The main reason for this blog is to get me to write. I’m still not 100% sure how to get a job with my English Degree, but I’m hoping that it will involve writing in some capacity. This includes creative writing, which I haven’t done very much since leaving school. Or at all. OK, I haven’t done any creative writing at all for a while now, but I hope to change that. Rather than just writing something creative for the sake of having it here, I thought I would start by posting something that I wrote a few years ago that I really like. Before that though I thought I would bore everyone with this rambling paragraph. Anyway, here is my (very short) short story:
A Rose for Bethany
By Travis Milam
Bethany use to feel like a prisoner when she looked out at the world from her bedroom window. The mountains that straddled the long valley had seemed like giant fences, and the hickories and elms at the edge of the drive had been like a closed gate, swallowing the road.
Just to the left of the drive hunkered Hank’s shed – the guard tower of Bethany’s prison. It was a ramshackle edifice of scrap wood and rusty nails, punctuated by a stove pipe that would have normally been spinning out a steady stream of grey-black smoke at this time of year. Looking at it, Bethany could almost smell the whiskey overpowering the fresh scent of lilacs; she could almost feel the beatings and the rapes. But now the warden’s office was dormant and dark, its dusty windows devoid of the pale glow that often emanated from the hanging bulb within. Hank’s heart – the dismal thing that it was – had finally given up on him, just like Bethany had done years ago.
Bethany exhaled, and felt a great weight leave her body with the outrush of air. Now, she found the view from her window to be breathtaking – beautiful even, aside from Hank’s decrepit shack. The mountains she gazed upon seemed to exhale as well, inviting her to explore the world beyond their boundaries instead of conspiring to seal her within their walls. The wisps of cloud that encircled the distant peaks no longer reminded Bethany of Constantine wire. Now they looked like halos. No longer did the trees seem to swallow the road. Instead, they parted for it as it wound its way down through the valley.
Tomorrow, she would call for a bulldozer, and have that shambling tyranny, standing now like a crumbling sepulcher, removed from her lawn. Then she would plant a rose garden.