She paces toward the bathroom. Her loafer slippers drag against the floorboards to the beat of the music. The bedroom is cool but the rest of the house is a thousand degrees. “It’s never ok to hurt someone, not physically or any other way.”
Hell wouldn’t have a bedroom to cool off in, she’s lucky. She’s a lucky girl to have such pleasures in this life. The clock on wall ticks but she can’t hear it even when she gets in its face. She feels her chest begin to sweat.
Back to the bedroom.
The house is full of her acceptance. A beautiful house on a U with a ghost-black gate around it. No trespassers. No hate from the outside coming in, just a community of names. Everyone knows names.
“Integrity without knowledge is weak and useless, and knowledge without integrity is dangerous and dreadful.” – Samuel Johnson (1709 – 1784), English Author, Poet, and Literary Critic and Writer
I had been thinking about the good guy vs the bad in a collection of short stories I’ve been working on, and I was reminded that in life no human is ever pure bad or pure good. What is most important when developing my characters is that I display my characters as their true selves. Whether they are good or bad doesn’t matter. As long as I display them as true as possible, they will make the choices themselves. The truth is we all teeter between being the good guy and the bad guy. And the gray area where we can’t seem to navigate is what makes us human.
“I’m a little purple person,” it whispered in my ear. “I run and frolick and think of the many ways I can return to you. It’s just a matter of getting to you.” It takes ten huge steps away from me, but since it’s so small it doesn’t get more then 3 inches from my face. It sits, crosses it’s legs, and faces me. “In between the spaces is space, my dear poet, it’s space to be filled with memories and love and if you even feel the need, hate.” The little purple person then lays down staring at my popcorn ceiling, and places two arms behind his head. “And if you must know, my dear poet, the space between my maddening choices is balance. Where the imagination runs wild because the madness isn’t present, but it was and it will be. Some call it peace, but I believe, my dear poet,” he faces me now, “it’s best left temporary. Because to grow we must change.” He goes silent and slowly closes his eyes. I study this tiny person. He must be no bigger than my thumb. I roll over and look at my popcorn ceiling. My eyes slowly close. That could be true, it could be true.