Last week, I blogged about Miley
Cyrus’s newest song, “We Can’t Stop.” For those of you who don’t remember what
I said about it, here’s a recap: Although “We Can’t Stop” seemed shallow on the
surface, the song’s underlying message was that by choosing not to care about
what other people think, you can control your own image. In addition to
defending Miley’s latest work, I also mentioned that her lyrics inspired my
next story idea. So here it is…
Lyrics such as “this is our house
and this is our rules” and “we run things things don’t run we” made me feel
this rush of confidence and power. It was aggressive and dominating and
brilliant. When she sang, “can’t you see it’s we who own the night,” I imagined
this pack of girls who radiated so much confidence that they could intimidate
within a first glance. Miley indirectly proposed the question: Who owns the
night? And in my mind, it’s these girls. Maybe you’ve met them before, or their
type. They are the girls that girls love to hate.
Then I thought, what if a girl owned
the night, but not the day? Now I know I’m reading WAY too much into Miley
Cyrus’s lyrics, but go with me for a second here. What if there was a shy,
under-confident girl who spent the daytime being ordered around by everyone
else, but then adopted a new persona when the night came? And what if, by the
end of the story, you are rooting for her to completely take on this new
persona and leave her day-life behind? Sparked by Miley’s words, I became
fascinated with this idea of control and how one gets it.
So, with no further ado, here is the
first scene that I came up with. It’s in third person, which I’ve never really
gravitated towards, so I might experiment with using different perspectives.
But here it is, anyways. Enjoy!
Matilda slips on her black thong and
stands up. She pulls down her black dress and grabs her black purse.
“You sure you don’t want to stay the
night?”
“That’s not how this works.” Matilda
flips her straight black hair over her shoulder and smiles at George, but only
for a second.
“Then at least let me drive you
home.” George rolls over and grabs his car keys off the bedside table. His
elbow bumps the glass of water and it shatters on the floor. Without flinching,
Matilda slips on her black boots and zips them up.
“Goodnight Mr. Wesley.” Matilda flicks
the light switch and shuts the hotel door. She doesn’t look back. George tries
to get some sleep, but the click of her footsteps echoes down the hall, so he sits
up. His belly hangs over his boxer shorts and he exhales into his palm: booze
and nachos.
The bathroom’s small, but George
leans against the wall and pulls a toothbrush and toothpaste out of his duffle
bag. The mirror glares at him, and he thinks: This is George Terrance Wesley.
Bags under his eyes weigh down his face and blue foamy toothpaste sits on the
corner of his mouth. A yellow cab grabs his attention outside and he walks to
the window, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Outside, a blonde girl stuffs a
black wig into her black purse before stepping into the cab and riding off. George
sighs, climbs back into bed, and goes to sleep.
