“All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.”

                                          -Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast

 

The heat cast a low glow, but it couldn’t last long. Soft skin was seen and then unseen as the light fought to stay, and they danced, in and out of existence, flickering and fighting. They fought and fought, and Dark thought he won the battle but Light had the war. All you have to do is write one true sentence. She rose in the flame and showed the dark victory, maintaining her stance with courage and pure might. Write the truest sentence that you know. And I watched the relentless rivalry with thoughtful eyes and hush, in crept inspiration. I gave Light a name and Dark a soul and I let them twirl once more. Who were they with? Why did they fight? What were they fighting so fervently for?

And in my ear there was a hum, a hum that turned into a drone and then a murmur, and there were trails and paths, and at last there was a settling. It was a game of operation where I was the surgeon and the patient, and I was finally starting to fit. It was an outpour of a million thoughts looking for their home, walking up the porch steps, and finding that door. What is true? What is the truest? My mind was a map, a tangle of tangents and lines and words of every kind. If you followed the lines, you’d find that they all lead to the deep abyss behind, behind the soul and in the heart where all my musings subsided. And soon and then I could see a web, a road, a way for the ideas to travel. Intricate and tight they left on the train of thought and got off at the page, the blank page, the glowing white and bright expectant page.

I watched the cursor blink and urge, “Go Go Go!” Go run across the page and push the cursor forward. The truest, truest, truest sentence that you know. And those lines they travelled left to right, but the characters went out and deep, and the words become filled with meaning until they were teeming, so they slid off the page and dripped onto the floor, one, two, three, and became their own and then only I remained. But three of my thoughts were missing. But they were there. He became his own and she became her own. I made them, I knew them, I gave them each a name. She with the sleek legs and hair, both of which went on for days and he with those dark gray eyes, eagerly watching below, for the story behind the soulful journey that lies… her with rosy cheeks and soft smile, hands small and open and ready to catch anything, tribulation or trial. They went on their own but each had a piece of my heart, a piece of my heart that kept them tethered, known.

And Light and Dark they tumbled and tossed and he watched her grow weak. It is true, I seek the truest. But the weaker she became, the stronger her character stood and the cursor led her to triumph over the shadows; it still inspired. Likewise, their chest cavities were breathed into and full, and yes, they knew what to stand for and yes, they knew who to die for. I watched them with careful eyes, behind the cursor blink blink blinking in time and saw their personalities start to arise. Anger in one invoked sympathy from another and ferocity in yet the other and then they began to duel.

United by their maker but touched with different greatness, they moved in motions complimentary, but not the same, and then they began to walk. I saw what they saw, felt what they felt, and every inch their toes brushed I felt like I knew. Landscape and seascape erupt from their heels and I heard echoes in my head, All you have to do is write one true sentence. One true sentence is all you have to write. Their stories wrapped around their shoulders like cloaks and you couldn’t see the flesh without unraveling the cloth that clothed it. And one by one they become their own. He had the eye, dark and knowing, the eyes that saw way behind what lies. The streets were full and a thousand feet clambered, but he only had a heart for the soles of the pampered, of the hampered, of the hurriedly scampered. And she happened to be one of the former, not because she asked, but because she was chosen. Her toes led to leg and her leg led to eternity as she ambled down the macadam with a poise she knew she eased, a confidence she knew she had the right to possess. And she almost walked into the girl who had eyes only for sky, with her rosy cheeks, a pleasant pink—nature fancied her—and together her hands and hair played in the nippy air. Thank you, Light. Thank you, Dark. Thank you to the flickering flame that sparked me so.

And so what is the truest sentence that I know? I felt the frigid air and shiver from the cold. I saw the woman approaching—I saw her also watching me. Across the street he stared at the shoes but I knew exactly which ones piqued his interest. The pink boots attached to a girl, the only girl with cheeks that looked almost painted, not bitten, and only she and I knew that the reason her hands were open was because nature told her snow was falling soon. Looking at their faces, I saw myself in the lines, in the creases, in their bones. What is the truest sentence I can say? And suddenly I know. “I am you.”


Kacie Lee is a senior studying biochemistry and English and is graduating fall of 2019. She enjoys writing creative fiction but has recently started to explore creative nonfiction. In her free time, she enjoys composing music and journaling.