This is short...
May. 14th, 2024 12:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
chicatingI read too late that it was supposed to be 1000 words, every day, but it's better to get something out than nothing, so...
Sam White wouldn’t have wanted to admit it, even on that spring-day quad and with the film that meandered for the first time in what she would call her artistic life, but part of her was hoping that her dad had figured out how to contact her super-long-distance. He did always say he’d always be with her, even if it seems a little early to put that to the toughest test of all.
It makes the fact that she is just somebody’s wrong number harder, that stupid, little-girl burst of hope. She finds that she isn’t sure what she thinks about the afterlife, even knowing what people like Zora Neale Hurston wrote on the subject.
She told that stranger everything, too. Hopes and fears and outpourings of love like the ones she would leave for her father if growing up hadn’t meant pulling back a little. Now that they could both be spirits and feelings, it was finally easier and she didn’t know where he was. Did making films even matter that much anymore? She wanted to think so, naturally, just as she’d always hoped that somebody, somewhere learned from her broadcasts and online battles, but even aside from not wanting to be some kind of professional biracial troll-wrangler, it seems hard to imagine. I
n a movie, not one of hers, but in the feel-good kind her mother favored, maybe she and Wrong Number Guy would have a special bond now, remembering each other’s birthdays and all that. But she supposes in this climate, she’s lucky the guy just said “ Sorry,” however half-heartedly
Sam White wouldn’t have wanted to admit it, even on that spring-day quad and with the film that meandered for the first time in what she would call her artistic life, but part of her was hoping that her dad had figured out how to contact her super-long-distance. He did always say he’d always be with her, even if it seems a little early to put that to the toughest test of all.
It makes the fact that she is just somebody’s wrong number harder, that stupid, little-girl burst of hope. She finds that she isn’t sure what she thinks about the afterlife, even knowing what people like Zora Neale Hurston wrote on the subject.
She told that stranger everything, too. Hopes and fears and outpourings of love like the ones she would leave for her father if growing up hadn’t meant pulling back a little. Now that they could both be spirits and feelings, it was finally easier and she didn’t know where he was. Did making films even matter that much anymore? She wanted to think so, naturally, just as she’d always hoped that somebody, somewhere learned from her broadcasts and online battles, but even aside from not wanting to be some kind of professional biracial troll-wrangler, it seems hard to imagine. I
n a movie, not one of hers, but in the feel-good kind her mother favored, maybe she and Wrong Number Guy would have a special bond now, remembering each other’s birthdays and all that. But she supposes in this climate, she’s lucky the guy just said “ Sorry,” however half-heartedly
