled grunts, an uncomfortable tension arose and began to swell in the room. "The shades aren’t even open, man," Tim mumbled, as he inched toward the front door. A brief silence thickened in the air, followed by a deep sigh. "Kent, this isn’t easy, man. I swear, it isn’t. But this has got to stop, and for your own good." He could barely finish what he was saying now. "If you don’t come up with the rent this month, you’re out. I’m so sorry.” The creak of the heavy door echoed through the lonely apartment as the metal clicked shut, his words still hanging in the air.

              It was one in the afternoon by the time Kent was up and out the door, dark shades on, hands stuffed in his pockets. It was November, and New York was still New York- the hustle and bustle still flooded the concrete, horns and sirens still flooded the crisp air. Everything had its daily routine, even Kent; he'd roll out of bed sometime past noon, make something of an attempt to find a job, and when all efforts failed, would end up in the same place he always did- the bar. He'd use up the last of the money he'd won playing pool the night before on some more cheap liquor and after a beer or ten, manage to stumble his way back to Tim’s apartment during the early hours of the morning, only to repeat himself the next day, once he seemed to regain consciousness.

              It hadn't always been like this, though. He'd once gone to school, art school, where the professors learned more from him than he'd ever learned in return; he'd once had friends, and a lot of them, with goals and passions similar to his own; he'd once had a life, bubbling with creativity and charisma. Some days, he'd lock himself in his room, refusing to come out until his painting was perfect, until he had work to show, until he was satisfied with himself. He would stun the people he knew, leaving them at a loss for words before his products. It was all so natural to Kent, the paint nearly flowing from his fingertips; but that was all in the past, a time that no one seemed to remember anymore. All they could remember was his fall. One might expect that a man so flawless could not have been true; that he, too, was struggling with his own demons, if not worse than the rest. But back then, that fact didn't matter. It never matters. When a man of such perfection fails, he fails hard; and whether he works to rebuild himself is in his own hands.

             Kent merged into the sidewalk traffic in a slow shuffle, immediately getting the silent glares of disapproval and dramatic sighs of people who swerved impatiently around him. But despite the hurried flow of pedestrians, Kent continued with a sluggish bounce in his step, on and on, past the shops, past the street art, past the "NOW HIRING" signs. No one looked at him, and he eluded eye contact with anything other than the cold tar underneath his feet. As he walked, Tim's words echoed in the back of his mind, the tone of disappointment leaving goosebumps on his skin. Tim was the only person left that understood Kent, and he too, was becoming sick of bearing the burden. For three years, he had given Kent food, money, a roof over his head; without the slightest bit of recompense. Three long years. Kent winced at the thought, stopping short in the midst of the busy walkway. For a moment, he didn't move, didn't breathe; he was alone on this road, as hundreds of strangers whizzed past, the outside world continuing as is. There was nothing more he could do.

           Kent had been slumped over on the weathered cushion of the bar stool, fingering the rim of his glass, when he decided to get some air and release himself for a smoke. For hours he'd been sitting there, and had ran out of money completely to show for it. His vision was beginning to blur when he slowly stood up, but luckily, the path to the back door was one that he knew. Outside, the world was pitch dark, the temperatures well below freezing. What time is it? He hadn’t checked the clock before he had stepped out, but he didn't care to know. Underneath the sensor light he huddled, leaning against the wall to hold himself upright while he sparked his cigarette. "It's a sad night out here in New York City!" he mumbled out loud, chuckling to himself, before realizing there was no one there to listen.

          As he puffed lazily on the stick, his mind began to wander back to Tim. Kent considered whether Tim was back at the apartment yet, whether he had shuffled through the front door, in hopes of seeing Kent with something to show, whether he was genuinely disappointed by the truth, or whether he was used to it by now. Kent's body stiffened up against the wall as he allowed the smokey thought to drift up into the night air.

            It was then that Kent seemed to notice a thin slice of paper in the corner of the alleyway, pinned between the dumpster and the pavement. It was flapping uncontrollably in the cool breeze, struggling to free itself from underneath the weight of the trash. He attempted to ignore it, but the harder he tried to block it out, the more distracted he became by the choking of the paper. Too bothered now to finish his cigarette, he flicked it onto the pavement and dragged himself over. Oh, it's just a stupid flyer, he thought, snatching the sheet from the ground, leaving the torn corners stuck in their place. Scrolled across the top, in thick, bold letters read:

 

Attention! Calling all artists in the Bronx area!

We need YOU!

Upcoming art exhibit, December 1

Put your best work forward!

Opportunities may arise!

 

 

Kent turned cold and his expression went blank. His attention focused on an obscure spot in the far distance. For a moment he just stood there, dizzy and emotionless, before crumpling the paper in a tight ball and chucking it onto the ground. He hustled back inside, allowing the door to slam behind him.

             Inside the bar, the blinking neon signs and hazy cigarette smoke were beginning to blur together. Kent staggered past the familiar faces toward his stool, but the bar was full, leaving him stranded in the middle of a sea of raunchy people he could no longer stand. The room started to spin and tilt around him- Kent hunched forward and rested his hands limply on his knees, sure that he would be sick. His stomach twisted and heaved, but there was no vomit. He unrolled his body and pushed towards the front door to leave, surrounded by a fast-paced night, but still moving in slow motion. As he stumbled through the crowd, the music seemed to be amplifying, beads of sweat forming upon his forehead. He had reached the edge and all at once burst out the door, staggering into the street and nearly toppling over.

              Kent knew that he could not go back to Tim's apartment, not like this. He collapsed on the street curb, leaving his head to hang between his knees, his body shaking uncontrollably. Down his cheeks the tears fell, as he let out a painful whimper. For years, Kent had forgotten how to cry; tonight, he sobbed for all those times he should've; for his mother, for Tim, for himself. He lay down against the cold, hard concrete, his damp face glistening under the street lights.  Through the sobs, his voice cracked, "What the fuck have I done?"

           A few hours later, Kent awoke to find himself curled up in the same position on the pavement. It was barely dawn, the night sky still tinged with shades of blue and purple. He pulled himself over to the curb and managed to sit up, his head held in his hands, as he pieced together his night. After a moment of silence and recollection, Kent slowly stood up and began to march down the street. Turning into an alleyway, he spotted a crumpled ball of paper in the corner. He creeped steadily toward the ball, then scooped it up and tucked it away in his pocket, where he held on to it tightly.

            On his walk back to Tim's apartment, Kent took a different route than he usually did. In truth, this way was quicker, but for years he had avoided it. As he strolled down the block, his memories began to unravel one step at a time. To his right was that coffee shop he'd spent so many hours in, scribbling down lists and doodles of people he saw. Across the street was that lounge they would all meet at on Friday nights for shots and karaoke, and a whole lot of embarrassment. Down the block was the first place he'd kissed that cute girl- what was her name again, Carrie? Katie? The past that he had neglected for so long was being pieced together before his eyes; a smile hinted upon Kent's gritted face, as his eyes filled to the brim.

             Kent continued down the street, his head held high, his face beaming, as he took in his surroundings. Before crossing the intersection to continue down the avenue, Kent stopped short, and paused for a brief second at the corner. His breathing slowed as his eyes closed shut and he turned in place to his right. After a deep breathe, he released the tight grip of his eyelids, and there it was before him. It had been so long since he'd been here, but every detail seemed to come back to him as if they had never been pushed away. He refrained from breathing, as he inched forward, struck with amazement. Inside, rows and rows of endless supply lined the space, the colors bouncing off of each other, splattering against the walls. Kent closed in the space between him and the window, and touched his fingertips to the glass as he peered inside.

Kent was home.