My mouth tastes like mold. Originally mislead, I thought it was the blueberries, but it’s my mouth. White and fuzzy. Squirming with death and a pristine sterile white wooly cleanness.
I can hear the dong dong dong of the grandfather clock pounding in my teeth. I look up at its stale sallow ashen face from the red oriental-ness of the rug to which my check is glued with stalactites of saliva and my skin groans as the sun glares at me through window blind eye slits, full power- ON.
I moan in response. Again. And again. I become a growl and every shimmering faded burnt out cell in my whale heavy harpooned corpse wills it to implode and heave me into blessed pure untainted night once more.
My howling grows fainter. I am moving away from myself. I can sense me in the sphere of hazy distance beyond myself. The magnetism is exceedingly strong and I am collecting the unnecessary into my most immediate planetary rings.
The unnecessary, the undesired, despised. Rejected littered forgotten gunk of the universe. When All I Want is You !
Where is that stupid shadow of a girl who tied the drooping pink ribbon around my lower intestines? My Aurora. OH Why can’t I trap you in my magnetosphere?
And now crying. Crying happens. My face just holds my eyes which are holes; soft holes for water to stream from. Disappointment leaks down into the mushy red oriental-ness underneath me, supporting me. My eyes feel like microscope lenses.
I am protruding into details I never knew existed. Outwards along the tops of the evenly mowed field of carpet. The dirt and dust build up between each tentacle thread secured at the base like underwater seaweed. Grimy and salt encrusted, ancient with the excrement of the world. The cracks. The lines- everywhere.
Oh just dance for me Aurora. With your lights reflecting on the wall, rainbows. I am seeing spots, long oblong spots of yellow everywhere. Like every one has been semi-dipped in it.
I feel exposed being naked here on this rug. I feel like there are people everywhere watching me. I am cold.
I am screaming all my words, my mouth is huge, all red lips and I feel like my eyes will never close. I am looking, I am soaking this flattened world up through my eyes. My tongue juts out like a plank and I trip on my words off the end of it. Lapping, splattering against the bald oriental head, rubbed raw by an allusion of me, stripped, as if by acid. I have burned into this rug. I have skinned it
All I want is to see your breasts, while you brush your teeth, one more time swinging back and forth with each stroke, serene and heavy, clocking time.
I suppose I was human after all.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Writing Sample 11
My distaste for nuts does not come from a dislike of flavor or even texture of nuts themselves, but rather stems from my first experiences with the white chocolate macadamia cookie. The frustration and immense disappointment of biting into a cookie full of creamy sweet smooth white chocolate, prickling with the anticipation of delight, but instead being cruelly fooled by look-alike pieces of white, not soft, or sweet, hard, dry, disgusting, cardboard-like nut- it is the worst feeling in the world. I absolutely could not deal with the shock or disappointment and promptly avoided that specific cookie.
However, as a passionate lover of white chocolate, it was difficult for me to avoid it for long (seeing as it is the only commercially accepted white chocolate cookie) I was hardly ever successful in my avoidance of this, my favorite snack-time dessert. So what did I do? How on earth did I manage? My cravings, desire for, and obsession with white chocolate was stronger than my disappointment in nuts. Thus, I would choose the white chocolate macadamia cookie and proceed to carve out as many of the nuts as I could identify. It was a tedious assignment, with much mess, and often ended in entire cookie crumbling disasters. If I managed to keep the majority of the cookie intact, I immediately knew with the first bite that it was well worth the effort and I would become instantly delighted and satisfied with myself and my technique.
Why did my brain work like this as a child? I have been avoiding nuts, picking out, and eating around nuts for years. It has become natural. "I don’t like nuts." I say it all the time.
But the thing is, I do like nuts: candied nuts, the peanuts bathed in sauce on my Asian food, salted peanut packs on the airplane. I eat them all.
However, as a passionate lover of white chocolate, it was difficult for me to avoid it for long (seeing as it is the only commercially accepted white chocolate cookie) I was hardly ever successful in my avoidance of this, my favorite snack-time dessert. So what did I do? How on earth did I manage? My cravings, desire for, and obsession with white chocolate was stronger than my disappointment in nuts. Thus, I would choose the white chocolate macadamia cookie and proceed to carve out as many of the nuts as I could identify. It was a tedious assignment, with much mess, and often ended in entire cookie crumbling disasters. If I managed to keep the majority of the cookie intact, I immediately knew with the first bite that it was well worth the effort and I would become instantly delighted and satisfied with myself and my technique.
Why did my brain work like this as a child? I have been avoiding nuts, picking out, and eating around nuts for years. It has become natural. "I don’t like nuts." I say it all the time.
But the thing is, I do like nuts: candied nuts, the peanuts bathed in sauce on my Asian food, salted peanut packs on the airplane. I eat them all.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Writing Sample 10
And then sometimes I lay on the floor and look at the ceiling and look at myself walking on the ceiling, but that part is too backwards, too up-side-down, too abstract, too outside, and so I just imagine that that ceiling is the floor and I can’t see myself there- I just feel it but I think I might still be up-side-down and it gets really annoying to have to step over all of the door-frame entry-way blockers.
……….
I have decided that swimming and being in love are very much alike. You are completely submerged and everything seems slow, relaxed, laid back, and comfortable. And deafeningly quiet, other than the throbbing pulse of existence, which beats consistently and pleasing. Everything outside of yourself is blurred and distant. And you are utterly calm and content. Maybe I do not mean swimming, I mean holding your breath and lying near the bottom, where there’s a warm pressure that seems to attempt at containing you, but you easily push and glide underneath it, happily sensing its presence and yet gleefully liberated. When you are forced to return to the surface it is entirely devastating. A seal of perfection broken, a euphoric existence lost.
……….
After the last long haul on the bike path, we rolled down to the curb and
pop-ed
a
squat.
There we watched the peak of the road perform. It went wonky, utterly warped. The crest danced underneath the flies, underneath the heat, underneath the tire wheels, and underneath our very roller blades. It cackled and swirled until our eyes began to go sore and out of focus. In an urgent motion, everything stopped.
So we pulled ourselves up and went home.
……….
……….
I have decided that swimming and being in love are very much alike. You are completely submerged and everything seems slow, relaxed, laid back, and comfortable. And deafeningly quiet, other than the throbbing pulse of existence, which beats consistently and pleasing. Everything outside of yourself is blurred and distant. And you are utterly calm and content. Maybe I do not mean swimming, I mean holding your breath and lying near the bottom, where there’s a warm pressure that seems to attempt at containing you, but you easily push and glide underneath it, happily sensing its presence and yet gleefully liberated. When you are forced to return to the surface it is entirely devastating. A seal of perfection broken, a euphoric existence lost.
……….
After the last long haul on the bike path, we rolled down to the curb and
pop-ed
a
squat.
There we watched the peak of the road perform. It went wonky, utterly warped. The crest danced underneath the flies, underneath the heat, underneath the tire wheels, and underneath our very roller blades. It cackled and swirled until our eyes began to go sore and out of focus. In an urgent motion, everything stopped.
So we pulled ourselves up and went home.
……….
Memoir 2
“No! No! The pretzel bag! Someone grab the pretzel bag!” Beth shouted from behind me where she sat in the very back of our tiny wooden canoe as we glided up into the air and bounced down hard over a sudden intense spell of waves.
But it was too late for the pretzels- we had been flushed with sea water seconds before. “Dang it.” I thought to myself. “I didn't even get to have any yet and now the whole bag is soggy and entirely uneatable.” I frowned deeply, but my troubled thoughts were quickly forgotten as we were bombarded with another grouping of even higher and more monstrous waves.
“AHHH” I screamed to the heavens. “What the heck?!”
Then suddenly we knew. As we looked to our left, paddles franticly trying to propel us forward, we could see the mighty Steamship Authority Ferry looming in the distance, gracefully transporting tourists between Hyannis and Martha’s Vineyard.
It was coming straight at us!
Terrified, we tried digging deeper into the water, putting forth an inhumane amount of force. Our little sister, huddled in the middle of the canoe without paddle or actual seat, began whimpering. Her swimsuit and face were streaked with the seaweed which kept coming over the side of the canoe and suctioning itself onto her like bile colored starfish. She sat in a tide pool of water up to her hipbones and the sea level was terrifyingly close to the top of the side of the canoe, which was at her eye level. I could feel her shaking behind me.
The atmosphere returning to shore was incredibly contrary to the previous trip we had made across the bay earlier that morning. Cheery and excited we had sung 99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall twice and made up pirate names to pass the infinite time we had ahead of us. We went slowly and stretched our bodies lazily in the sun, barely paddling as the tide carried us to the deserted stretch of beach that lay ahead.
We had been shocked that morning at the breakfast table when we had confronted Mom with our plans for a day trip and potential picnic on the island across the bay, and she had approved. Completely surprised and bubbling with bliss and expectation we hastily ate and up and began to prepare for the day. Exploration! A land with no legacy of a human past! We had only ever canoed across the smaller bay, over to Gull Island, a stinky mess of muck that only appeared out of the water at low tide. We rippled with new adventure.
I made sure we remembered to grab food and Beth made certain I had smothered myself in sunscreen. Mary Kate, being younger and not fair skinned, was perfectly ready the moment she had put on her swimsuit when she had crawled out of bed with the sun that morning. She stood outside by the canoe which our grandfather had so kindly already heaved up into the bed of the truck, and danced around, waiting excitedly. She would get to ride in the truck, while Beth and I rode bikes, just in case someone needed to get home quickly. We didn’t wait for Mom and the boys, we were just too excited! So we kissed her goodbye and flew out the door down the street to the shore.
By the time Mom; pulling the wagon full of toys, towels, and little brothers made it to the beach, we had already set sail. We could see them on the rock jetty waving to us. Mary Kate smiled blissfully back, she was in heaven. It was not every day she got to hang out with the big girls!
We made it across easily with no troubles at all and pulled the canoe onto shore quite a ways away from the yacht anchored on a sandbar smack in front of the middle of our new beach. No bother, we would just pretend it was ours. As I stared at it, pure white and glimmering in the sun, I imagined sunbathing on the deck in a large straw hat and dark sunglasses, getting up only to dive off the side into the pure Atlantic blue water.
Beth started hollering for me and my day dream was broken. A horseshoe crab had floated right next to her as she stood, knee deep on the sandbar. For being the tough one, she sure was a scaredy-cat! We ran playfully back to shore and helped Mary Kate search for seashells. Though our beach was directly across the bay from where we were and the exact same ecosystem, it had been picked over many, many times by wandering children and romantic young lovers. There was hardly a chance you could find an exciting, different, or even unbroken shell there. This beach, on the other hand, was shell paradise.
By the time we had become aware of the Ferry heading towards us; however, all of the shells we had collected were long gone- dumped mercifully back to the bottom of the ocean where they had come from in a frantic attempt to lighten the canoe. We were definitely overloaded and chanced sinking.
Thankfully, we managed to maneuver our invisible little boat out of the Ferry’s path. Though still panicked, we soon relaxed as we could see Mom sitting on the rocks of the Jetty making a drippy castle. It was comforting to know we were almost there, especially for Mary Kate, who I could tell had stopped her silent crying.
The older younger brother, David, watched us as we pulled our now despised and hated canoe onto shore. He had been waving at us ever since he has noticed us returning on the horizon. We could tell he was bursting to tell us something, but our bodies soaked and exhausted, recently near-death, we were not to be messed with. We ignored him as best we could, until he said “You guys are in soooo much trouble.”
“What?!” We panted at him. “You’re ridiculous. You’re just jealous you didn’t get to come.”
“Nu-uh” He said, as we dragged ourselves over to where Mom sat, watching us. She had a very strange look on her face like she had been crying.
“You are never, NEVER, allowed to canoe across that bay,” was all she said.
But it was too late for the pretzels- we had been flushed with sea water seconds before. “Dang it.” I thought to myself. “I didn't even get to have any yet and now the whole bag is soggy and entirely uneatable.” I frowned deeply, but my troubled thoughts were quickly forgotten as we were bombarded with another grouping of even higher and more monstrous waves.
“AHHH” I screamed to the heavens. “What the heck?!”
Then suddenly we knew. As we looked to our left, paddles franticly trying to propel us forward, we could see the mighty Steamship Authority Ferry looming in the distance, gracefully transporting tourists between Hyannis and Martha’s Vineyard.
It was coming straight at us!
Terrified, we tried digging deeper into the water, putting forth an inhumane amount of force. Our little sister, huddled in the middle of the canoe without paddle or actual seat, began whimpering. Her swimsuit and face were streaked with the seaweed which kept coming over the side of the canoe and suctioning itself onto her like bile colored starfish. She sat in a tide pool of water up to her hipbones and the sea level was terrifyingly close to the top of the side of the canoe, which was at her eye level. I could feel her shaking behind me.
The atmosphere returning to shore was incredibly contrary to the previous trip we had made across the bay earlier that morning. Cheery and excited we had sung 99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall twice and made up pirate names to pass the infinite time we had ahead of us. We went slowly and stretched our bodies lazily in the sun, barely paddling as the tide carried us to the deserted stretch of beach that lay ahead.
We had been shocked that morning at the breakfast table when we had confronted Mom with our plans for a day trip and potential picnic on the island across the bay, and she had approved. Completely surprised and bubbling with bliss and expectation we hastily ate and up and began to prepare for the day. Exploration! A land with no legacy of a human past! We had only ever canoed across the smaller bay, over to Gull Island, a stinky mess of muck that only appeared out of the water at low tide. We rippled with new adventure.
I made sure we remembered to grab food and Beth made certain I had smothered myself in sunscreen. Mary Kate, being younger and not fair skinned, was perfectly ready the moment she had put on her swimsuit when she had crawled out of bed with the sun that morning. She stood outside by the canoe which our grandfather had so kindly already heaved up into the bed of the truck, and danced around, waiting excitedly. She would get to ride in the truck, while Beth and I rode bikes, just in case someone needed to get home quickly. We didn’t wait for Mom and the boys, we were just too excited! So we kissed her goodbye and flew out the door down the street to the shore.
By the time Mom; pulling the wagon full of toys, towels, and little brothers made it to the beach, we had already set sail. We could see them on the rock jetty waving to us. Mary Kate smiled blissfully back, she was in heaven. It was not every day she got to hang out with the big girls!
We made it across easily with no troubles at all and pulled the canoe onto shore quite a ways away from the yacht anchored on a sandbar smack in front of the middle of our new beach. No bother, we would just pretend it was ours. As I stared at it, pure white and glimmering in the sun, I imagined sunbathing on the deck in a large straw hat and dark sunglasses, getting up only to dive off the side into the pure Atlantic blue water.
Beth started hollering for me and my day dream was broken. A horseshoe crab had floated right next to her as she stood, knee deep on the sandbar. For being the tough one, she sure was a scaredy-cat! We ran playfully back to shore and helped Mary Kate search for seashells. Though our beach was directly across the bay from where we were and the exact same ecosystem, it had been picked over many, many times by wandering children and romantic young lovers. There was hardly a chance you could find an exciting, different, or even unbroken shell there. This beach, on the other hand, was shell paradise.
By the time we had become aware of the Ferry heading towards us; however, all of the shells we had collected were long gone- dumped mercifully back to the bottom of the ocean where they had come from in a frantic attempt to lighten the canoe. We were definitely overloaded and chanced sinking.
Thankfully, we managed to maneuver our invisible little boat out of the Ferry’s path. Though still panicked, we soon relaxed as we could see Mom sitting on the rocks of the Jetty making a drippy castle. It was comforting to know we were almost there, especially for Mary Kate, who I could tell had stopped her silent crying.
The older younger brother, David, watched us as we pulled our now despised and hated canoe onto shore. He had been waving at us ever since he has noticed us returning on the horizon. We could tell he was bursting to tell us something, but our bodies soaked and exhausted, recently near-death, we were not to be messed with. We ignored him as best we could, until he said “You guys are in soooo much trouble.”
“What?!” We panted at him. “You’re ridiculous. You’re just jealous you didn’t get to come.”
“Nu-uh” He said, as we dragged ourselves over to where Mom sat, watching us. She had a very strange look on her face like she had been crying.
“You are never, NEVER, allowed to canoe across that bay,” was all she said.
Writing Sample 9
I’m a plant. I am a pretty little colorful flower and I will only grow- I will only exist and survive and be- if you sprinkle me with salt water. If you drizzle the ocean onto my head and bless me with throbbing whispers of creaky ship-prayers and gasps for oxygen. How am I going to make it if I am not pushing myself up out of sand-soil? Seriously, I don’t think this all-natural process of photosynthesis, of self-feeding and fueling, is going to take place if I do not have these additional, necessary, life-supplying elements.
……….
It exfoliates my heart
and puckers me into an eternal kiss
You are my only true love(r).
……….
In my special secret spot behind the love-seat I am swaddled with printed fabrics that I never got around to making into anything and I think inside of my head of the ocean and the sky and the flowers, and the mountains when I open my eyes are right there past the window but I am still sitting right here in my very small very sun light bright spot.
[out out damn spot!]
……….
Just think of it- all the starfish spilt in two and instead of growing back in normality to have five limbs they have four and the fifth becomes a nub of a head and they trek up the shore up the beach and across the parking lot exponentially expanding in size and paling in color until they become almost-people except their stomach is still on the outside in the middle not the inside and they still aren’t wearing any clothes, which is what is the weird part, but shouldn’t be. Do you know how many starfish there are down there underneath in the water? And how many more briefcases there would have to be to accommodate? (les serviettes) Because of course they would want to get straight to business, wouldn’t they?
……….
It exfoliates my heart
and puckers me into an eternal kiss
You are my only true love(r).
……….
In my special secret spot behind the love-seat I am swaddled with printed fabrics that I never got around to making into anything and I think inside of my head of the ocean and the sky and the flowers, and the mountains when I open my eyes are right there past the window but I am still sitting right here in my very small very sun light bright spot.
[out out damn spot!]
……….
Just think of it- all the starfish spilt in two and instead of growing back in normality to have five limbs they have four and the fifth becomes a nub of a head and they trek up the shore up the beach and across the parking lot exponentially expanding in size and paling in color until they become almost-people except their stomach is still on the outside in the middle not the inside and they still aren’t wearing any clothes, which is what is the weird part, but shouldn’t be. Do you know how many starfish there are down there underneath in the water? And how many more briefcases there would have to be to accommodate? (les serviettes) Because of course they would want to get straight to business, wouldn’t they?
100 Lines of Poetry
Laying in the bath
she is
pink and puckered
like a strawberry
rinsed under the faucet of the kitchen sink.
Supple, still, and silent
Her breasts her thighs her eyelids
speak for themselves
Half-submerged
as the final air-bubble-messenger-of-life
makes its way to disappear at the surface.
[11 lines]
Brick upon brick of book
I have stacked, walled, fortressed myself in.
Drawing. Jarring. You carve,
pen in their spines.
Bolting upright,
bringing to life, like Zeus, out of clouds
a man of imagination.
At night I can’t sleep,
it sounds like a pendulum- caught-
going too fast,
against my ear.
[11 lines]
It’s been a shoebox full of days since the last time I thought.
And longer since I’ve thought of you.
I’m not the only one who’d rather be cold and outside.
No, apparently I am.
I like what the goose bumps do to the feeling of my body.
And what the air paints with the colors on my skin.
It makes me feel tangible.
I become more of a reality.
[8 lines]
There’s a conspiracy on the airplane.
I knew it!
The pilot had to pee.
That was a pretty dang cool switch-a-roozy.
The stewardess,
who was chatting all cozy with that old man
-instead of getting me cranberry juice-
is standing guard.
This is hard core.
Why am I so aware?
How did I catch the secret sign?
Why isn’t the back-up coming out?
Look at her eyes, how creepy.
She is watching everything at the same time.
Planes are skinny so that they don’t need too much peripheral vision.
[15 lines]
We sneak into the theatre on 4th with a full jar of Nutella plus two spoons and stare up at the stars painted on the ceiling and pretend we’re at Hogwarts.
I want to suck your tongue like a dried mango strip.
When you run into the woods later to throw up
I wait for you.
Sitting on the curb I pretend I’m being sucked into the gutter during a rainstorm.
[6 lines]
You are my Space-Age dream
I want to experiment with the anti-gravity of your breath
Whisper into my skin so that I may float upward
I’ve been feeling heavy lately
My head is not even underwater
There is moldy dirt dripping out my ears
Soil moist in the corners of my mouth
and under my tongue
Scrub me clean with your sterile heartbeat
Probe me
I am following the fish with my eyes but when they turn they evaporate into the air
The red one is my favorite
When are we going to leave for Mars?
I’ve been saving up my oxygen.
[14 lines]
At the bonfire
Teresa went down to the river
Where we pretended to skip rocks.
We only ever got one skip-
from our hands
into the water
But we didn’t care.
The atmosphere was cooler,
not just the temperature.
And that boy wasn’t even tree-dancing.
His name was Sam-
and he was breaking off a branch
to hold into the fire
while everyone else roasted
and toasted.
[15 lines]
Sometimes
my heart
feels like
it has been taken
out
and
disassembled.
That there is just a place-holder
in the wrong shape
a star
or a downward spelled word from a crossword puzzle
maybe just the boxes
blank and
inexplicable
impossible to fill in
they belong to a really difficult word
and the clue is too cryptic for me-
or anyone.
And so it just sits there and stays like that-
empty
and contained.
[21 lines]
Ice cream
Pink, sweet
Melting, oozing, running
It’s all down the length of my arm!
Heaven.
[5 lines] Cinquain
Inside the bookstore
they lock up my medicine
Am I making meth?
[3 lines] Haiku
TOTAL LINES OF POETRY: 109
TOTAL FORMS: 2
she is
pink and puckered
like a strawberry
rinsed under the faucet of the kitchen sink.
Supple, still, and silent
Her breasts her thighs her eyelids
speak for themselves
Half-submerged
as the final air-bubble-messenger-of-life
makes its way to disappear at the surface.
[11 lines]
Brick upon brick of book
I have stacked, walled, fortressed myself in.
Drawing. Jarring. You carve,
pen in their spines.
Bolting upright,
bringing to life, like Zeus, out of clouds
a man of imagination.
At night I can’t sleep,
it sounds like a pendulum- caught-
going too fast,
against my ear.
[11 lines]
It’s been a shoebox full of days since the last time I thought.
And longer since I’ve thought of you.
I’m not the only one who’d rather be cold and outside.
No, apparently I am.
I like what the goose bumps do to the feeling of my body.
And what the air paints with the colors on my skin.
It makes me feel tangible.
I become more of a reality.
[8 lines]
There’s a conspiracy on the airplane.
I knew it!
The pilot had to pee.
That was a pretty dang cool switch-a-roozy.
The stewardess,
who was chatting all cozy with that old man
-instead of getting me cranberry juice-
is standing guard.
This is hard core.
Why am I so aware?
How did I catch the secret sign?
Why isn’t the back-up coming out?
Look at her eyes, how creepy.
She is watching everything at the same time.
Planes are skinny so that they don’t need too much peripheral vision.
[15 lines]
We sneak into the theatre on 4th with a full jar of Nutella plus two spoons and stare up at the stars painted on the ceiling and pretend we’re at Hogwarts.
I want to suck your tongue like a dried mango strip.
When you run into the woods later to throw up
I wait for you.
Sitting on the curb I pretend I’m being sucked into the gutter during a rainstorm.
[6 lines]
You are my Space-Age dream
I want to experiment with the anti-gravity of your breath
Whisper into my skin so that I may float upward
I’ve been feeling heavy lately
My head is not even underwater
There is moldy dirt dripping out my ears
Soil moist in the corners of my mouth
and under my tongue
Scrub me clean with your sterile heartbeat
Probe me
I am following the fish with my eyes but when they turn they evaporate into the air
The red one is my favorite
When are we going to leave for Mars?
I’ve been saving up my oxygen.
[14 lines]
At the bonfire
Teresa went down to the river
Where we pretended to skip rocks.
We only ever got one skip-
from our hands
into the water
But we didn’t care.
The atmosphere was cooler,
not just the temperature.
And that boy wasn’t even tree-dancing.
His name was Sam-
and he was breaking off a branch
to hold into the fire
while everyone else roasted
and toasted.
[15 lines]
Sometimes
my heart
feels like
it has been taken
out
and
disassembled.
That there is just a place-holder
in the wrong shape
a star
or a downward spelled word from a crossword puzzle
maybe just the boxes
blank and
inexplicable
impossible to fill in
they belong to a really difficult word
and the clue is too cryptic for me-
or anyone.
And so it just sits there and stays like that-
empty
and contained.
[21 lines]
Ice cream
Pink, sweet
Melting, oozing, running
It’s all down the length of my arm!
Heaven.
[5 lines] Cinquain
Inside the bookstore
they lock up my medicine
Am I making meth?
[3 lines] Haiku
TOTAL LINES OF POETRY: 109
TOTAL FORMS: 2
Writing Sample 8
Holding her arms strangely parallel, yet intersecting, up against the top right corner of her face. The fleshy, bulging under section of her wrists pressing together as if bound. Grotesquely mushy. She looks down and imagines. Vomits on her lilac toenails embedded in the bleached coral of her toes, elevated off the real earth by three leaf clovers, grassy weeds. A freckle of an ant runs across a larger toe and she curls a ramp into the forest. It launches off. Swimming in a flood of milk chocolate bile. Vile. English Breakfast tea with too much sugar, separated into another larger cup. Suffocated with too much milk. She wishes it would hurry up and rain. She doesn't really. Two times she rips a leaflette and it hurts her, on the inside. Almost physically. She wants to purge it all. The caffeine swirling a headache. Failure in the bathroom poking at a space lacking of tonsils, lacking of anything. She bends the grass and clover stems with a pencil. They are bowing away from her. She can't rip them. She slides her hand down down and forces between, without strength. Its like swimming and she is underneath for a time.She looks up and hears a bird land on the wire diagonally, directly in front. A heavy, god awful thump. This girl sees and senses shapes out of the corners of her eyes.They move and loom and dart. They also disappear. This girl is afraid of being alone. An entire empty house grows up directly behind her and it leans over her. She has goosebumps on her entire body. Bubble wrap. Un-pop-able. She is still alone and she still does not want to go inside.She goes inside and daydreams more of future llives and future houses that wont happen until she makes some sort of movement. She eats some nuts and stares at all the orange and red fish in the fish tank. She recalls her dream from the past night. The little girl and her mother, father, sister. Taking her house in the woods, on her cushions, and shoving her fish into a plastic bag without enough water. Its tail and body growing and growing and growing. Launching and flinging it. Trying to make someone put more water in the bag. Terrified and repulsed. But desperate. The waterfall outside of her glass wall, with certain panels open for air, overflowing,and pouring inside. She is sad. Only, thats not quite right. Upset that no one cares as deeply as she. That no one feels as swirlying and dizzyingly and intensely as she. Her attachments. Her desires, her true loves. Emotions she feels physically.Startled by a moving black blob on the right she jerks to look at a stationary piece of trash. She eats more nuts and is unhappy and her head still hurts. She quickly walks around the house closing scary doors and turning on all the lights. She is prepared for the night. She sits back on the couch. Then moves to the other end. Up against the wall. The salt from the nuts stings her canquer sores. She has 3. It is not her record. Unconsciously she decides to only eat with the right side of her mouth. She is a tense girl and the pounding of chewing lulls her into her head. She hypnotizes herself into that place. And she stays there.
Short Story 1
Hanging above them, the clouds looked like the bony carcass of a fish. A spine.
“The sky is making me uncomfortable.” Jessica stated, shifting her back and arcing slightly, adjusting the placement of her head on Allison’s not particularly cushiony, but quite warm and welcoming, lap.
Allison did not look up. She smoothed the wispy hairs curling at the side of Jessica’s face absentmindedly and continued staring across at the wavy water of the fountain beside her. It seemed funny how the square windows of those apartment buildings, once reflected, became little layered tide pools of the sky floating on the surface. She wanted to dip one slender finger into the center of each of them, but they were not stationary.
“Allie,” came Jessica’s voice again from her lap.
The fold of her cream colored peasant top brushed itself up onto Jessica’s face as she bent over to look into her eyes. She tucked it into her tummy with her arm as she tilted her face at an angel.
“Mmmhm?” She responded dreamily, quite content.
“Let’s get out of here. I need to find a new piece of sky. I can’t stay under all this.”
She gestured up with both hands
“Alright.”
She kissed the pale white crown of her forehead beneath her and they slid off the low granite wall of the fountain where they had been lounging all afternoon.
Allison did not look back. She never did. She had vowed to live this last summer solely in the moment. As they glided away, Jessica’s eyes darted to the sky, calculating. She mumbled. Allison did not mind the sudden change, she loved to wander. She imagined the churning noises of the fountain to be propelling them forward. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, holding her chest high she tilted back her head. She was the figurehead of their ship. And Jess was certainly the navigator, shut up inside her head amidst well-worn piles of hand-drawn maps, compasses, and charts. Allison’s only job was to breathe the salty air and feel it softly crystallizing on her face while every so often warning of a problem unseen or predicted by Jess.
The two of them were a pair. Leggy and careless, they strolled through gardens and complexes, past corporate buildings and past drug deals, drawing far more attention to themselves then they were aware of.
High school had ended too abruptly for both of these beauties and they spent the newly freed time meandering carelessly through the city. Sitting in parks. Lingering at harbors. Doing what their mothers called “a whole lotta nothing.”
They had danced across 15 blocks before Jessica had dared to look up again. By that time, the dead fish in the sky had successfully spread itself out into a thin mass of cloud cover, just partially blocking a side of the sun, and so they had stopped. Directly in front of, to Allison’s delight, a tiny little convenience shop equipped with a hard metal square advertisement in the lower right side window offering soft serve.
Alison twirled her tongue around the vanilla soft serve, trying to trace and then recreate the swirl that had been there originally. She could not seem to get it quite right and so she gave up and with one big lick and pushed through the door to go sit alongside Jess at the red plastic table on the sidewalk.
It did not take more than two seconds for Allison’s eyes to adjust to the bright, cloudless, sun-filled sky and to realize that she was alone. But not entirely. There was a man sitting on the curb, his dirty flannel shirt a dark blackish red, the back of his head greasy, his hair long. She wanted to vomit looking at him. Her head slowly turned to the right, every object in her view blurring into a stream of condensed color. The red of his shirt solidly staining the middle portion.
She dropped her ice cream cone. It was more of a release. A reaction to her mind shutting down. The street became narrow, trapped in a cone of silence. Slow motion, elongated, silence. It was gray and dismal. She felt like she was drunk. Or drugged. Something. She kept turning her head from side to side, tracing that flat, ugly rainbow of color back and forth atop itself.
The man unexpectedly turned around and faced her head on. Her eyes zoomed in and focused on the tiny fractures of lines in the palm of his left hand. He was holding his hands up to her. They were open. The centers of a strange world stared back at her. The magnification was too intense. She pulled back and looked into his face. He was pointing up now. Her eyes followed.
Hovering above their heads a helium balloon was slowly spinning, shiny and metallic it reflected the sun into her eyes, blinding her at intervals.
“Congratulations!” it beamed down at her.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Writing Sample 7
Playfully You Dance
Playfully you dance upon my lips,
Tease the corners to separation,
Lightly ease them apart with your ballerina ways.
Force them, gently, with those pointed toes
To bubbly spill.
My soul longs to leak out,
Yet is suppressed
By your gay waltz of
Eternal joy.
You,
Are a liar.
A snake that laughs at the darkness
Which clouds my eyes,
That bursts out the sunshine, which no longer glows.
I can’t handle the burden of this heavy mask.
Layers of wasted, worthless grins
That suffocate,
That hold me under pounding waves
As my head grinds into the sand.
How do you churn from me the purity I know was once lost?
Permanently,
Genuinely,
You crease and indent;
Exploding precious pink butterflies through the dry, caked cracks.
Fluttering away my mask
And establishing glistening memorials
In our never-ending field of daisies.
The rain, thick in the heavy air, falls gloomy and silent until shattering upon the soggy ground. A girl splashes through the waterlogged grass towards the overflowing gutter. She squats in the lonesome street as she gazes into the broken reflection, her rubbery red boots drowning out all the grayness around her. With the sky beneath her she glances up uncertainly, just checking, just making sure. A steady river begins off the pink tip of her nose, piercing the wobbly mirror below. Arms up, eyes squeezed shut, she begins to twirl. Spinning freely, solitarily, in the street. She kisses the rain. Drunk off the purity, she stops; full sunshine smile.
[technically this week i cheated and sent in old stuff i wrote in high school... ha ha]
Playfully you dance upon my lips,
Tease the corners to separation,
Lightly ease them apart with your ballerina ways.
Force them, gently, with those pointed toes
To bubbly spill.
My soul longs to leak out,
Yet is suppressed
By your gay waltz of
Eternal joy.
You,
Are a liar.
A snake that laughs at the darkness
Which clouds my eyes,
That bursts out the sunshine, which no longer glows.
I can’t handle the burden of this heavy mask.
Layers of wasted, worthless grins
That suffocate,
That hold me under pounding waves
As my head grinds into the sand.
How do you churn from me the purity I know was once lost?
Permanently,
Genuinely,
You crease and indent;
Exploding precious pink butterflies through the dry, caked cracks.
Fluttering away my mask
And establishing glistening memorials
In our never-ending field of daisies.
The rain, thick in the heavy air, falls gloomy and silent until shattering upon the soggy ground. A girl splashes through the waterlogged grass towards the overflowing gutter. She squats in the lonesome street as she gazes into the broken reflection, her rubbery red boots drowning out all the grayness around her. With the sky beneath her she glances up uncertainly, just checking, just making sure. A steady river begins off the pink tip of her nose, piercing the wobbly mirror below. Arms up, eyes squeezed shut, she begins to twirl. Spinning freely, solitarily, in the street. She kisses the rain. Drunk off the purity, she stops; full sunshine smile.
[technically this week i cheated and sent in old stuff i wrote in high school... ha ha]
Memoir 1
Field Hockey try outs. I’ve stopped screaming. I am in the fetal position, down on the asphalt, in the center of the track. Silence. No more shrieks; no more flapping wings. My body is shaking, tense. It is violent. I cannot stop it. I am clenched and shaking violently and I cannot stop it. My voice is caught inside of me. My body is trembling. I am so tight the tears are being smashed out of my eyes. I am squeezing them out, I am so rigid. I am face-down to the ground. And I am crying and I am silent and the world is silent and they have stopped flapping and they have left and everyone has stopped running.
Everyone has stopped running and they are standing around me. Looking at me.
After the first time it happened, the team got used to it. Once I’d stopped shaking and had pulled myself up off the ground, wiping clear the remaining tears, Coach B said “How about you sit out for the rest of this run.”
And so I did. Sitting next to her on the bleachers, watching the rest of the girls finish off the 2-mile run, we semi-discussed the slight hilarity of the fact that I was scared to death of birds. My only comment on the matter was “I told you so.”
In fact, I thought as I sat there, it had been very good thinking on my part that I had had the clarity to warn the team before my ‘situation’ presented itself. As a result, I believed the matter to have been taken by my teammates rather wonderfully. They knew what was going on when it happened- no ambulance was called, no freak out that I was having a heart attack or some such thing. One look at the sky and all questions were cleared immediately. I mean sure, they didn’t exactly know precisely what the extent of my reaction would be, but one never knows how they are going to react in a moment of terror. “Yes. I believe we handled it wonderfully” I thought to myself.
The girls nearest me had shielded me from the sky with their arms. It was quite kind and thoughtful actually, considering we hardly knew one another. As soon as I had collected myself, their concerned faces were right there, waiting to help me in anyway. Of course I didn’t need help of any sort. The geese were gone; they had flown off for the day. I was safe and I knew it.
“It happens all the time,” I told them, “really, I don’t need anything.” I smiled. “I’m fine now. Promise.”
And I really was quite fine, happy even. Purged. It was over. Maybe I was a little weak, had slight tremble to my body, but that’s just an after-effect, I was all good.
Still, Coach B had me sit out, which of course I did not mind at all. It became an unspoken ritual, fun, in a sense, at least for the other girls. I would be excused from runs if the geese were too close to the track. If they took flight mid-run and I had a panic attack, I wouldn’t have to finish.
I was constantly on the look-out. Aware of every caw, every flap, every movement skyward. That’s how I always was, not just at practice. It’s how I live my life- alert and conscious of any potential incoming bird. I became so in tune with these specific geese (which kind of disgusts me to say) that I could sense when they were going to take flight. How far they would go, how high. I could predict their paths. As a result I was able to strategized where and when to hide myself.
Usually they would be waiting for me on the field. Millions of them. Eating and pooping in a massive gray-brown blob, huge and disgusting and scary. This is where the “fun” came in. I would put on my cleats and shin guards over at the track and then sit inside of the snack bar, safe, secure, and blissfully unaware, a good distance away from the field. Everyone else would run at the flock, sticks in the air, screaming like warriors. I shudder to imagine the chaotic sounds and sights of the uproar as the birds haphazardly took flight. Ugh. Once the deed was done and the coast clear, someone would come fetch me, and we would all resume practice as if nothing unusual had taken place.
I loved that team. They were my defenders, my heroes. No one has ever taken better care of me. Our love was unconditional.
When I think back to those practices, I seem to recall myself as slightly lacking in the skills department and I wonder if the coaches picked me to be on the team out of sheer anticipation of the situations and excitement my phobia would bring to us all.
Everyone has stopped running and they are standing around me. Looking at me.
After the first time it happened, the team got used to it. Once I’d stopped shaking and had pulled myself up off the ground, wiping clear the remaining tears, Coach B said “How about you sit out for the rest of this run.”
And so I did. Sitting next to her on the bleachers, watching the rest of the girls finish off the 2-mile run, we semi-discussed the slight hilarity of the fact that I was scared to death of birds. My only comment on the matter was “I told you so.”
In fact, I thought as I sat there, it had been very good thinking on my part that I had had the clarity to warn the team before my ‘situation’ presented itself. As a result, I believed the matter to have been taken by my teammates rather wonderfully. They knew what was going on when it happened- no ambulance was called, no freak out that I was having a heart attack or some such thing. One look at the sky and all questions were cleared immediately. I mean sure, they didn’t exactly know precisely what the extent of my reaction would be, but one never knows how they are going to react in a moment of terror. “Yes. I believe we handled it wonderfully” I thought to myself.
The girls nearest me had shielded me from the sky with their arms. It was quite kind and thoughtful actually, considering we hardly knew one another. As soon as I had collected myself, their concerned faces were right there, waiting to help me in anyway. Of course I didn’t need help of any sort. The geese were gone; they had flown off for the day. I was safe and I knew it.
“It happens all the time,” I told them, “really, I don’t need anything.” I smiled. “I’m fine now. Promise.”
And I really was quite fine, happy even. Purged. It was over. Maybe I was a little weak, had slight tremble to my body, but that’s just an after-effect, I was all good.
Still, Coach B had me sit out, which of course I did not mind at all. It became an unspoken ritual, fun, in a sense, at least for the other girls. I would be excused from runs if the geese were too close to the track. If they took flight mid-run and I had a panic attack, I wouldn’t have to finish.
I was constantly on the look-out. Aware of every caw, every flap, every movement skyward. That’s how I always was, not just at practice. It’s how I live my life- alert and conscious of any potential incoming bird. I became so in tune with these specific geese (which kind of disgusts me to say) that I could sense when they were going to take flight. How far they would go, how high. I could predict their paths. As a result I was able to strategized where and when to hide myself.
Usually they would be waiting for me on the field. Millions of them. Eating and pooping in a massive gray-brown blob, huge and disgusting and scary. This is where the “fun” came in. I would put on my cleats and shin guards over at the track and then sit inside of the snack bar, safe, secure, and blissfully unaware, a good distance away from the field. Everyone else would run at the flock, sticks in the air, screaming like warriors. I shudder to imagine the chaotic sounds and sights of the uproar as the birds haphazardly took flight. Ugh. Once the deed was done and the coast clear, someone would come fetch me, and we would all resume practice as if nothing unusual had taken place.
I loved that team. They were my defenders, my heroes. No one has ever taken better care of me. Our love was unconditional.
When I think back to those practices, I seem to recall myself as slightly lacking in the skills department and I wonder if the coaches picked me to be on the team out of sheer anticipation of the situations and excitement my phobia would bring to us all.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Poetry 2
Time is Whack
Riding your bike on campus
blazing and fizzing with your yellow shirt on,
I watch you navigate your way through a field of young, budding, intelligences.
Intellectuals.
You wiz by them like a shooting star.
They are startled and don’t manage to make a wish in time.
I say time is whack.
I make wishes on you for them.
When you crash into a tiny girl wearing grey I feel bad,
I was too distracted wishing to be able to shout out and warn you.
Exploration of the Soul
Point your kaleidoscope at the ground.
Inspect the grass like they are binoculars.
Engrave the intimacies of the ant-villagers’ monuments on your foot as you explore.
Go under, go through.
You are Hernando Cortez!
Scrutinize everything as if on a caffeine high:
Your eyes are peeled. Keep peeling.
Unravel until you have found your very core.
At the hub of your eye your being will address itself.
On the metro, when everything is screeching and clanking,
I let my eyes rest lightly closed
and my face falls
relaxed and serene
and I like to remember being with you.
I am waiting inside of the bombshelter where we had agreed to meet
and you are not here.
My innards are grinding themselves into a delicate powder that both looks, and feels, like dust.
and [so] i spiral-climb
to the very top
so that i can better look down
and search
for the decrepit chapel
which houses the relics of
our love.
That chocolate cake was thick and chocolatey and I liked it a lot even though
mr-droppy-eyes didn’t.
But he doesn’t even count because you didn’t lean out the window for him when he came through the gate-
and you did for me.
“come on. come on. comeonbabylightmyfire”
just follow him-
he can wind you through the graves easier and you will find what you are looking for much much faster.
-will you?
Riding your bike on campus
blazing and fizzing with your yellow shirt on,
I watch you navigate your way through a field of young, budding, intelligences.
Intellectuals.
You wiz by them like a shooting star.
They are startled and don’t manage to make a wish in time.
I say time is whack.
I make wishes on you for them.
When you crash into a tiny girl wearing grey I feel bad,
I was too distracted wishing to be able to shout out and warn you.
Exploration of the Soul
Point your kaleidoscope at the ground.
Inspect the grass like they are binoculars.
Engrave the intimacies of the ant-villagers’ monuments on your foot as you explore.
Go under, go through.
You are Hernando Cortez!
Scrutinize everything as if on a caffeine high:
Your eyes are peeled. Keep peeling.
Unravel until you have found your very core.
At the hub of your eye your being will address itself.
On the metro, when everything is screeching and clanking,
I let my eyes rest lightly closed
and my face falls
relaxed and serene
and I like to remember being with you.
I am waiting inside of the bombshelter where we had agreed to meet
and you are not here.
My innards are grinding themselves into a delicate powder that both looks, and feels, like dust.
and [so] i spiral-climb
to the very top
so that i can better look down
and search
for the decrepit chapel
which houses the relics of
our love.
That chocolate cake was thick and chocolatey and I liked it a lot even though
mr-droppy-eyes didn’t.
But he doesn’t even count because you didn’t lean out the window for him when he came through the gate-
and you did for me.
“come on. come on. comeonbabylightmyfire”
just follow him-
he can wind you through the graves easier and you will find what you are looking for much much faster.
-will you?
Writing Sample 6
“Cute dog,” she said to him, aloofly. She snubbed out her cigarette on the plastic green picnic table and bent over to wrap her slender arms around her porcelain legs. She put her chin down on her knees. She was still watching the boy and his yappy white dog. It was jumping on his legs now. The sun was struggling to come out. She could almost feel it on her bare arms. They were across the park. She had said it to him, out loud, but knew he couldn’t hear her.
She began smoking cigarettes intentionally. She liked the idea of knowing what she wanted- it appealed to her. Craving and satisfying. To actually be able to give herself something that she sought. To know what she desired. It didn’t bother her that it was unhealthy, bad for her.
She loved blueberries, but often forgot the fact. And in reality she only sort of loved blueberries. It was always a gamble, with every single one. You could not know if, when you exploded it inside of your mouth, it would be heavenly sweet or bitter and nasty.
She had closed her eyes and was listening to the traffic. She felt for the sun. She could hear an old man watering his garden, mumbling to himself. When she opened them again the boy, and his dog, were gone. She pouted. She was surprisingly sad. She didn’t know him, but she had imagined him to be quite an amazing maniac. And in her mind they had become friends. He seemed enthusiastic about things, as dog people tend to be, and she was desperate for any kind of human friendship. They had sat in the park together, held hands even. He had told her of his devotion to her eyes, and her elbows, and her long willowy fingers. They had picked flowers and gazed down to their insides at the tiny universes cocooned in there. He put one in her hair so that his three universes could make a triangle. The universe of her soul. The universe of his soul. And the universe of the flower. She imagined him to be very romantic.
She began smoking cigarettes intentionally. She liked the idea of knowing what she wanted- it appealed to her. Craving and satisfying. To actually be able to give herself something that she sought. To know what she desired. It didn’t bother her that it was unhealthy, bad for her.
She loved blueberries, but often forgot the fact. And in reality she only sort of loved blueberries. It was always a gamble, with every single one. You could not know if, when you exploded it inside of your mouth, it would be heavenly sweet or bitter and nasty.
She had closed her eyes and was listening to the traffic. She felt for the sun. She could hear an old man watering his garden, mumbling to himself. When she opened them again the boy, and his dog, were gone. She pouted. She was surprisingly sad. She didn’t know him, but she had imagined him to be quite an amazing maniac. And in her mind they had become friends. He seemed enthusiastic about things, as dog people tend to be, and she was desperate for any kind of human friendship. They had sat in the park together, held hands even. He had told her of his devotion to her eyes, and her elbows, and her long willowy fingers. They had picked flowers and gazed down to their insides at the tiny universes cocooned in there. He put one in her hair so that his three universes could make a triangle. The universe of her soul. The universe of his soul. And the universe of the flower. She imagined him to be very romantic.
Short Memoir 3
I never knew how I was going to react to my sister’s blatant lies regarding her marijuana use in high school. We were close, we had to be, we were twins; but at the same time we hid the important things from one another. I would resolve not to be mean; I didn’t know what it was like and I certainly couldn’t understand what she was going through, but as soon as a situation came up, my resolution would dissolve and I became choppy and rude. I didn’t want to hurt her, but it was the only thing I knew how to do
*****
The music is playing a little too loudly as we pull up to the chapel building. My sister parks on the far side of the parking lot, the side against the trees. It’s still very dark out and I can’t see her face as she shuts off the car and leans forward.
"I feel sick" she says.
"No you don’t." I say, irritated. I’ve heard this all before. Almost every morning this whole entire month. Our younger sister has started getting out of the car. My response is adamant in showing that I do not approve, in making it difficult for her, in making her feel bad. I want her to feel bad. I want her to know that I know. To know that I am not stupid.
"I know you’re not sick" I say. She hangs her head lower towards the steering wheel as if folding her stomach up; and in the dark she really does seem to be sick. Right, sick. Not. I grab my purse and get out of the passenger’s seat. I hear her door open and hear her moving slowly on the other side of the car. Reluctantly getting out, faking acceptance, pretending to come with me. I hear her gag herself and I hear the unfriendly sound of bile sloshing against the blacktop.
"Whatever" I dismiss and I walk across the cold parking lot into the church building alone.
She comes into class about 20 minutes later; calmer, nicer, and happier, but jittery and red eyed. She reeks of Clementine lotion. I hate that lotion. No one minds that she’s late, no one ever minds, but me. Our teacher nods, everyone smiles. She’s so funny. So much personality. That girl is crazy. Man, I love her.
I am silent, I look down and I doodle in the margin of my scripture journal. Well I loved her too and I just didn’t know what to do.
*****
The music is playing a little too loudly as we pull up to the chapel building. My sister parks on the far side of the parking lot, the side against the trees. It’s still very dark out and I can’t see her face as she shuts off the car and leans forward.
"I feel sick" she says.
"No you don’t." I say, irritated. I’ve heard this all before. Almost every morning this whole entire month. Our younger sister has started getting out of the car. My response is adamant in showing that I do not approve, in making it difficult for her, in making her feel bad. I want her to feel bad. I want her to know that I know. To know that I am not stupid.
"I know you’re not sick" I say. She hangs her head lower towards the steering wheel as if folding her stomach up; and in the dark she really does seem to be sick. Right, sick. Not. I grab my purse and get out of the passenger’s seat. I hear her door open and hear her moving slowly on the other side of the car. Reluctantly getting out, faking acceptance, pretending to come with me. I hear her gag herself and I hear the unfriendly sound of bile sloshing against the blacktop.
"Whatever" I dismiss and I walk across the cold parking lot into the church building alone.
She comes into class about 20 minutes later; calmer, nicer, and happier, but jittery and red eyed. She reeks of Clementine lotion. I hate that lotion. No one minds that she’s late, no one ever minds, but me. Our teacher nods, everyone smiles. She’s so funny. So much personality. That girl is crazy. Man, I love her.
I am silent, I look down and I doodle in the margin of my scripture journal. Well I loved her too and I just didn’t know what to do.
Writing Sample 5
She kept having dreams about random means of transportation- specifically elevator and metro train. Always going up and usually very nearly missed. To her it seemed obvious these dreams meant something about the direction of her life, yet she couldn’t seem to place any distinct interpretation.
Standing in the doorframe of her pantry, deciding between scooping the peanut butter with Oreos or with whole grain wheat corn chips, she looked down at the floor where the refrigerator next to her bookended a nasty little dustpan and hand broom. As she averted her eyes downwards, a shadowed figure came up behind her and closed the door. She was swept up into the darkness and suddenly overwhelmed by a scent of mismatched and misplaced food. “Well that certainly isn’t mine” she thought to herself. After which she began to freak out.
Panic engulfed her. She banged on the door and tried the door knob. It rattled, but would not open. Who was in her house?! The darkness seemed to be getting darker. She hadn’t been anywhere this dark in years. She slept with a nightlight, always had. Just know she was beginning to remember why.
She tried recalling what she had been taught at therapy, but it was becoming increasingly difficult. As her mind searched back in time, it also discovered the buried fears she had associated with darkness, in turn cancelling out any therapeutic reminders she came across.
Standing in the doorframe of her pantry, deciding between scooping the peanut butter with Oreos or with whole grain wheat corn chips, she looked down at the floor where the refrigerator next to her bookended a nasty little dustpan and hand broom. As she averted her eyes downwards, a shadowed figure came up behind her and closed the door. She was swept up into the darkness and suddenly overwhelmed by a scent of mismatched and misplaced food. “Well that certainly isn’t mine” she thought to herself. After which she began to freak out.
Panic engulfed her. She banged on the door and tried the door knob. It rattled, but would not open. Who was in her house?! The darkness seemed to be getting darker. She hadn’t been anywhere this dark in years. She slept with a nightlight, always had. Just know she was beginning to remember why.
She tried recalling what she had been taught at therapy, but it was becoming increasingly difficult. As her mind searched back in time, it also discovered the buried fears she had associated with darkness, in turn cancelling out any therapeutic reminders she came across.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Short Poem 1
Lamby Rug
I suck my thumb and go back in time to when you spanned larger than me.
I’ll always have a resonating void engulfing my being-
You belong wrapped around my body.
I slide my hand through your foresty hairs and my face sinks in.
I feel like a tongue and I am licking you and you are a smooth expensive truffle.
I want you to swallow me up!
Jonah in a fuzzy lamby-walled stomach.
I could last more than three days.
I could last more than forty days.
Grape Jelly
Nose in jar. Arrival.
Smells like Hudson.
Pure, grainy grape residue
A childhood of juice. Juicing.
Is this ekphrastic?
The art of crushing grapes.
The art of making jelly.
Don’t wait for the toast to get cold this time
Cut it in half-
Part hot now
Part cold later
One can find meaning in anything.
Lick the knife and put it back.
I am a double dipper.
A plane of ruby stained glass lying on the beach.
Cut it in half-
Sideways
The sand is just barely thicker
And only sometimes.
Why is it ruby when it tastes so purple?
I suck my thumb and go back in time to when you spanned larger than me.
I’ll always have a resonating void engulfing my being-
You belong wrapped around my body.
I slide my hand through your foresty hairs and my face sinks in.
I feel like a tongue and I am licking you and you are a smooth expensive truffle.
I want you to swallow me up!
Jonah in a fuzzy lamby-walled stomach.
I could last more than three days.
I could last more than forty days.
Grape Jelly
Nose in jar. Arrival.
Smells like Hudson.
Pure, grainy grape residue
A childhood of juice. Juicing.
Is this ekphrastic?
The art of crushing grapes.
The art of making jelly.
Don’t wait for the toast to get cold this time
Cut it in half-
Part hot now
Part cold later
One can find meaning in anything.
Lick the knife and put it back.
I am a double dipper.
A plane of ruby stained glass lying on the beach.
Cut it in half-
Sideways
The sand is just barely thicker
And only sometimes.
Why is it ruby when it tastes so purple?
Very Short Story 3
Her first time in that specific stairwell was accidental. She had been searching for the Oddities Health Clinic which happened to be located in the exact spot two streets over. She frequently mistook 8s for 3s and this was a prime example of such a time. She had also been distracted by her habit of looking up as she walked, which she knew to be a bad habit and was currently working on attempting to fix. To her amazement she had spotted leaves, which seemed to be creeping down the silvery windowed wall from the rooftop of the building. They were connected to each other and appeared to be green; almost as if they were alive. It was not usual for the city to permit rooftop gardens and the mystical aura reminded her of stories her babysitter would tell her as a child of Forests – lands of wild and unstructured plant growth. She had breathed deeper in through her nose probing for purer, newborn air. Probing for proof.
Her nose, of course, had led her up, where she soon found herself on a landing not at all similar to the one on which the Clinic was situated. She had been there once before and she certainly was not there at that moment. This fourth floor landing was not the location of any type of suite and actually appeared to be less of a landing and more of a do-not-land-here-please-continue-on-your-way, partially swollen step. She had stopped, and, realizing she must have been in the wrong building, she began to turn around and retrace her path down and out. She was most definitely late for her appointment and was worried. Appendage-removal was a fairly intense surgical process and would have to be rescheduled if she were more than 15 minutes late. The uniform chrome and gray of the stairwell had smothered her thoughts of the potential garden above and the air had a distinct metallic taste which she was not at all enjoying. As she spun, her eyes picked up the hue of a slightly darker gray blur.
Positioned against the back of a stair some seven steps above her, like a mouse-sized door, was an electrical outlet, labeled across the top with a date: 9-15-37 The date was written in thick, black, block numbering; with dashes.
She stared hard. She had never seen an outlet before. The square contained three distinct openings and if she didn’t know any better, they seemed, at least from the distance, to parallel the prongs on the end of her appendage. Most persons with her type of problem had had it ‘dealt with’ upon birth. Her mother however, had been a whole-istic being and believed that any severance of parts from her tiny baby would, in the long run, be emotionally more scaring than living with it. Thus, she had spent her life with a limp, gray, bloodless limb coiled up and taped to her hipbone. Thankfully, it coiled up tightly enough that it was indiscernible beneath clothing.
She stared harder. Soon she was climbing up again. Once she reached it she bent down and ran her finger along the openings. It matched perfectly there was no doubt in her mind, but she was early. It was 2030. She was curious and longed to insert, but hesitated.
The stairwell became her Mecca. Every September she would return and contemplate the unknown mystic of this little metal box. By 2035 she knew she was dying. She had disregarded the advice of the clinic and had never gotten the surgery. Now the cord-like limb was sucking her life, even she knew it. It was December. She was weak and thin and cold. It took an hour for her to lug herself up the first two floors. By the third, she knew her only hope for life was the outlet. She had unwound her coil and held the end in her small pink hand. Exerting every remaining ounce of life inside of her she reached it up to the opening.
When the janitor found her she had been dead for four hours. Her tiny frame was stiff and gray. He cradled her up in his arms and as he carried her down to the street, her cord swung violently, hitting the wall each step of the way.
Her nose, of course, had led her up, where she soon found herself on a landing not at all similar to the one on which the Clinic was situated. She had been there once before and she certainly was not there at that moment. This fourth floor landing was not the location of any type of suite and actually appeared to be less of a landing and more of a do-not-land-here-please-continue-on-your-way, partially swollen step. She had stopped, and, realizing she must have been in the wrong building, she began to turn around and retrace her path down and out. She was most definitely late for her appointment and was worried. Appendage-removal was a fairly intense surgical process and would have to be rescheduled if she were more than 15 minutes late. The uniform chrome and gray of the stairwell had smothered her thoughts of the potential garden above and the air had a distinct metallic taste which she was not at all enjoying. As she spun, her eyes picked up the hue of a slightly darker gray blur.
Positioned against the back of a stair some seven steps above her, like a mouse-sized door, was an electrical outlet, labeled across the top with a date: 9-15-37 The date was written in thick, black, block numbering; with dashes.
She stared hard. She had never seen an outlet before. The square contained three distinct openings and if she didn’t know any better, they seemed, at least from the distance, to parallel the prongs on the end of her appendage. Most persons with her type of problem had had it ‘dealt with’ upon birth. Her mother however, had been a whole-istic being and believed that any severance of parts from her tiny baby would, in the long run, be emotionally more scaring than living with it. Thus, she had spent her life with a limp, gray, bloodless limb coiled up and taped to her hipbone. Thankfully, it coiled up tightly enough that it was indiscernible beneath clothing.
She stared harder. Soon she was climbing up again. Once she reached it she bent down and ran her finger along the openings. It matched perfectly there was no doubt in her mind, but she was early. It was 2030. She was curious and longed to insert, but hesitated.
The stairwell became her Mecca. Every September she would return and contemplate the unknown mystic of this little metal box. By 2035 she knew she was dying. She had disregarded the advice of the clinic and had never gotten the surgery. Now the cord-like limb was sucking her life, even she knew it. It was December. She was weak and thin and cold. It took an hour for her to lug herself up the first two floors. By the third, she knew her only hope for life was the outlet. She had unwound her coil and held the end in her small pink hand. Exerting every remaining ounce of life inside of her she reached it up to the opening.
When the janitor found her she had been dead for four hours. Her tiny frame was stiff and gray. He cradled her up in his arms and as he carried her down to the street, her cord swung violently, hitting the wall each step of the way.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Writing Sample 4
I could sense him behind me. He had followed me outside. But for the first time, I ignored it. Of course I knew he was there, but I had had enough. No more wanting, no more waiting, it was over between us. I kept up my pace trying to keep track of Kat as she lead me to find that guy she thought I should hook up with. He was out here somewhere.
It felt like a perfect thanksgiving day. The sky was cloudy, a bright white eternity. I felt him catch up to me and silently grab my waist. It was so natural, I was calm. He looked into my face and I could tell he was sorry. Sorry for the past 4 years, sorry for making everything more difficult. His eyes told me ‘I want you now. You’re the only one I’ve ever really wanted. I need you and I will devote myself to you and I will be with you through everything from now on.” I melted. I might have tear-ed up, but I don’t think I did. I hadn’t expected it but it felt more than right. It was what I had been waiting for. It was meant to happen but had been askew for years. I breathed into him and he was warm against the cold wind and we held each other. I felt secure around my waist and my neck. As he nuzzled me our bodies rejoiced in the reunion. I never wanted him to let go again. His mouth found mine and we partook of one another. As I tasted the familiar mouth my entire being seemed to explode in tiny pin-pricks of comfort and familiarity and then relax into a mellow, smooth caramel existence.
I let him hold my waist the whole time after that. After we found that ‘lost guy.’ (He had hiked down a river bed and was just climbing back up on a ladder as we peered over into his bearded face.) After he showed me the floating house on the lake. In my mind an old couple was up there getting ready for bed. She in an ancient nightgown she had worn since her wedding night. The old man had made the whole barn-type house by hand to prove his love to her, and she had finally given in to his love. As the old woman climbed her stiff body into bed she turned and smiled at him and thanked him, as she did every night, for building this gorgeous, magical oasis for her. He would smile knowingly back at her and they would hold hands as the fell into sleep.
I was hesitant about the house. It was old, it looked fairly small and….. It was floating on water! But it was also cozy, warm and rustic. A strange, taller man appeared, grabbing my attention. It was as if he had fallen out of the sky. We were on shore again, at a counter with two other couples. “I have marriage contracts” he rang out joyously. I looked at Neil. I was uncertain. In all honesty I still had slight doubt. Not in me, but in him. I got small and nervous. But he was strong and distinct in his actions and decision. “Yes. Of course.” He reached for two of them and we began to fill them out. I was so excited I kept filling in blanks with the wrong names and locations, I could barely read. Eventually we got it right, handed them back. And waded our way across to our island home. Our bed was in the attic facing two little barn door windows that open up across the lake. It was lovely and still, although I was slightly afraid of becoming motion sick. I turned back to the bed and crawled into his waiting arms. He encircled my waist, held me close, and I immediately slept in peace.
Short Memoir 2
One day while I was was living in Paris I was at the bakery buying bread and my gaze fell upon some funky colored, tiny, hamburger-looking things. When I say funky-colored, I mean FUNKY colored. Bright yellows and placid greens, teal, neon pink. It was astounding, and slightly sickening. I had no desire to buy them, eat them, or even stammer through the necessary french to figure out what in heavens name they were. I pushed them from my mind and focused on remembering the name of my bread loaf so I could order speedily and not bring attention to myself. A few weeks later [maybe even a month later I am ashamed to admitt] I finally communed with these strange, but utterly delightful, little pasteries.
And commune I did. Upon first contact with my tongue my entire being rippled with ecstasy. I "MMMMMM"-ed like a 3 year old. The slight crunch, the sticky creaminess, the melting cookie, the kick of bold intruiging flavor, it became a part of me.
There were three of us that day. Together we had bought a box of 5 at Ladurée and then taken them down the Champs-Élysées [do not tell this next part to Mme Welch] to McDonalds where we ate french fries [I swear this was the only time] cleared the table, and began our ceremony in a cushioned darker corner of the wanna-be posh 'restuarant.' We had gotten multiple flavors and this meant no repeats. So, we took turns taking the first bite and then passed the cookie around. Each girl had dibs on the first bite of her personal anticipated favorite flavor. I got lemon and, let me add, lemon was the winner that day.
Photo documentation was taken of each too-small bite. Our faces, of course, were distorted in pleasure. We twisted, we melted. We shivered and sighed. And we were crippled with sadness that this was the end of our time in France. How in the world did we last this long without partaking of this precisely contained piece of Parisian perfection? This was France at its finest to me: classy, colorful, sweet and sculpted. As well as slightly stand-offish and intimidating.
Writing Sample 3
The tapestry on the wall looked like it was breathing, but it was only the wind. It shuttered. It rippled. It started dancing. “How playful” Janicka thought as she watched it. She was supposed to be getting ready. She had a date with Thom, the boy from that band. She had met him the weekend before at a gig somewhere, but she wasn’t particularly excited. She lay down on her bed in her towel, her damp hair saturating her sheets with water. Since her roommates were out she had turned off the A.C. As she lounged around she thought about her current state. “I am here in my bed and the window is slightly open and I am listening to the drain outside of the window and I am listening to the rain outside of the window and I have taken charge of the apartment and turned off the air conditioning once and for all! All is pure and natural. Our air is clear and clean and wet.” She liked explaining situations to herself. It made her more aware and it made her more awake and active in her own life.
She stopped thinking to herself and she got up and went into the bathroom. As she sat down she stared up into the face of an O’Neill model. “Awkward” she thought. Try as she did, she could not seem to go to the bathroom. Not with that poster staring at her. “I am going to have to talk to Natalie about this” she thought to herself as she wrapped her towel back around her body and walked back to her bedroom. Why on earth her roommate had plastered giant pictures of swimsuit models on the wall of their bathroom was beyond her. It felt like an invasion of privacy. It was as if someone, who just so happened to be skinny and gorgeous and perfect, was staring at her screaming “Did you really eat that?” as she tried to, well, do her business. It was just awkward.
She went back into her room, opened her closet door, grabbed a dress and pulled it on over her head. She stared at herself in the mirror, twirling a few times as she watched herself, and was satisfied. She stretched, cracked her back by turning to the side, and breathed deeply. The pop was pleasant. She grabbed her purse and ran down the stairs and out the door. Thom was waiting for her in his run-down Camaro looking just as grim and distant as he had while playing his guitar on stage the weekend before. “Musicians,” she though. “They’re all the same.” She clutched the black handle and opened the door, not resisting as he pulled her into his life.
She stopped thinking to herself and she got up and went into the bathroom. As she sat down she stared up into the face of an O’Neill model. “Awkward” she thought. Try as she did, she could not seem to go to the bathroom. Not with that poster staring at her. “I am going to have to talk to Natalie about this” she thought to herself as she wrapped her towel back around her body and walked back to her bedroom. Why on earth her roommate had plastered giant pictures of swimsuit models on the wall of their bathroom was beyond her. It felt like an invasion of privacy. It was as if someone, who just so happened to be skinny and gorgeous and perfect, was staring at her screaming “Did you really eat that?” as she tried to, well, do her business. It was just awkward.
She went back into her room, opened her closet door, grabbed a dress and pulled it on over her head. She stared at herself in the mirror, twirling a few times as she watched herself, and was satisfied. She stretched, cracked her back by turning to the side, and breathed deeply. The pop was pleasant. She grabbed her purse and ran down the stairs and out the door. Thom was waiting for her in his run-down Camaro looking just as grim and distant as he had while playing his guitar on stage the weekend before. “Musicians,” she though. “They’re all the same.” She clutched the black handle and opened the door, not resisting as he pulled her into his life.
Very Short Story 2
No matter how much she thought about it, Jessica couldn’t seem to figure out the state. She walked everywhere. Trying to gather herself together. Trying to find her bearings. She didn’t know people and she didn’t know how to fit herself in between them anyway.
New Mexico, the land of enchantment. She wasn’t enchanted. Gone were the fairies and playthings of her imagination. They had dried up from the sheer power of the sun. Her childhood was over now. She needed to find a job, and find one fast. Her money was disappearing just like her visions of dancing goblins and flower headdresses. As a child Jessica had fantasized about New Mexico. Finding her Mother, finding her happily Ever After. She groaned. It was so hot here. Gone also were her imaginings of dancing Native American princess who would welcome her into their tribes and keep her safely as their sister. They were replaced by hippie beggar boys and drunken aging men.
Jessica passed a middle aged man who had tattoos covering his pale face. She couldn’t decipher his expression thanks to the bluish lines that seemed to shelter his emotions from the cruel world he lived in. She stared and she stared at his innocent, but gruesomely non-human-like face. It held a map. She knew it just by looking. She memorized the right turns, the left turns. She counted paces in between distances and held her breath as she followed the tracks directly into his eyes. Startled by their intensity she turned and walked away from him. But she still remembered and she still followed his path. She wandered and she turned exactly as he had expressed to her. She gazed down alleyways and into the faces of the abandoned. She knew she was not alone. As she walked she hummed to herself.
At the end of her path she found a solitary gladiolus flower. She picked it and turned to her left, where the tattooed man was waiting for her. She placed the sword-like blossom in his left hand while reaching for his right with her left. They turned together, in sync, and began their eternal walk through the desert and into the sunset.
New Mexico, the land of enchantment. She wasn’t enchanted. Gone were the fairies and playthings of her imagination. They had dried up from the sheer power of the sun. Her childhood was over now. She needed to find a job, and find one fast. Her money was disappearing just like her visions of dancing goblins and flower headdresses. As a child Jessica had fantasized about New Mexico. Finding her Mother, finding her happily Ever After. She groaned. It was so hot here. Gone also were her imaginings of dancing Native American princess who would welcome her into their tribes and keep her safely as their sister. They were replaced by hippie beggar boys and drunken aging men.
Jessica passed a middle aged man who had tattoos covering his pale face. She couldn’t decipher his expression thanks to the bluish lines that seemed to shelter his emotions from the cruel world he lived in. She stared and she stared at his innocent, but gruesomely non-human-like face. It held a map. She knew it just by looking. She memorized the right turns, the left turns. She counted paces in between distances and held her breath as she followed the tracks directly into his eyes. Startled by their intensity she turned and walked away from him. But she still remembered and she still followed his path. She wandered and she turned exactly as he had expressed to her. She gazed down alleyways and into the faces of the abandoned. She knew she was not alone. As she walked she hummed to herself.
At the end of her path she found a solitary gladiolus flower. She picked it and turned to her left, where the tattooed man was waiting for her. She placed the sword-like blossom in his left hand while reaching for his right with her left. They turned together, in sync, and began their eternal walk through the desert and into the sunset.
Writing Sample 2
I have become desperate and I have become lonely. I miss calling her. For ages me calling her and her calling me has been essential. It’s been all I had. It’s been my only real interaction beyond thoughts. It’s been the only significant thing, the only contact with life and with The World.
Communication, talking to her. Even when we were mean, or short or silent. I needed it. And I needed her. I had a daily something. A daily someone. Someone to report to. Someone to check in with, to check up on. Someone who cared, or didn’t care. But kept being there, telephonically.
Missed calls, voicemails, her ringtone, the whole kit and caboodle. It made me feel loved, made me feel significant, and better about myself. She made me feel necessary.
I miss her. I miss our contact and I miss its structure and the feelings of contentment it gave me. I’ve been feeling lost and alone without her.
A void. I am now living in a darkness. Inside of a void. My existence is contained inside of a cloud of Beth-less-ness.
I become like this every time she steps out of my life. When she leaves and she goes places and does things with her life, my life stalls. My life suffers. I become this depressed…. this distant… thing.
I lay in my new bed and it is dark and I am scared. I am scared of the spirit I know lives inside the antique mirror and I am scared of the murderer I know is going to come in through the door, or the window, or through the mirror, or the closet. He is in the bed next to me. He is there already and I know it and I am terrified and I can imagine his hands strangling me and I can feel his breath and I don’t move and I don’t breath and I think thoughts of invisibility and thoughts of stillness and I am clenched and tight and my eyes are closed and it is dark and I am terrified.
It takes ages for me to get to the point of sleep.
When I wake up she is there in the house and I can sense it and I am happy and it is sunny and I sit up in my new bed and I smile. I smile at my beautiful antique bedroom set and I smile that she is home.
That night as we brush our teeth to go to bed we think about it. I ask her with my eyes to stay with me and she answers and says yes. She knows I have been scared.
We get in my queen bed and lay rigid next to each other and try to fall asleep quickly. It does not work. We do not face each other and I try to imagine that she is not there. I feel stupid and crushed and suffocated and babied and lame. I wish she would go. I want her to get out of my bed. I don’t want to force us to be close. I don’t like this forcing of intimacy and the urge to force us to be together and to be happy. I want her out and I want her out with every piece of myself.
This is how it is. I need her when she is not there. When she is gone I fall and I fall and I fall, but when she is there and she is accessible I am cruel and I am distant.
Communication, talking to her. Even when we were mean, or short or silent. I needed it. And I needed her. I had a daily something. A daily someone. Someone to report to. Someone to check in with, to check up on. Someone who cared, or didn’t care. But kept being there, telephonically.
Missed calls, voicemails, her ringtone, the whole kit and caboodle. It made me feel loved, made me feel significant, and better about myself. She made me feel necessary.
I miss her. I miss our contact and I miss its structure and the feelings of contentment it gave me. I’ve been feeling lost and alone without her.
A void. I am now living in a darkness. Inside of a void. My existence is contained inside of a cloud of Beth-less-ness.
I become like this every time she steps out of my life. When she leaves and she goes places and does things with her life, my life stalls. My life suffers. I become this depressed…. this distant… thing.
I lay in my new bed and it is dark and I am scared. I am scared of the spirit I know lives inside the antique mirror and I am scared of the murderer I know is going to come in through the door, or the window, or through the mirror, or the closet. He is in the bed next to me. He is there already and I know it and I am terrified and I can imagine his hands strangling me and I can feel his breath and I don’t move and I don’t breath and I think thoughts of invisibility and thoughts of stillness and I am clenched and tight and my eyes are closed and it is dark and I am terrified.
It takes ages for me to get to the point of sleep.
When I wake up she is there in the house and I can sense it and I am happy and it is sunny and I sit up in my new bed and I smile. I smile at my beautiful antique bedroom set and I smile that she is home.
That night as we brush our teeth to go to bed we think about it. I ask her with my eyes to stay with me and she answers and says yes. She knows I have been scared.
We get in my queen bed and lay rigid next to each other and try to fall asleep quickly. It does not work. We do not face each other and I try to imagine that she is not there. I feel stupid and crushed and suffocated and babied and lame. I wish she would go. I want her to get out of my bed. I don’t want to force us to be close. I don’t like this forcing of intimacy and the urge to force us to be together and to be happy. I want her out and I want her out with every piece of myself.
This is how it is. I need her when she is not there. When she is gone I fall and I fall and I fall, but when she is there and she is accessible I am cruel and I am distant.
Short Memoir 1
We’re sitting under an apple tree. The branches are so heavy with fruit that they are laying themselves on the ground barring us from any other potential pickers. An Indian family strolls jovially past lead by the grandmother who’s flowing orange sari is split on the side exposing her crinkled fleshy middle. Their legs are bright in the sun and we watch them glide next to us like a herd of floating elephants, exotic and mystical, carried through the heat upon the breath of their incomprehensible language. I lay back onto the dirt and stare up into my sister’s face. She has climbed a lower branch and is sitting on it biting into yet another apple and watching me. We aren’t speaking but we are smiling.
I gaze up into the tumble of branches and body parts, I am sticky with sweat and grateful for the shade. I close my eyes and am more content than I have been in months. I can tell that she feels the same and we continue to not-speak. I like it. I begin to cry, silently. I turn onto my stomach and pretend to play with the fallen apples, stacking them, building up an apple wall. An apple fortress. When I am done I have stopped crying and I turn back to face her. She is my exact likeness. We are identical. Monozygotic. “Freaks of Nature” as our father likes to say.
I look at her face and I don't tell her that I don't want her to leave me. I don't tell her that I need her and I don't tell her that I don't think I can make it without her.
Instead I say “I could stay in here forever. It feels like another world.” All around us is chlorophyl tinted. We are wrapped in mystical green silk.
“Fruitopia” She says.
“No” I say. “Fruitalatalata.”
“Hah. You are good.” She smiles.
I reach my arm up behind my head for another apple. She climbs a little higher and leans forward. She is looking for perfection. She tosses her apple core at a specific cluster knocking down three at a time. I watch them land and crawl over to collect them and pass them up to her. One still has a green leaft attached to its stem. It is a solid, deep, school house red. “This is the perfect apple” she says.
“You are good” I say. And I smile.
I gaze up into the tumble of branches and body parts, I am sticky with sweat and grateful for the shade. I close my eyes and am more content than I have been in months. I can tell that she feels the same and we continue to not-speak. I like it. I begin to cry, silently. I turn onto my stomach and pretend to play with the fallen apples, stacking them, building up an apple wall. An apple fortress. When I am done I have stopped crying and I turn back to face her. She is my exact likeness. We are identical. Monozygotic. “Freaks of Nature” as our father likes to say.
I look at her face and I don't tell her that I don't want her to leave me. I don't tell her that I need her and I don't tell her that I don't think I can make it without her.
Instead I say “I could stay in here forever. It feels like another world.” All around us is chlorophyl tinted. We are wrapped in mystical green silk.
“Fruitopia” She says.
“No” I say. “Fruitalatalata.”
“Hah. You are good.” She smiles.
I reach my arm up behind my head for another apple. She climbs a little higher and leans forward. She is looking for perfection. She tosses her apple core at a specific cluster knocking down three at a time. I watch them land and crawl over to collect them and pass them up to her. One still has a green leaft attached to its stem. It is a solid, deep, school house red. “This is the perfect apple” she says.
“You are good” I say. And I smile.
Writing Sample 1
My heart is a raspberry,
conccave at the top where
something
has been yanked out of me,
a golden brown hairy ripeness.
Section-able,
I hold onto my vulnerability.
I wrap it around myself and it becomes a shield.
Latching myself together
I am hooking each plump orb to another.
The ones that will rot go together:
their moistness attracts the mold.
I sacrifice myself.
I may not be whole, but
I am delicous without them.
conccave at the top where
something
has been yanked out of me,
a golden brown hairy ripeness.
Section-able,
I hold onto my vulnerability.
I wrap it around myself and it becomes a shield.
Latching myself together
I am hooking each plump orb to another.
The ones that will rot go together:
their moistness attracts the mold.
I sacrifice myself.
I may not be whole, but
I am delicous without them.
Very Short Story 1
Meredith abruptly changed direction and turned to face the faded pink stucco wall of her house. She had been gardening; her beans desperately needed….something, more than the water she had brought out in a jar from the kitchen. She felt they were crumbling under her glance, just like the wall in front of her. She sighed almost inaudibly, putting out very little breath. She was disappointed. She turned again. Sighed. And then re-pivoted. “This dirt is life-less,” she thought, squatting, pouting. “No” she thought again “it is life-sucking. It’s killing the plants.” Her mind trailed on desperately, “it’s killing the house. It’s killing the air. It’s killing me.” She was getting dizzy. She needed a cigarette. She stood up quickly, empty jar cradled in her arm. A snapshot of the Virgin Mary. Madonna and child, a postcard-picture. Like the ones sold up the corner from her house on market days. A solid pink background. White ruffled border. She looked vacant.
Originally the dryness had appealed to her. She had fantasized of moments like this: putting intense amounts of effort into the growth of her own oasis. Her own gem amidst a decrepit village. Fighting the wildness of the land; learning and reigning its beauty. This was her pulsing desire, this was the exotic. Far below the equator, she had become dissatisfied in the midst of her marvelous future.
A butterfly landed on the glass rim of the jar. It slowly, but deliberately crawled its way in through the mouth, the creature’s almost-pre-calculated efforts demanding and successfully capturing Meredith’s attention. Meredith looked at it, sitting there patiently, and languidly screwed on the lid.
“I think it’s from having sisters.” She said, distantly.
She walked through the lawn to the side of the pool. Contemplating the surface, she dropped the jar and watched it speed through the water: straight and easy, through the center of her reflection’s head. A direct path: down, to the bottom. She thought about the butterfly and pictured this new world through its eyes.
Her thoughts became the butterfly’s and she pictures rhis new world through its eyes. She was jealous. She wanted to be submerged. To be thrown in, helpless. Plunging deeper. She wanted to stay under. To feel light and drowsy and engulfed. Contained, but free. She searched the underwater make-believe world with her eyes and beat her wings in rhythm with her thoughts. She felt the air and imagined feeling the water inside of her mind. It was there. It was everywhere.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
