Dream A Little Dream

mood: hopeful

This is my latest story. I wrote it few months back for my creative writing class. I will confess that I don't think it's one of my better stories, but I suppose it isn't the worst I've written either. lol. I'm hoping someone out there will find it interesting and comment on it. Here is the basic summary: Set in the 1870s. A seventeen year old white man dreams of being a teacher, and is granted his wish to hold a temporary teaching job in a negro village. At this village, he deals with racism from both sides: a negro man who does not want him in the village, and a small group of whites who cause trouble for the village and anyone who tries to help or befriend them. ASR (PG) rating for non-graphic violence and racial themes. 


Chapter 1

It wasn’t unusual to find Daniel Marshall sitting on the steps of the school house during recess. A book lying open across his lap was a signal to the other kids that he had no intention of playing sports that day. Anyone who knew Daniel knew of his love for knowledge. They also knew of a dream that lay deep inside of him. He wanted to be a teacher.

mood: melancholy

We had never met face to face, and only heard each other's voice on ocassion. But almost everyone knows that what it takes to be a friend has nothing to do with what you look like or how you sound - it all comes down to the person you are inside. This was how my best friend and I had known each other. It was a common interest in old TV shows that brought us together, and would keep us on Yahoo IM through all hours of the night. We didn't just chat about old shows and movies, but about ourselves: our likes and dislikes, our fears and regrets, memories - both good and bad. She was the only one I could trust enough to go to with my problems, and she felt the same about me. 
Shortly after we had met, she introduced me to the art of writing. I had never heard of fanfiction before, but was soon caught up in it. She and I spent countless hours writing stories about some of our favorite shows. She would normally handle the "clean" romantic side of the story. Not being one for a lot of mush, I would tackle the action/adventure side. Together, we could put out some pretty interesting - if not always believable - stories. Whenever either of us went solo for a story, we'd still include the other one in the review/suggestions department. We were both very much a part of each other's writing.
Then it happened. One day in 2005, she told me she had been diagnosed with lung cancer. I had never been threatened with the possibility of losing someone so close to me. She was so upbeat and positive about it, that she had me convinced that I wouldn't lose her. So we kept on chatting and writing - our time on the internet together being cut shorter because she was becoming more weak and tired. Just a part of the therapy, I was sure. After it was over, we'd be back to our usual long nights of chatting. Eventually, though, I stopped hearing from her all together. I tried e-mails, snail mail, phone calls, but I was getting no where. Several months went by. It was now early 2006. I finally remembered seeing email addresses attached to her forwards. I selected one of the e-mail addresses that I knew to be her neighbor. I told the neighbor that I hadn't heard from my friend in quite some time, and asked how she was doing. The neighbor replied a few days later saying she didn't quite know how to tell me, but my friend had passed away a few days before. 
The next several months were a mixture of heartaches and tears. It never failed. Whenever I would think about her and talk about her, even now, I still become misty-eyed. In a journal, I keep her last letter to me, and I still write letters to her. I'm not exactly sure why. Maybe it's just to help myself deal with not being able to talk to her anymore. Maybe I even dare hope a little that God allows her to see the letters. 
Since those days, I've managed to put out a few stories, but not as much as I used to when she was around. Eventually it's come to the point that I just can't seem to write anymore. My imagination still works, and I can see a story play out in my head. But whenever I sit down to type it out, nothing happens. I've never fancied myself to be a great writer, but my stories since she's died all seem to lack something. I feel as if I've lost my style of writing along with my best friend.