Thursday, December 29, 2011

New Piece...Advice, Please?

I started playing around with a new idea, and wanted my fellow bloggers to tell me how they like it. It is a piece where a writer gets "stuck" inside one of her own characters (although at first she doesn't realize it). The story is all about looking at writing from the inside out, from the character's view. The author, fashioned after myself, will learn to make her stories real and her character's believable. Anyway, here is a sneak peek of it.

I opened my eyes and looked around but I wasn’t greeted by the blue familiar walls I was used to. Instead the walls were pink and my alarm clock was beeping in an odd tone I had never heard before. I felt my body being lifted from the bed, but there was no one else in the room, no hands supported me. I panicked. My feet touched the floor and my arm reached out and slapped the alarm, silencing it. How was my body moving without me moving it?
I got to my feet and walked toward a full length mirror that I swear hadn’t been there the day before. The whole room was different, yet familiar, like I had been there once before. When I glanced at myself in the mirror I soon discovered that I wasn’t me. Gone was my long brown hair and grey-blue eyes; in its place was shoulder length blonde curls and piercing green eyes. I was dressed in red flannel pajama pants and a T-shirt for a Sweetwater High School Basketball team I had never heard of. I tried to scream but my mouth didn’t move but to grimace at my bed head. My hands reached up to tug on the short strands of hair but it was kind of a lost cause.
By this time, I had a few things figured out. One, I was inside a body that was so obviously not mine; in a life that wasn’t mine. I couldn’t move, talk, or probably eat, but I could feel everything she felt and think on my own. I fell asleep as me and woke up stuck in this Unknown Person I Am Trapped Inside (UPIATI). I had to find a way out of here and back to my normal life, but how?
Upiati (what I decided to call the girl) was brushing out her hair with a pink handled brush. Whatever it was about this girl, she apparently loved the color pink. It was everywhere in the bedroom, the walls, the bedspread, the pillows. There was even a pink desk and beaded lamp in one corner with a rolling pink computer chair. The laptop was pink, the cell phone was pink. My God, I hadn’t seen this much pink since before I was born.
The girl dressed herself in a low-cut Abercrombie and Fitch shirt, with Wallflower jeans and Uggs. Gag me. She had fashion sense, while I wore Wal-Mart brands like Faded Glory and Op. I let out a deep mental sigh; this was going to be one painful experience. Upiati was now applying make-up to her eyes. I must admit she was a natural beauty; I hoped she wouldn’t cover it up with that God-awful stuff.
Apparently she was one of those blushing, confident “I’m beautiful and I know it” type of girls. She wore just enough mascara and eye liner to accent her natural features and with a touch of gloss to her full lips and she was done. She smacked her lips a few time, mushing the sticky stuff together, before turning on her heel and heading out of the room.
Upiati stepped into the bathroom; it was blue like my own bedroom at home, and the change in color was quite refreshing. The d├ęcor was ocean-like and it lifted my spirits dramatically. There were sea shells on the soap dispenser, the shower curtain and even in the accessory rack. The rugs were sand colored and the walls were a soft blue. The framed pictures hanging above the towel bar were of beaches and crashing waves.
Upiati was brushing her teeth with a pink toothbrush (go figure), which didn’t make sense because she had: A. just applied lip-gloss that was now coming off on her brush and, B. hadn’t even eaten breakfast yet. Apparently my “human vehicle” wasn’t too keen on common sense.
I kept calling this girl Upiati in my head, but with her sophisticated, pampered ways, she probably had a name like Lacy Jo, or Jasmine. Heck, maybe I should call her Marie Antoinette, but she probably wouldn’t know who that was.
Upiati fluffed her hair with mousse (glorified hair gel for girls), and slipped on her Aero hoodie. She reminded me of a girl I had gone to high school with.  Despite my cynicism I knew this girl, somehow, she was familiar. I just needed some clue to spark my memory. Suddenly a voice shattered my thoughts.
“What?” Upiati screamed back in a voice that wasn’t my own either.
“Time to go, Cloe!” the voice returned.
Upiati, or Cloe rather, grumbled at her reflection in the mirror as she ran her fingers through her bangs. I mentally chuckled. She was just like me in that respect, complaining when mom calls.
                Finally, she finished primping and preening and we were bounding down the curved wood stairs. They were so incredibly fancy that there was a landing halfway down with a window seat. Waiting at the bottom was a slender woman, probably in her late thirties standing by the prettiest hardwood door I had ever seen. It had the beautiful glass designs in it, with the side lights on either side of it.
                The woman was glancing at her wrist watch when we reached her. She was dressed in a white business suit that had to be Gucci or Prada. When she glanced up I could see the striking resemblance between her and Cloe. The same clear white skin and high cheek bones accented their heart-shaped faces and the same bright green lit up their eyes.