It had been the last time she would be told that she couldn’t do it. If she wanted to make something of her life, go out into the big city and be someone, then that was her choice. She wasn’t going to suffocate in the small Georgian town she grew up in like all of the other mindless roamers there.
On the day of her eighteenth Birthday she loaded up her junky Rabbit which was in constant need of repairs and left, only having a couple thousand dollars, some of which came from family funds, bonds she’d cashed early, and tips she’d gotten from working at the only diner in town. It may not have seemed like a fruitful position, but because it was quite literally the only diner in town it attracted a lot of people, and if she did a good job at it (Which she always did) she got a nice tip.
Accompanying her to Atlanta were a few of her friends, all aspiring artists. While she majored in novel writing the others wanted to do things like start a band, or be a well - known abstract artist, one was even a slam poetry writer, which caused their little apartment to get quite hectic.
There was always paint places where there shouldn’t be thanks to Stacey hands, which never seemed to be clear of some bright color. And thanks to Axel’s loud bass guitar, Phoebe has to shout over it in order to get her poems point across to the aspiring novelist.
She sat back, and while others would be upset with the level of chaos in the tiny place, she embraced it, sitting back on the sofa and watching all of them. She did so every night when she got home from her crappy day job, feeling them instantly lighten her mood just by being themselves. In fact, she got inspiration from the tiny group of rebels.
She asked from constant chaos, finding she worked best that way, loving the way she felt the shaggy haired boys’ bass, the way the petite redheaded feminist shouted out her beliefs and things she found wrong with the world, and feeling a swell of pride when the disheveled brunette who practically breathed caffeinated drinks explained her brightly colored artwork.
They’d all come from the same place, but were going different places. They were different but similar all at the same time, and that’s what made them special. They’d rebelled against their families, being told that the things they wanted to do weren’t practical, that they be better settling like dust in the one horse town. While the other people they’d graduated with got married and had kids, even at such a young age, they lived on the edge, scraping together money for rent, working two part time jobs, Axel taking weekend gigs at a local bar while Phoebe did week nights at a poetry bar.
By the end of their first year living together they’d come so far, the aspiring novelist looking at the situation with a different point of view. At the end of the twelfth month she’d finished it. A masterpiece, as her friends called it. It was a practical story about four teenagers that lived in an apartment in Georgia. A bassist, a painter, a slam poet, and a novelist. The book consisted of everything from ups and down, to funny anecdotes, to the jokes they played on each other for fun.
She sent it to publisher after publisher, desperate for something, anything, but days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into a month before she’d finally gotten a response from some of the companies. They’d all been rejections, and that brought her down a lot.
But her roommates were there to pick her back up again, Stacey sitting her down on the sofa with some hot chocolate and a fluffy blanket before she went back to her work, the Phoebe getting to work right away on a poem that would slam editors everywhere for not seeing the oh-so-obvious talent in her friend, while Axel sat down with the currently down novelist, letting her lay against him as he strummed away on his acoustic, something new he was trying out. When the first of her tears fell he set aside his guitar, wrapping an arm around her without another word and just sitting with her, holding her until she’d felt better.
The next Monday Phoebe found herself at the Poetry club as usual, getting onto the stage and reciting the poem she’d written for the editors with ease. She had only written it to be funny, only to cheer up her friend, but somehow the novelist convinced her to read it that night, and so she did.
Little did she know, but there was an editor in the crowd, snapping along with the rest of the people when she’d finished. He was a strapping young man, smirking softly to himself with amusement. He’d been coming to the place for a while now, just to see her perform. He’d talked to his boss about her, and he decided that he was going to sign her, wanting all of her slam poems in a book. He told himself that the reason he went there every night was completely professional, but he couldn’t lie, there was something about the small angry girl that had drawn her to him, from the first harsh stanza she’d uttered. He met with the girl and agreed to take a look at her friends’ book, taking it straight to his boss, promising to have a response by the next week when she’d be coming to the office with a collection of her poems.
Five years later they were all in separate places, each one of them still in touch with the others, grateful for the time they’d spent together in the little apartment, even if it wasn’t very long. Axel had scored himself a spot in a punk rock band as a bassist/lead singer. They’d attracted a bunch of rebellious teens who wore black clothing and forged their parents’ signature so they could get piercings, as well as a bunch of misfits who felt they didn’t belong.
Phoebe had made three books of slam poetry by the time she was 25, and when she turned 28 she got married to the same man that had signed her. It was a small wedding, only their closest friends and family going in on the small celebration, but all the same it was a beautiful wedding that drove everyone to tears.
Stacey had landed herself a hall in an art gallery, her paintings selling for numerous figures of money, especially an original piece she’d made as a struggling teenager which was different from the rest. Dark contrasting colors that worked together to create what seemed like a sad girl. She refused to give away the meaning behind it.
As for our aspiring novelist, you ask? Well, let’s just say that thanks to her good friend Phoebe she’d made a couple bucks off of the book. The publishing company thought it was genius, and apparently so did the rest of the world, her book had made the top charts of the best sellers and was constantly praised by people. The publishers that turned her down had certainly been kicking themselves after that one. What’s she doing now? Well, it’s been rumored that she has a new book coming out. This one all about being on tour with a world famous punk rock band. But that’s just what I heard (winking face).
And they all made it this far, because they weren’t afraid to take some risks. After all, life was about living on the edge, wasn’t it?
~:~:~:~
Ta daaa! If you liked these, please be sure to vote for me, it takes literally like two seconds (If you have an account at least). If you follow me, I'll follow you back, and yeah. Thanks peoples.(:
