Another week, and another post about the girl I could never write. This week I found her in torn jeans and drinking some pro-biotic drinks. I could not help myself; I took some photographs of her. Whilst editing the photographs the following phrase jumped into my mind, inspiring the story/free write below:

And she stood there with her torn jeans.

It looks like this series is helping my creative mind to rekindle the fire a bit. So please enjoy these photographs and if you feel so inclined, read the story or free write below.

An Ode to the Girl Who I Could Never Write

Torn Jeans - A Free Write

And she stood there with her torn jeans. I could not help but stare. But I did not want to make it obvious.

The moment was over as the traffic light turned green. The group walked over the street and I lost sight of her. She was like a cloud I tried to grasp at, but now only the memory is left in my mind.

The beer quenched my thirst and it washed away the week's troubles. My mind was still and I focused on the cold taste that lingered on my tongue. And then suddenly the image of her was in front of me again. The torn jeans. The dark brown hair. The smile. I almost dropped the beer.

"Another round?" the waitress asked. She did not wear the torn jeans, she had blond hair, she was not the girl from the street.

"Yes," was all I could get out.

The second beer had the same effect on me. I could see her in front of me, but this time I did not almost drop the beer. I drank it quicker, almost as if I could find the girl in the torn jeans on the bottom if the beer bottle. But as soon as I finished it, I could not see her anymore.

"Another," I said.

But from then on the more I drank, the less I could see her. She was now gone. The girl in the torn jeans was gone.

I ordered a whisky, the last drink for the night. I could barely stand, the week was long and the beers weighed heavy on my broken soul.

The whisky burned the back of my throat. It did not atone for my sins. I could not find solace at the bottom of the glass. In fact, it highlighted everything, it highlighted every sin, every failure. It emphasized everyone that left me. But somehow resurrected the image of the girl in the torn jeans.

But I was stone drunk.

I tried to walk but I could not. I sat down on the barstool. My arms felt heavy and the constant ringing in my ears got louder. I turned around to look at who was in the bar and could see just myself and the waitress. I ordered another beer.

"Hey," said a soft voice behind me.

I almost fell off the barstool. I turned around and saw the girl in the torn jeans standing in front of me.

"I saw you in the streets. I tried to follow you but you got lost between all the people."

Her voice swooped and swayed in the empty bar.

"Here," the waitress said, placing the beer in front of me. But I could not care less.

"How," was all I could manage to get out.

For a moment there was only silence.

She smiled and I saw the torn jeans up close. Strangely, the texture lured me. I wanted to touch it. But my arms felt too heavy to lift. Somehow I got enough energy to move my limbs.

"Do you want a drink," I asked her before turning around and grabbing at my beer.

I turned back towards her but she was gone. The familiar silence greeted me.

"I don't have patience for your drunk visions, Trevor," the waitress said loudly from the corner of the bar.

I sat back on the barstool. Heavy-limbed, I took a sip from the beer. I could swear... I took another sip and again the image of the girl in the torn jeans dissipated. Like mist in front of the sun. I lied down on my arms and closed my eyes.

And there she stood with her torn jeans.

Postscriptum, or A Black Ribbon

I hope you enjoyed the photographs and, if you read it, the story. It was a rather quick and depressing story. But I just let my fingers dictate the next move and somehow this story rose up from the ashes of my mind after a long day of "burning" through my Ph.D. research.

In any case, all of the photographs are my own, taken with my Nikon D300. The story is also my own, although I have to give credit to my tired mind. Normally, I struggle to write stories in English, but this one just came naturally. I hope you have a good week. Stay well, and happy photographing.