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    Elle
    Elle
    Elle
    Ebook291 pages4 hours

    Elle

    By Cameron Glenn

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Elle is a troubled young girl who encounters a ghost who she wants to help write a publishable novel. A story of over coming emotional trauma and physical abuse and writing.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCameron Glenn
    Release dateJan 29, 2017
    ISBN9781370378524
    Elle
    Author

    Cameron Glenn

    Cameron Glenn grew up the third of seven children in Oregon. As a child he dedicated hours to the pursuits of basketball and cartooning, as well as waking up way too early for his paper route in order to earn money to buy toys, candy and comic books. He also loved to read and write, which he continues to do voraciously. He currently lives in Salt Lake City after having earned a BA in literature from Boise State.

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      Book preview

      Elle - Cameron Glenn

      327

      Elle

      Smashwords Edition

      Copyright 2017 Cameron Glenn

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      ELLE…

      By

      Cameron Glenn

      Chapter One

      A few months after her mother’s funeral, Elle went up to explore the attic.  She had never been in that space above their new house before.  She had only been vaguely aware it even existed.  She had recently read a novel about house fairies living in attics, which had made her curious.  In the garage she pulled the string that brought down a folding ladder, leading up to a rectangular entry way in the ceiling.  She climbed it then pulled another string clicking on a single light bulb.  She crawled in, stood up, her head not far from touching the wood beams, the reverse side of the roof.  She tepidly walked farther in, wondering if there were things ahead she’d fear: spiders, bats, ghosts hiding among the storage bins of Halloween and Christmas decorations, or whatever else her father threw up there, or had been left by the previous owner.  She considered some type of parallel between a hidden room above her house, to the hidden place where her mother’sspirit went, as if an attic was more than just a space, but a symbol or metaphor for an unseen world.  Perhaps subconsciously she had been compelled to venture to the attic in order to explore this symbolism, and connect with her dead mother; discover some heirloom of hers, perhaps a necklace passed down familial generations.  She only considered this possibility once in the attic, and quickly discounted it as over romanticized wishful thinking. 

      Elle found and then opened a plastic bin she found.  Inside were spiral notebooks and binders.  She picked a gold colored spiral notebook from the bin and she coughed from the dust and musty order.  She saw her fingerprint smeared on the dust over the cover of the notebook she held.  She opened it, discovering the pages full of writings in handwriting not her mothers or fathers; handwriting messy in its quickness, by a hand pressing the pen into the paper with force.  She thought it’d be a struggle to read, but glancing over it, instantly realized it was easily readable to her—she felt as if she’s been given the gift of deciphering it—she could read it, probably most wouldn’t be able too.  How strange, she thought. 

      Unseen to her then came Nathan, the author of the notebooks, the spirit of a young man, lost and confused in his death.  He looked at Elle and thought her beautiful.  The line of light freckles across her nose and cheeks, her thick brown hair, bangs cut just over her green eyes, looking at his notebook, held by her small hands. 

      What are these, Elle whispered out loud to herself.  Everything in me I tried to express, he said back to her out loud, although she couldn’t hear him. 

      Being somewhat sometimes presumptuous while alive, he had wanted to think of his writings not as lyrical or narrative poems, or journal musings, but rather as songs.  He wished to create with words the stirring colors, moods, movements that rhythms, beats and melodies infuse in people.  The winds powering the music listeners daydream sails to pleasant places, the tools which enhanced their current feelings and moods and life; cause the want to dance, smile, connect with instinctive primal senses, appeal tothere senses over intellect.  Cause catharsis.  Cause power and healing.  Be powerful, like water rushing to the ebbs of a waterfall.  He wanted his writings to be like that, have the same effect as music has on people.  However all his novel attempts were failures.  Some crashed into tangled disasters, becoming an un careful gut gushing outpouring of unedited thoughts, feelings, randomness, disconnected from whatever character and story he had tried to framework.  Sloppy language and metaphors only making sense to him the moment he wrote of them, for himself, within himself; thick extended rampant nonsense, too much of it, overflowing into mindless pulp and bulk, when taken as a whole; a lot of words, without much details, a lot of adjectives, without specifics, not having much of a life of his own to drawn on, for examples to illustrate specifics or ignite inspiration.  But in parts, sometimes some of his writings weren’t so bad, depending on the mood and taste of whoever would read it.   

      Being a self-critical dreamer with a low self-esteem he mostly thought of himself as a failure, at life and writing.  He realized the daunting nonsense and ridiculousness of trying to write songs without music; of trying to be a great writer.  It is a pompous notion.  Words are only dormant, unlike songs.  He’d rather be a musician.  He wished he could have been.  But he didn’t have the talent or work ethic or belief in himself to make that happen.  So he wrote instead.  A lot.  In addition to his failed novels, he wrote free-write abstractions, poems, short stories, screenplays, journal entries.  He didn’t get much better or worse, the more he wrote, or the older he got; the papers’ piling higher, en mass. 

      He wanted to somehow use writing as a way of making himself better than he was.  Create something impressive, and so, he hoped, become a more impressive person himself, rather than just another faceless number among the worlds overwhelming populations, worth nothing.  By his early death, his writings, whatever merit or mess of them, were all he had to validate his life and himself, so he thought; thinking he had poured his soul into them.  However, nothing had come from his writings.  They had brought nothing to him or the world and so were as insignificant, wasteful and useless as he was, and as he is now; just decaying storage space.  So he thought. 

      But now, here she was.  This beautiful young girl holding him.  Or his notebook.  The gold covered one.  Will she read it?  Will she like it?  Or hate it.  Or not read it.  Just a waste of time.  Whoever she is.  So beautiful.  She’s probably busy, he thought.  All the beautiful girls are.  It’s part of what makes them so beautiful.  How busy they are, entangled in the beauty around them, which they create, and are, and live in and among, in their lives, making the world brighter, worth fighting for and so therefore meaningful; without meaning life isn’t worth living.  They, girls like her, make a positive difference.  Inspire others, make others smile, charming them, as they continue in their progressive, fascinating work, flying through the days full of freshness, new activities, friends, endeavors, constant actions, constantly active.  Such brightness follows them, circles around them, radiates from them. 

      Maybe she’ll find it of worth to look at.  He wanted her too.  She reminded him of someone he had loved.  Someone who had brought him happiness in life.  Or maybe it was her who he loved, instantly, at first sight.  He thought that possible. 

      It’s said that reading takes one to other worlds.  Elle’s father told her to stay in this world.  It’s dangerous to want to escape the world so much, though movies or fantasy or daydreams or novels.  Go out, make friends, play, make your own stories, discover and build and live your own life, rather than hide and dwell and escape in others lives, in made up stories, or reality as perceived through gossip magazines, simultaneously mocking and worshiping celebrities.  We love them we hate them, we want to be them, we envy them.  It’s unhealthy to read as much as you do, he told her; an opinion formed through observation of her.  Before, he had fallen in line with the modern notion of reading as being rewarding, mind stimulating, and soul nourishing, as advertised in the posters hung in schools and libraries, encouraging kids to read.  The Teddy Bears in the hot air balloons, letting the breeze carry then to some new height, to a new world.  Maybe so, but we live down in this world.  And Teddy Bears can’t read anyways.  And imagination is maybe overrated, causing just as many problems as solutions, he thought. 

      In Victorian times, society discouraged reading, especially for whom they labeled impressionable young women.  The basis for this thinking being that it installs in them over-romanticized and false notions and hopes, concerning life expectations and romance and marriage.  He had considered this obvious sexism.  But maybe there was an amount of truth to it, and maybe it’s not so different today.  An aspect of growing up is learning to accept reality, while weeding out the dreams of fantasy, and like anything taken in bulk, rather than moderation, reading diluted and delayed this natural process and life progression.      

      He had been encouraged by Elle’s early voracious reading habits.  He had thought it made her smarter than her peers, who didn’t have the patience or stamina to delve into literature.  There lives are instead abuzz with the flashy and instant distractions and disruptions of the technology of modern multi-tasking culture; everything looked at and touched is electronically illuminated and audio enhanced, from cell phones, computers, social sites, television, video-games. 

      But then he came to think of this perspective of reading being valuable as old fashioned, as he noticed Elle increasingly shelter herself in her room and read, rather than go to birthday parties, sleepovers, or activities with friends, the way normal healthy children do.  Her devotion to reading isolated her; caused her a type of enslavement.  She had once been a sunny enthusiastic happy child, much like her younger sister, Rhodes.  But, as Elle grew farther in her adolescence, he saw her harden with sullenness, becoming increasingly inward.  She had always been somewhat shy in groups, but never quite so sad seeming, or slow moving.  She had shown signs of athletic ability as a kid, participating in sports, in an earlier era.  She had enjoyed Disneyland so much as a kid.  If he took there now, with Rhodes, he wouldn’t doubt if she’d prefer to just stay in her hotel room all day, away from the happiness and the sun and activity outside, just sulking and reading, traveling deeper into the imaginations of her mind.  She doesn’t laugh much anymore.  She used to have a laugh almost as sweet and light as Rhodes.  This transition begun before her mother’s death, but he feared her death would exacerbate her miserable decline, thus plunging her further into the abyss of inner life-escape, from which she could not emerge out, causing her to be unprepared for the responsibilities of the realities of independent adult life.  She lost her childhood spark, which had brightened his days.  Rhodes had taken up that mantle. 

      Make friends he’d tell Elle, and she’d answer, books are my friends.  And this pained him because books can’t be friends.  It’s sad she no longer had friends.  He knew one can’t be truly happy without friends.  It’s not right to live in fear of others.  One can’t really live at all, that way.  He told her books aren’t friends, they’re objects.  She told him my imagination is my friend; he answered if she really believes that she might literally be insane, a borderline schizophrenic.  You’re too old for imaginary friends.  She wanted to burst into tears, from her father calling her insane.  From the possibility of him being right.  This argument happened not long after her mother’s death from brain cancer, but before the move to their new house, in a neighboring neighborhood.  Elle told her father, maybe that’s true, and she ran from him, slammed her bedroom door, and burst into tears on her pillow on her bed.  Her books on the floor and one on her bed. 

      Elle stood in the attic, holding the newfound notebook.  She flipped through it, stopping on a random page.  What a strange discovery.  She decided to read was in front of her.  The ghost, standing close by her, looked at her intently.  She read from his notebook:

      Everything in a dot.  Smaller than a period.  Smaller than an atom, unfathomable to consider.  In a instant from this speck boomed out our universe—everything.  A explosion reaction faster than sound, faster than heat and radiation and space, faster then light, light created after the explosion, the birth and huge expanse of this spec, now unfathomable in its limitless reaching.  And from this event formed all that would become, all there is and us and all we are and all we know of and taste and see and feel and believe in, imagine, myths, science, history, friends, family, land, dances, songs, pages, spirits, sports, stories—all we love and hate and know of.  Everything.  All.  Our sun, its warmth and our earth, us on earth, the earth turning, causing the nights, days, tides, seasons, hotness, coldness.  Our moon, the suns light bouncing off its orb body reflecting to us all, and in splinters, waxing, waning, as we turn, on this earth, its tides, cycles, as we take our turns, at the time passing, time as our inventions, and understandings, fractions in billions years and endless times.

      And what does any of that matter except it brought us here now.  On the beach and you’re laying out, the sun on you and I peek over where you’re at, think of peering over mountains into valleys and tumbling over cliffs and hoping for safety and beauty below what I’d fall in and be caught by.  A spec of sand is on my finger, and I think of the spec as the Universe once was, smaller than this sand grain I want to place on your lip and have you not notice, as I’d stare at it, until you wipe it away, not knowing it were even there.  And as you wiped it away did it tear some skin from your lip away?  I’d like to kiss you and find out.

      And I wish I could write everything, all my loves and hates and thoughts and emotions and what I marvel at-you—and how I marvel, nature, how I want, beauty and breaths and flights and paradise—your pleasures, and have all that everything be the speck of a period dot—everything in it, all potential in its infinitesimal size.  But I’ll never have that skill.

      And I’d take your book away, it’s a teen romance with vampires, and I’d place this sand grain on my finer on your lip, and you’ll think me strange, wondering why and what I’m doing—feeling my finger, not the sand grain on it.  Then you wipe your lips, smeared with lip gloss, with the back of your hand, and the grain of sand is gone, lost, there are more planets in the universe then there are grains of sand on all the earthsbeaches and deserts.  Think of that.

      But don’t it doesn’t matter, you wiping the sand off your lips tells it, the universe and my lack of skill to express everything don’t matter, wipe them away.  There’sjust you.  And your clean unfiltered lips.  And you giving me that quizzical expression which makes me laugh.  And me.  And life.  Wondering, what can become in an instant.  What can form from an instant kiss. Everything, all.

      Elle falsely assumed that because she couldn’t very well make out the meaning of what she had read, it meant that the writing was elevated above her, and so something to admire.  The mystery of the notebook, and the other notebooks and binders in the plastic bin, also intrigued her, making them, in her mind, more special discoveries than they actually were.  Although she couldn’t immediately decipher much logic from the handwritten words, they brought moods, impressions, and reverie’sto her. 

      She thought this effect similar to how song lyrics can be stale and confusing while flat on paper, but once given their power, when sung, put in melody and rhythm, can cause emotional response, and personal thoughts and feelings perhaps unrelated to the authors own intention and interpretation of the words.  Maybe that’s why Mr. Todd, her old English teacher before the move, had played classical music while reading poetry, during the section on poetry.  Then he’d read the same poem to the accompaniment of a fierce fast and thumping song, and then to a pop ballad, or smooth slow R&B jam.  He’d make the class write their impressions of the poem during each separate song.  He did have some good lessons.  Despite everything he had done to her. 

      Elle turned to another random spot in the center of another random page, and found the start of a sentence and read:

      You should have been there—I wanted you to be, I needed it—the brick wall and mirror and stereo and the full of people here—there and only you I wanted, to take me, lead me away, be amazing, your regular amazing you.  The sink, the splash, the mirror, and only me alone. 

      Rise up like steams in hot baths and smear condensation away on our bodies.  Take control of the puddles trying to fall, hold me I’m slipping melting fast in this.  Hold me I’m solid and will not sink.  Rise up like sparks from fire outside at night—they rise and cool to ash in place, twinkle like stars held up there as long as you look at them.  Keep this breath.  Just breath.  That is enough to rise you up.

      She re-read it.  It made no logical sense.  Was nonsense.  But the mood and impression it gave her was of an advanced romance she didn’t know of, or of a longing to cure or be cured or be great.  This person, or idea, he writes to, or of, is great and will rise—whatever that means; become greater, better, do greater, better things, simply because it breaths.  And so is alive.  She thought this abstract sentiment beautiful.  Or the impression it gave her was one of beauty, despite the ambiguity, vagueness, and illogic of it. 

      As she read, the ghost placed his hand on her cheek, letting the cup shape of palm and fingers fit the form of the slope of her cheek to chin, touching her, if he still had the flesh to do so.  He gently caressed the shape of her cheek to chin to neck to shoulder, all delicate, done delicately.  Looking at her beauty as she read.  Wanting to love somebody, as in life love for him were only daydreams he’d write of.  She got chills as he carefully caressed the shape made from the top of her head to her shoulder, his hand as close to touch without touch.  She got goose-bumps, she thought, from the writing, but more so from the literal effects of his ghost so near, his ghost fingers so near her, wanting to press her. 

      This is for me, she thought.  This is for you, he said.  He thought of angles and music and happiness and lava and blood. 

      CHAPTER TWO

      Rhodes wore cardboard 3-D glasses, one lens red, one blue, taken from the bottom of the fruity pebbles cereal box between her and Elle. 

      Ohh cool, Rhodes said, looking at the 3-D cartoon pictures on the back of the cereal box.  As she giggled a droplet of milk dribbled out her mouth, down her chin, and back into her bowl of fruity pebbles.  She wiped her chin with the back of her hand.  Across the table Elle poked at the half-eaten muffin with her finder, the same way she’d poke at her bare stomach, disgusted by the fat.  Not that long ago calories didn’t matter to her, and her father, who left for work at 6am, an hour before Rhodes and Elle woke up, didn’t tell her that she needed to eat more. 

      I saw you last night when I got up to go tinkle, Rhodes said.

      Don’t say tinkle.  You’re too grown up for that, Elle said.

      Sorry.  Pee.

      Don’t say pee at the eating table, Elle said, making crumbs of the muffin, continually poking at it.  Breaking it into pieces. 

      Don’t say eating table, Rhodes said.

      You look stupid in those glasses, Elle said.

      You look all 3-D, Rhodes said.

      I always look 3-D stupid, Elle said, then smiled and flicked a muffin crumb in the direction of Rhodes.  Rhodes giggled again.

      What? Elle said.  You giggle too much.  Over noting.  People will think you’re crazy if you keep doing that.

      You don’t laugh hardly at all anymore, Rhodes said. 

      I know, Elle said, looking down. 

      Rhodes giggled again. 

      But seriously, Elle said.  That’s annoying. 

      I’m going to tell dad, Rhodes teasingly sang. 

      Tell dad what?

      You had a boy in your room, Rhodes sang at Elle, then giggled again. 

      Elle stopped playing with her muffin and stared at Rhodes.  She wondered if Rhodes had really thought she saw a boy in her room, of if she were knowingly lying.  Strange behavior, either way. 

      Uh, Rhodes, there wasn’t a boy in my room.

      Uh-huh.  Suree, Rhodes said. 

      You were dreaming, Elle said, and poked at her muffin crumbs again. 

      Rhodes stopped chewing her fruity pebbles and looked up, considering this possibility, re-imagining her memory from last night.  She had passed Elle’s room on the way to the bathroom, sometime last night and through the half-open door had seen the form of a boy standing nearby Elle’s bed.  But she had been sleepy.  Maybe it had been a dream.  Although, she had woken up in a dry bed, and in the past, whenever she had a dream involving going to the bathroom, she woke up in a wet bed.  She had worried after her mother died that she’d revert back those embarrassing accidents.  But she hadn’t,

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