An Adolescent Pledge, a vignette Options

[Guest_Maryellen_*]

An Adolescent Pledge

Bree turned the letter over in her hands.  The distinct all-cap script that lilted slightly to the right was unmistakable. Time lulled her into a sense of denial but the letter she prayed would never come now rested in the palm of her hand. With it came the reality of an unwanted past that entered her isolated existence by force. Stunned, Bree turned from the mailbox duty-bound to uphold a childhood pledge. Marc’s letter merely stood as a stark reminder of a promise she made in haste, a promise that now demanded fulfillment.
 
The mile walk home led up a series of steep switchbacks cut along the ridge of Camden Cove, a rugged peak that kept Bree far-removed from the haunting images she would rather forget.  Bree’s composure returned by the time her feet stepped onto the porch of her chalet.  Here, on the familiar footing of home, she shed her boots with one hand, the other clutched Marc’s letter as one boot, then the other hit the deck with a hollow thud.

Inside, Bree let her fingers drift along the return address of the letter and found herself muttering "Gosh darn you Rory, Gosh darn you and your lousy timing!"  

If Rory had a trademark, it was bad timing. Bree banished him from her life years ago; survival insisted on his extrication and it was clear that time had not changed him.  Even in the face of something as monumental as this, he, and his lousy timing were not going to be any different.

Rory remained an enigma.  She found herself enamored by the memory of his charm and disgusted by the vices he adored.  He was magnetic and debonair but Bree had been a victim to his menacing dark side one too many times.  Instinctively, she slid her fingers along the scar that ran the length of her right cheek from the corner of her eye to the edge of her lip; a brand Rory left her with after one of his darker moods.  

With a flip of the wrist, Bree tossed the letter on the kitchen counter. If ignored, perhaps Rory would disappear, but he remained and taunted her through the afternoon.

As evening fell, Bree retrieved a box from under her bed then scurried to the kitchen for the letter before the courage to face it left her.  It was disquieting to hold so many facets of Rory's life in her hands again.  

She opened the French doors and stepped onto the balcony juggling a coffee in one hand and her mementos of Rory in the other; outside, a vibrant evening greeted her.  Her beloved hammock cradled her, gently swaying, as she wrapped herself up inside the lives and times of the seventies, sipping a hazelnut elixir while darkness claimed its rightful place and a full moon began to rise.  

With fingers drawn to the letter again, she thought of Marc.  He made a solemn vow too and remained true to his word or she would not be sitting here trying to cope with the tattered remnants Rory left behind.  A smile graced her lips as thoughts of Marc who she kept safely squirreled away from view resurfaced.  Marc was Rory’s best friend but the first time they met, he immediately became her comrade, confidante, and guardian where Rory was concerned.  If Marc shirked his duty this time, she would have gladly thanked him for it but it was not in his character to walk away from anything he perceived as his responsibility.  

A north wind moved in to howl through the pines and as tangible as the wind’s voice Bree heard Marc chiding her from the depths of their past.

"C’mon girl, buck it up, put a lid on that dang anxiety of yours. Show me the grit that I know you’ve got."
 
Whether real or imagined, Bree felt the warmth of Marc’s reassuring touch and allowed her tears to burn, then fall.  

By midnight, the moon stood high on the arched back of night and the time to open the letter was upon her.  Bree turned it over, slid her index finger under the sealed flap, and tore it open.   A single sheet of paper neatly folded in half waited for her.  

The tip of a Marlboro trembled between fingers that she had to coerce into unfolding the paper. Reluctant eyes that did not want to acknowledge the message within remained fixed on the mountains.   Smoke swirled around her while eyes that threatened to spill over again finally glanced down at the words.

October 6th was all it said.  It was all it needed to say.

Bree let the tears fall until dawn when she could no longer postpone her long journey home.  Home, what an ironic term for a place she never thought of as home.  Still, she would return to the place of her youth and carry out a promise that once uttered, she wished had never escaped her lips.  With Marc by her side, Bree would witness Rory's execution.  In the keeping of an adolescent pledge, Rory would release them from the sentence that bound them in captivity with him. Prison does not need bars to hold one impotent to life, and in death, Rory would be merciful; he would parole their spirits.

Knowing things would never be the same Bree took a last look around the chalet, opened her locked box, and glanced at a fading photo of Rory for a moment before reaching beneath it to pull out a tiny ring. Her fingers traced the entwined hearts etched across the gold band whose inscription read “Rory and Bree, October 6, 1973.”

Bree began her journey home with their ring clutched in her fist. When the rhythmic hum of tires rolling across interstate pavement hypnotically filled the air, she slid the ring on her left hand and cried, “Gosh darn you Rory, Gosh darn you and your lousy timing."


Maryellen Clark

Note:  To meet the posting requirement, a few lines were changed to remove the mature language they contained.

[Peterpan]

Well Maryellen~ I cannot say much in way of crit. This is very well written. I must say I felt for Bree. Initially, before I had finished the prose I would have told you not to repeat the 'lousy' sentence...but on finishing I understand its significance. So well done. Bree is such a popular name on TV etc. I would change her name to something less known/used and perhaps your readers would take your prose more seriously? Just my view. I kept on thinking of Desperate Housewives? Up to you of course. Very good and very sad!

PP

:)

[Guest_Maryellen_*]

Hi Bev

Yeah Bree became a very popular name all of a sudden and I agree that perhaps a name change would be in good order for this character.  *smile*

I'll have to do some research on a more fitting name for her.

Thank you for the read and your insightful comments.

I worried about that "lousy" line repeating itself and hoped it would come off without sounding like added fluff.

I am still sitting on the fence with regard to leaving it in or removing it from the story...

I don't feel it has quite the impact that I had intended it to have -- maybe a revision there would be advised too.  Something with a little more punch perhaps...

Maryellen

[Guest_Nina_*]

Hi Mary

A well written and intruiging story.  It does however leave me with a few unanswered questions.

What was the adolescent pledge?
Why is Rory's timing so bad?

This would work very well as a prologue to a novel.  You could then go back in time to the seventies to give the reader a picture of the lead up and reasons for the pledge finally ending back in the present with Bree going back home for the execution, meeting Rory and Marc again.

As to the ending having more punch.  Perhaps if you left out the last paragraph and ended with the reading of the inscription on the ring, it would be a more powerful finish.

Nina


A few thoughts to use or ignore as you wish.

[add] {delete} comment

An Adolescent Pledge

Bree turned the letter over in her hands.  The distinct all-cap script that lilted slightly to the right was unmistakable. Time lulled her into a sense of denial but the letter she prayed would never come now rested in the palm of her hand. With it came the reality of an unwanted past that entered her isolated existence by force. Stunned, Bree turned from the mailbox duty-bound to uphold a childhood pledge. Marc’s letter merely stood as a stark reminder of a promise she['d] made in haste, a promise that now demanded fulfillment.

The mile walk home led up a series of steep switchbacks cut along the ridge of Camden Cove, a rugged peak that kept Bree far-removed from the haunting images she would rather forget.  Bree’s composure returned by the time {her feet}[she] stepped onto the porch of her chalet.  Here, on the familiar footing of home, she shed her boots with one hand, the other clutched Marc’s letter as one boot, then the other hit the deck with a hollow thud.

Inside, Bree let her fingers drift along the return address of the letter and found herself muttering "Gosh darn you Rory, {Gosh} darn you and your lousy timing!"  

If Rory had a trademark, it was bad timing. Bree [had] banished him from her life years ago; survival insisted on his extrication and it was clear that time had not changed him.  Even in the face of something as monumental as this, he, and his lousy timing were not going to be any different.

Rory remained an enigma.  She found herself enamored by the memory of his charm and disgusted by the vices he adored.  He was magnetic and debonair but Bree had been a victim {to}[of] his menacing dark side {one too many times}[once too often].  Instinctively, she slid her fingers along the scar that ran the length of her right cheek[,] from the corner of her eye to the edge of her lip; a brand Rory left her with after one of his darker moods.  

With a flip of the wrist, Bree tossed the letter on[to] the kitchen counter. If ignored, perhaps Rory would disappear{,}[;] but he remained and taunted her through[out] the afternoon.

As evening fell, Bree retrieved a box from under her bed[,] then scurried to the kitchen for the letter before the courage to face it left her.  It was disquieting to hold so many facets of Rory's life in her hands again.  

She opened the French doors and stepped onto the balcony juggling a coffee in one hand and her mementos of Rory in the other; outside, a vibrant evening greeted her.  Her beloved hammock cradled her, gently swaying, as she wrapped herself up inside the {lives}[life?] and times of the seventies, sipping a hazelnut elixir while darkness claimed its rightful place and a full moon began to rise.  

With fingers drawn to the letter again, she thought of Marc.  He [had] made a solemn vow too and remained true to his word or she would not be sitting here trying to cope with the tattered remnants Rory [had] left behind.  A smile graced her lips as thoughts of Marc[,] who[m?] she kept safely squirreled away from view[,] resurfaced.  Marc was Rory’s best friend but the first time they [had] met, he [had] immediately {became}[become] her comrade, confidante, and guardian where Rory was concerned.  If Marc [had]shirked his duty this time, she would have gladly thanked him for it but it was not in his character to walk away from anything he perceived as his responsibility.  

A north wind moved in to howl through the pines and as tangible as the wind’s voice Bree heard Marc chiding her from the depths of their past.

"C’mon girl, buck it up, put a lid on that dang anxiety of yours. Show me the grit that I know you’ve got."

Whether real or imagined, Bree felt the warmth of Marc’s reassuring touch and allowed her tears to burn, then fall.  

By midnight, the moon stood high on the arched back of night and the time to open the letter was upon her.  Bree turned it over, slid her index finger under the sealed flap, and tore it open.   A single sheet of paper neatly folded in half waited for her.  

The tip of a Marlboro trembled between fingers that she had to coerce into unfolding the paper. Reluctant eyes[,] that did not want to acknowledge the message within[,] remained fixed on the mountains.   Smoke swirled around her while eyes[,] that threatened to spill over again[,] finally glanced down at the words.

October 6th perhaps put the date in italics? was all it said.  It was all it needed to say.

{Bree let the}[Her] tears {fall}[fell] until dawn[,] when she could no longer postpone her long journey home.  Home, what an ironic term for a place she never thought of as home.  Still, she would return to the place of her youth and carry out a promise that once uttered, she wished had never escaped her lips.  With Marc by her side, Bree would witness Rory's execution.  In the keeping of an adolescent pledge, Rory would release them from the sentence that bound them in captivity with him. Prison does not need bars to hold one impotent to life, and in death, Rory would be merciful; he would parole their spirits.

Knowing things would never be the same Bree took a last look around the chalet, {opened her}[un]locked [the] box, and glanced at a fading photo of Rory for a moment[,] before reaching beneath it to pull out a tiny ring. Her fingers traced the entwined hearts etched across the gold band whose inscription read “Rory and Bree, October 6, 1973.”

Bree began her journey home with their ring clutched in her fist. When the rhythmic hum of tires rolling across interstate pavement hypnotically filled the air, she slid the ring on her left hand and cried, “{Gosh} darn you Rory, {Gosh} darn you and your lousy timing."