j.k. armstrong

I’m working on a project where I revisit short stories or character sketches I wrote as a kid and then re-create them. I don’t try to edit them, but I take the spirit of what my younger self made and write it again, as I would today.

The first short story I took was “Marcelle Sends Her Regards,” which was about a woman named Marcelle who was addicted to caffeine pills, mixed drugs, and spoke in a terribly pretentious way. At the end she has taken so much caffeine, slept so little, and taken care of herself so poorly that she collapses into convulsions on a bridge with heavy traffic. In response, I wrote “Marcelle,” for which I’m now seeking publication.

At 9:30 in the morning, Marcelle, feeling hungry, snorted 25 milligrams of her neighbor’s Adderall and then went to a desk and grabbed a notebook and pen because she wanted to write a letter to her sister, Ana. She stared blankly at the sheet of paper for a very long time, or maybe only a minute, before writing Ana’s name at the top and her own at the bottom. Feeling satisfied, she stared smugly at the blank wall in front of her.

The second story I took was “Sebastian Quinn,” which is very short and simply follows the character Sebastian as he waits at the top of a hill. He watches the sky and dreams of ambulances, thinking about the death of his best friend, Sarah.

Lately, I’ve found it’s easier to pretend things. It’s become a sort of game, pretending. Right now I’m pretending like I’m waiting for somebody. They left a note in my mailbox, telling me to meet them here. I can’t remember who, or for what reason, but they told me to meet them here. So I’m pretending to wait.

The third story I took was “Sarah,” (the same Sarah as in “Sebastian Quinn”) which is about Sarah’s final day with Sebastian before she commits suicide. She wants to tell him, desperately, but worries he won’t understand.

I tried painting him a picture, but the lines were awkward and out of place. I tried to tell him, but I couldn’t form the words, and he wouldn’t have understood. I wrote him a letter, but none of the words made any sense. I threw it away before it made it to the mailbox.

They spend a pleasant day together ice skating, drinking apple cider, and climbing to the top of tallest hill in their hometown. She walks him home, then returns to the hill and allows herself to die of hypothermia.

I leave him with nothing, and I regret it.

I‘m combining ’ “Sebastian Quinn” and “Sarah,” since their stories intertwine, working to fill in their story together and make it cohesive.

It’s an odd feeling, collaborating with my younger self like this, as if I’m giving those old stories a new life, a new chance to see the light of day. I didn’t share my writing much as a kid, my friends and parents hardly saw any of it, so I want to make things right for my adolescent self. It’s how I’ve found I can give time and attention to my childhood in a meaningful and constructive way.