‘Pioneers’ is a novel consisting of letters. It’s written in past tense and as a reader, you’re suppose to get the feeling of reading someones diary. Lucky Jenkins, the protagonist, is the one whose heart we enter; whose thoughts, feelings and states of mind we explore, and also whom we follow throughout the novel.
Even though I’m very protective of my work, and quite shy at the same time, I thought I’d share one of the letters of Lucky Jenkins.
What’s the purpose of writing soulful stories, when nobody is to read them, right?
Pioneers, The Novel:
‘November 23rd, 1996.
Dear Esme.
It’s been almost a month now, 28 days to be exact. Autumn and I haven’t shared a moment; haven’t exchanged a single word in all this time. Whenever I saw her, either walking down the hall with Maggie or sitting outside in the November cold, drawing sketches or simply just getting some fresh air, she appeared to be so strong – she appeared untouchable; as if nothing had happened; as if she wasn’t hurting as I was.
But – and I’m tempted to write ‘luckily’ – this whole idea of her being invulnerable turned out to be false.
Being insomniac, I rarely slept at the same time as Josh – as anyone else really -, so I decided on getting some fresh air on the top of the roof: my favorite place in the world: close to the stars – close to complete freedom – close to eternity. But before I reached the roof, I saw light flaking – it appeared to be candle lights from distance – down the hall. The only person I knew of, who would be up this late and paint was Autumn; with my heart pounding hysterically against my sore chest, I took careful steps towards the light; there was something metaphorical over the whole scenario: ‘the light at end of the tunnel’. I felt the warmth from the light, which turned out to be what I thought it was: candle lights, as I got closer.
There she were, completely alone with only loneliness as her faithful companion.
The light lit up her face, as she turned to get more paint on the brush; it revealed traces of tears – salty tears had run down the pretty face of hers and it was probably all my fault. I felt this strong urge to run to her, hold her tight in my arms and tell her how sorry I was, but I was stun-locked by my own fear of rejection.
I remember how beautiful she looked, dear Esme, standing there with her back against me, reaching high; reaching towards the top of the canvas with her humble brush. The brush appeared to be an extension of her own body – her curvy feminine body. I remember smiling – even though the sadness was tearing my heart apart – because every time she reached for the top of the canvas, she had to stand on her toes, or else she wouldn’t be able to reach. Oh Esme, if only you could feel the craving I felt for her – I still feel for her, as I write this; I truly hope you some day will find a special person, who’ll completely mesmerize you with his kindness, beauty, passion – I truly hope you find love, my dear girl.
I pinched my eyes together, to better my sight, since the candle lights didn’t provide much vision, and from where I was standing, it appeared as if Autumn had painted two lovers. Her style of painting was abstract, so I could very well be mistaking, dear Esme; perhaps I was interpreting the painting the way I felt deep inside – perhaps I had become the artist at that point: repainting the canvas with my emotions. The colors – at first – were passionate and fragile: deep red, orange, yellow, but all of a sudden she took a bucket of black paint and threw it angrily at the loving canvas – hulking, she threw the entire bucket of paint and fell down on the shining wooden floor; a silent cry filled the air and almost suffocated me. It broke my heart to see her suffering this much, but at the same time I was relieved. I know what you must think, dear Esme, but please, forgive my egoism, but you must understand how relieved I felt, when I realized that she shared the same craving as I; she missed me just as much as I missed her.
I broke my stealth with a deep, complaining sigh of pain; my chest hurt more than usual – ‘it must be the pain she’s feeling’, I convinced myself and stepped back before Autumn saw the broken pieces of me standing in the depth of the darkness, observing her every move. I crumbled my entire body into the position of a newborn baby, lying on the carpet. If Autumn had decided to go back to her room at that very moment, dear Esme, she would have found me lying there, gasping after air – trying to work through the pain, which I knew often lasted a couple of seconds. When the pain finally had released its grip of my humble heart, I got up on my feet – still gasping after air – and took one last glance at Autumn, before I walked back to my room; I walked like a wounded soldier who thought that the war was over; I had won – if only I knew what was coming.
Love always,
Lucky.’
Arman Jeremiah Grigorian 