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]
Thursday, October 29, 2009
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.
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