Flashing Back

Flashbacks are weird things. Weird, but cool. And yes, the combination is possible. They sorta-kinda get me thinking about the flashbacks that occur for people in real life....whereas flashbacks in writing are usually for stylistic and informative reasons, how and why do people get flashbacks in their daily lives? Sometimes, I can semi-tell if someone is flashbacking....or at least zoned out and thinking super hard about something. I probs do the same thing. My eyes go all out of focus and when I was little my mom would interrupt to tell me to shut my mouth while I'm thinking. I want to know what triggers such long chains of thought, and why I get grumpy when I have to bring my mind back to focus. Once I start thinking it gets annoying to switch off of that chain of thought, and my mind feels all weird and disoriented...maybe that's just me.....T_T

ANYWAYS those sorts of chains of thought seem to be really linked to flashbacks, I think, or a sense of nostalgia, of retracing something from before. Like when I reread a book (Harry Potter! Ender's Game!) or something....which is possibly why people get more out of rereading books...I think.

I'm going to quit writing. I was thinking about this for a while, and now i've COMPLETELY lost track of what I'm talking about. this is a problem.

Swimmer Flashback:

He reeled back from the sight of the mansion’s emptiness and staggered back down across the driveway and lay himself down on the great expanse of rough, cold concrete. While he lay still, his eyes flickered in every direction as hidden memories flooded his mind.

He stood away, backed from the mansion, as the movers hauled out his tagged furniture. Hard lines gripped his face as he looked around and saw the red price tags everywhere, on everything, everything he no longer owned. He had gotten a phone call that morning from the bank, and when they told him they had taken over his property, he’d slopped his claret of Russian icewine onto his crisp designer shirt. He sighed. Well, there was no time for it now. It was already afternoon, and the movers refused to let him back into the house. He busied himself with drinking as much of his best wine as he could without inebriating himself to the point of passing out. He began to feel woozy, and he barely registered that Lucinda’s shoulder was what was holding him up, and that somewhere in the background one of his daughters was sniffling loudly.

After all the furniture was moved out, the bank representative came over and held his hand out for the keys to the mansion.

Neddy just stared back at him with bleary eyes.

“I can’t give you the keys,” he slurred, “where’s my family supposed to go? You’ve taken my business and my furniture; I can’t give you the house.”

“Sorry, but your business isn’t worth a dime. You’ve got to pay it all back somehow.” The representative gently loosened the keys from his hand, bowed politely to his wife, and walked away.

Neddy turned back to his wife and children. His youngest was still sniveling and wiping her nose.

“Where do we go now?” he asked them. He was lost, reduced to a child, no longer the laughing, confident man in the crisp dress shirt, holding his champagne steadily, firmly.

That night was spent at the Westerhazys’. The next night, at the Halloran’s. Then, the Grahams’, the Bunkers’, the Crosscups’, the Sachs’, Biswangers’, Gilmartins’, and the Clydes—each in rotation, throughout the neighborhood. Eventually, Lucinda had approached him, when they were staying at the Levys’.

“Neddy, dear, I don’t think we can keep this up. We need to find somewhere to stay for a while. You need to work.”

They didn’t, he’d insisted. Their neighbors loved them. They’d be able to stay as long as they needed, and once he got his business back, he’d repay them. Besides, he couldn’t work, he refused to work. Once he started such work, he’d no longer been the right set, and then, they wouldn’t be able to get any help from the neighbors at all.

The officers had found his wife the next morning, mangled body on the side of the highway, twisted from the force of falling such a long way from the bridge above. He was deemed unsuitable for taking care of his daughters, and they’d been moved to a foster home. Somewhere. Far away. He didn’t know exactly where.

Suddenly, Neddy opened his eyes. He’d been dozing on the cement, but it was getting late, and his body was losing valuable heat. Getting up from his cramped position, he shuffled stiffly off. Perhaps the Welchers would house him tonight.

Where are the heroes?

I just felt like writing today....I was supposed to be doing that flashback assignment, but I always have problems answering the prompt -.-
I guess I have trouble focusing stuff to a predetermined purpose. Some writing just happens instinctively, without direction.
Not sure if I liked how it ended up, but I stuck with it....and now I can't believe I'm posting this.
Ugh.

"In the name of love and justice, we shall punish you!"

Slam. Bam. Alakazam.

With a flood of colors, the magical girl-wonder waved her unicorn scepter and turned the ugly, disproportionate monster to shadow-dust. The screen blacked out quickly, and small white credits began inching up, up, up, in time with the soft music.

She kept watching, eyes staring emptily at the white parade, ear buds gently buzzing against the walls of her ears. She always watched until the credits were done. Even though girl-wonder was no longer in action, beating up the bad guys, and zapping them to another dimension, she still liked the final image that played throughout the closing song, the image of the heroine standing still (for once), peacefully alone on a hill and looking up at a sparkling sky with a bright, fuzzy full moon.

As the music faded out and the screen darkened, she let out a small, singular "Hah!" and popped out the ear buds. Once again, the show had proven to be ridiculous, childish and cheesy, and yet she couldn't stop herself from watching another episode--or another whole season of it, for that matter. She couldn't wean herself off her addiction.

With her ear buds removed, she was once again out, out in reality. She could hear the muffled sounds of her mother, yelling at her dad over the phone, through the walls of her room. Arguing, again. Maybe she needed to watch the next episode while things cooled down. Too late. She'd shut down the computer.

What made her watch these things? These juvenile, unsophisticated, melodramatic TV shows? While others watched TV dramas, or reality TV, what was it that made her turn back to her favorite TV program from when she was five? Had she really not grown during the decade since then? It was getting difficult to watch--the ridiculous plot was painful to listen to, and she kept it an embarrassing secret.

She rubbed her eyes. Perhaps it was the memories. She remembered, years back, sitting in the living room, eyes glued to the TV screen in utter absorption, cheering on girl-wonder through a mouthful of potato chips and sweet Capri Sun. Well then. She had grown up, because watching it now wasn't the same. Now, she watched the exaggerated scenes and listened to unrealistic voice-overs not because she really believed, but because it helped her remember. There was a drawing, entrapping sense of nostalgia. By letting herself be temporarily convinced by the impossibilities, even if just for a second, she became a child again.

But then....it was never complete. She really, truly wasn't five anymore, in any sense. Somewhere in the back of her mind, it was clear that her life would never be as magical or adventurous as what she saw. The Real World ran on a ticking, ticking clock, and dreamers weren't welcome. With her nostalgia came an addictive jealousy. She wished she lived in a world where heroes and villains existed, where it was easy to tell good apart from evil, where goodness always won. She, too, wanted to have magic, and wanted to be surrounded by people with "good dreams,"--by people who had stars implanted in their hearts. She wanted there to be a sovereign force, complete trust in everyone, a pegasus, and a ridiculously perfect moon kingdom ruled by love and justice!

So amateur. So unrealistic. Once the show was over, and the credits rolled, and the music faded out, she was left with just a computer screen, knowing that her heroes only existed in her head, and that really, she had trouble trusting even the people closest to her.

When she was five, she had thought adults were stupid. They were narrow-minded because they lacked faith in magic while somehow, she was sure, magic existed, even if they couldn't see it. She felt it made her open-minded to keep believing, to keep looking. She searched for the secret magic, the hiding mythical creatures, and the dream-life for years. But slowly, the hopes dried up as she grew, as she came closer to being an "adult." Adult. What an ugly, faithless, skeptic word. Being a child, with endless, unstoppable faith and imagination was so much more wonderful and beautiful. As a child, she didn't need to wonder, "Where are the heroes? Where have they gone?" Instead, at five-years-old, she'd known, she'd just known, that the heroes were hiding from forbidden, human eyes, maybe concealed just around the corner, or standing behind her, out of sight. Or, she had thought, perhaps there was a hero inside her, too, waiting to come out once it was time for her to save the world and the galaxy beyond.

Sighing, she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes in an uncomfortable attempt to fall asleep. The heroes and villains of her five-year-old reality had packed their bags and left long ago. But maybe, just maybe, somewhere they still fought, lived, and hid...somewhere, deep in her dreams.

Nostalgia

I don't consider myself a writer. On a normal basis, the idea of writing kinda makes me cringe. I journal because I want to keep memories, not necessarily because I feel like writing. Which is why I always push back, back journal entries, saying, I'll do it tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow, until I realize I've forgotten what I was first going to write about, or I turn to my last journal entry and freak about the fact that it's from a month ago. Or when we get an essay from school, I just get a sinking feeling, thinking about how I'm going to spend the next several days sitting in front of my computer and getting my skin bleached by the light coming off the screen.

Other times, like the flash backs we discussed in class (but not really), something happens, and I have to write. I'm afraid of forgetting stuff, losing ideas, or not recording something important for future reference, and if I'm unfortunate enough, I'll have to get up in the middle of the night to scribble something on a random scrap sheet or an index card before I forget it...although I probably won't be able to read it the next morning. And when I actually get myself to journal or write letters, I can't seem to stop. I might as well finish and get out a lot of thoughts once I start, right?

So those are the times when I feel compelled to write--kind of forced by my conscience. And my other reason is tied to fear of forgetfulness I guess, but it's a different way of looking at it...I like looking back at old journal entries. They're like a call from the past, and then there's a wave of nostalgia, kin of (I sound like I'm 100 years old....). A lot of the time that makes me upset, but I feel like nostalgia's also important and necessary, despite people always saying, "Move FORWARD!!!!!! INTO THE FUTURE!!!! LIVE IN THE NOW AND SEIZE THE DAY!!!" Once I'm through with the upset part of nostalgia, I'm actually a bit more cheerful and a dab more secure than I started off. Nostalgia's like a check against the future. It's exactly as it sounds--sad, but soft and round, comforting and warm. When I move too far forward, all at once, that I get lost, I look back and see how I got where I am. I retrace my steps--laugh at mistakes, cry at losses, listen to old music, draw with crayons, look at pictures, and youtube a TV show I used to love--all to run into Nostalgia's arms. i rest a little in the past, because it's easier to relive things than to forge ahead, always pushing the boundaries of time. I think that it's important, especially now that I'm applying to college, that I keep the sense of Nostalgia alive, because it's so easy to try and put up a pretense, a perfect-student-image that's set and cropped to match what we think colleges want. And there's all that rush--people get ready for the next stage in their lives, and it kinda makes them forget what they're also in the process of leaving behind.