Fall in love with a girl that writes....

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Fall in love with the girl who writes. 

It may sound silly, but if you do, your memory will always remain. Whether it is on the back of an old receipt  or a piece of notebook paper, you will always be camouflaged within the curve of her poor penmanship.  You are the cause of her puzzled look of confusion as she sits behind the computer. I am sure you can see her now, wide-eyed, pressing her lips in silent frustration trying to make sense of the noise in her heart. She's quirky, emotional, and undeniably lost in her own little world.. but love her anyway. 

I ask you again to fall in love with the girl who writes. 

Yes, the one who would rather spend money on journals than the extra shot of espresso at the fancy coffee shop. Her inspiration does not derive from the heavy influx of caffeine but the people who surround her. She takes note of the detail, just as she notices the detail within the masculinity of your jaw bone or the way you brush your fingers through your hair. Or the way you study her, when you think she's not looking. You are her inspiration. 

Support her endeavors. Gift her pens filled with colorful ink that she will undoubtedly smear across her fingertips or the side of her hand as she loses herself in a story she dreamt the evening before. Ignore the anger and crumpled pieces of paper that blanket the hardwood floor. She needs those, she just doesn't know it yet. Don't ever let her throw any of it away. Bring her peppermint tea, or a glass of red, and kiss her. Your encouragement will make her smile through the block she convinced herself she was in. 

Fall in love with the girl who writes of sadness. Don't ask where it derived from. Let her bleed on the paper and catch any fallen tears. Don't assume that you are the knight in shinning armor when she writes of love. She has had many broken hearts, memorable moments, and she needs to relive the fluidity of each second. Don't worry, she will always come back to you--and the moment she knew you would become a wall full of post-its. 

Let her write when she should be working. Don't scold her for missing something important you said. She was creating; cultivating, and building a foundation. Always remember to point out the spelling errors, but don't get too critical. She lives by Hemingway's sentiment: "The first draft of anything is shit." Laugh with her, when she rolls her eyes and begrudgingly reminds you of this. 

If you fall in love with a girl who writes, try not to let her go. 

She's complex.

Sensitive. 

And she may blame herself. 

But then again, she always has one thing to turn to. Blank pages will always be available, and a pen will always be in her front pocket of her purse. She will get through. 

After all, writing is her therapy. 

-kristina a. caron

Black Balloons

The party is over; diamonds shatter upon the floor where we dance unwarily contemplating each others next move. Although red wine lingers within the cracks of your lips, you're intoxicated by the lights spinning on the ceiling. A black balloon with a red piece of string floats among the fog; dreary and thick of stale cigarette smoke. You're smiling, stumbling on the words that threaten to fall from the corners of your mouth. Amazingly, they fail to canvas the space between us as you drop the bottle held loosely in your hand. I'm nervous, deciphering the language of your movement. Like a movie, black and white, you move forward anticipating the reaction of envious spectators. Your lips find mine; surprisingly cool, longing for my response. Much like the black balloon, I drift away in your kiss--

Creative Writing Piece | By: Kristina Caron

An Excerpt: Chance Encounter

It was at the light house; the light house at the end of the sandy beach where he left the tarnished bottle of Merlot. The letter, slightly torn, was placed delicately inside and concealed with the remnants of the cork she had playfully thrown at him upon opening the bottle. It was one of her favorites, slightly expensive, but rich with a varietal blend of grapes that made her delightfully flirty and intoxicated by his arguable sense of humor. They had shared the bottle just to celebrate the simplicity of living and being able to breathe the mystery of the salty sea air. 

They had met by chance. She was running along the compact beach, merely an inch or two away from the waves that threatened to engulf her within their hefty arms. He had been fishing that early morning, not because he wanted to, but because it was ritual. He and his father had done it since he was a little boy, and he could not find the heart to abandon his father's passion. It had been a year that very day, that his health deteriorated and took away his last breath. 

He could see the outline of her body, slim, yet muscular, through the rays of sunshine that kissed her ivory skin. She appeared happy, lost within the rhythmic trance of her steady heart beat and the slight pounding of her feet. Her hair, loosely held in a ponytail moved gracefully with each of her passing strides. He remembers casting the line out into the ocean, careful not to stare. Politely, she nodded as she ran past him, revealing an enticing aroma of lavender, perhaps from the perspiration leaving her pores. Her smile, was that of a movie star, bright and undeniably welcoming. He responded by waving and smiling back at her. 

He was certain that there are very few moments where beauty truly stops the blood from pumping through ones heart. And as she ran past him that early June morning, he knew that he was in trouble of losing himself within the layers of her beauty.

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Midnight

"Night is purer than day; it is better for thinking, loving and dreaming. At night everything is more intense, more true. The echo of words that have been spoken during the day takes on a new and deeper meaning."

--Elie Wiesel, Dawn

Clever Trick

She is sitting in a smoky bar, wearing nothing but a simple black dress and a string of pearls. Her poison of choice appears to be whiskey; light in color, yet rich in amber tones. Methodically, she wipes the condensation that seeps from the translucent material as if she has been waiting. She appears distraught, almost distracted, as she repeatedly glances at the door through anxious eyes.

In the distance, a faint cry of an old Eagles song weeps from the jukebox. Couples are heard laughing over $1 Budweiser long necks. The bartender oblivious to her apprehension initiates conversation. She meets his gaze, smiling as if she is interested in what he has to say. A clever trick, as so it would appear to the stranger studying her through thick clouds of stale cigarette smoke. Quietly, she declines his warm advances and moves elegantly towards the restroom. 

As she moves towards the back of the building, she takes note of the art adorning the wall. A young Dean stares back at her with a cigarette hanging seductively from his bottom lip. For a moment she stares, contemplating the young man before her. Slowly, she pushes the heavy metal door into the bathroom. The decor, like most public restrooms is horrendous, yet she can't help but trace the outlines of old phone numbers carved into the stalls with her fingertips. 

When she arrives back to the bar, she notices that the bartender has refilled her drink. She nods politely, thanking him as she pulls a few loose bills from her wallet. Again, she glances at the door. 

In her peripheral she watches as the bartender gazes intently. He appears to be in his early thirties, perhaps younger. "You are a mystery to me." Startled, she inquires, "Excuse me?" "A mystery. Did you not hear me the first time? He laughs revealing a dangerous smile. "I did, but I wanted to ignore you", she scoffs, clearly masking her sudden interest in the man before her. He laughs at her once more, "Sweetheart, we both know that you don't want to be ignored. Otherwise you wouldn't have worn that dress." 

Slightly wounded, she takes a long pull from her glass. She watches him, as he stands motionless eager for a rebuttal. Instead of appeasing him, she moves her eyes once more to the door. At that moment, he appears...