Hand in Hand

Her wedding ring holds it's spot on her right hand
and reflections of a couple with full heads of hair and young skin fade in it's band.
He proposed in 1957.
They've been apart for nine years,
but they're marriage is 36 years strong.
She used that same hand to wipe her daughter's tears as another grave was filled and the other side of the bed was emptied.
They met at a bowling alley in 1952 and bowled every Thursday night,
but she dropped the ball and bruised her hand 15 years ago and hasn't been since.
In the summer of 1955 they spent nights by the beach in San Antonio.
Her hands rested on his chest while she slept.
And in 1963, Kennedy was assassinated
and when nothing seemed right in the world her hands pushed him out the door.
Those same hands dialed the hotel's number the next day to bring him home.
Her hands held their second child in 1967, and their love for each other only grew.
In 1981 her hands carried in the thanksgiving turkey to a family of five and he cut the pieces and passed it around.
But then in 1983 he got sick and she held his hands as he broke.
By 1984 he was gone and those hands were holding him after his last breath.

To whomever has her next

Laugh at every bad joke she makes, even when she won't laugh at any of yours.

Make sure you buy her favorite candy for her, even though it's your last three dollars and the milk has gone sour.

She'll hate it when you pick her up, but do it anyway and spin her in circles until she has to catch her breath from laughing so hard.

When she falls asleep on the couch during that movie she said she wanted to see so bad, wrap her in the knitted blanket on the banister and walk her up the stairs.

Sometimes she won't eat dinner, but don't try to force her to, just pour her cheerios and make her tea the next morning.

She'll put up Christmas lights in July and carve pumpkins the day after Halloween, but don't ask her why. All you have to do is help her.

Bring her flowers on April fifth and she'll tell you why that day still chews away at her bones when she's ready.

Keep the long, thick socks with the mouse pattern clean so that she can wear them under her boots when it rains.

When she's too weak to even open her eyes, hold her as long as you can.

If she cries in the middle of the night, make her popcorn and sit with her on the bathroom floor.

Let her paint the walls whatever color she wants to help her take her mind off of things.

If you're ever out of town, even if it's only for a night, send her a postcard and tell her you miss her eyes.

When she stays home sick she'll tell you to leave her alone, but make sure you leave soup outside her bedroom door.

Don't ever forget how lucky you are, even when she's falling to pieces, because she'll always hold you together.

Motif Story - Tradition

February 5, 2000
Chinatown, New York City, New York
Chinese New Year

 The surface of the table is cold and still wet from the rag the busboy used to wipe it down. I can hear the cooks in the back of the dirty little restaurant yelling at each other in the same language I've been hearing all night. It all sounds the same. Just a bunch of gibberish spoken too quickly and too loudly.
“Do you know what you want?” My mother says from behind a menu.
“No” I say with a shrug. I lift my head and rest my chin on my hands.
“Are you hungry?” She lowers the menu to reveal a raised eyebrow.
“I guess…,” I mutter.
“Choose something.” she says and closes the menu. It slides across the table. I squint at the small black print. I don’t even know what the majority of this stuff means.
“Can’t I just get a hot dog from one of the street vendors?”
Mom folds her arms and gives me a stern look.“It’s Chinese New Year. We’re being festive.”
“But, Mom,”
“Can we just enjoy something for once and have a little bit of fun?
“Mom,” I interrupt her rant.
“What?”
“In case you haven’t noticed,” I lean in closer. “we're not Chinese,” I whisper.
“Pick up the menu and choose your damn food because I will not hesitate to order without you, and no, you can’t get a hot dog from one of the street vendors.” I go back to squinting at the black print. I see a waitress wearing a white apron and a big smile making her way over to our table. My mother gives me a serious look and points her finger at my menu angrily. I go back to squinting.
“Are you ready to order?” I can barely make out the waitress’ words through her thick accent.
“Um…” Mom glares at me. I shrug. “I know what I want, but maybe you should just come back in a few minutes.”
“No!” I say louder than I mean to. I can’t take much more of this “celebrating”. “Order for me.” I demand.
“You sure?”
The smile doesn’t leave the waitress’ mouth. Not even for a second. Mom orders our food in gibberish and the waitress nods along, still smiling. It’s almost creepy. I struggle to decide whether she’s happy, or just finds the stereotypical ignorance of Americans funny. Or maybe she just has no idea what’s going on.
Lets go with number three.
She walks away, still smiling, and we sit in silence for a few moments. It’s nice. But, all good things must come to an end.
“James?”
“Yeah?” I say from inside the cave I have created with my arms on the table.
“I know you're upset Dad’s not here. He just had to work.” This is literally the sixth time she has said this to me tonight. I’ve been counting.
“It’s fine. He’s just busy” I respond.
“It’s not fine. He said he would be here.” She holds her head in her hands.
I try to make her feel better.
“He just, had a meeting or something.”
She gives me a weak smile. Our eyes drift to the waitress, who is now using her nod and smile routine on a man drinking a cup of coffee at the counter.
“I’m not so sure she knows what he’s saying.”


***


February 1, 2003
Chinatown, New York City, New York
Chinese New Year

Mom stared at me from across the table with a blotchy, tear stained face. I told her we didn’t have to come today.
“It’s Chinese New Year. This is a tradition.” she insisted.
If you ask me, coincidentally doing the same thing on a holiday last year and the year before doesn’t make it a tradition, it just makes you somewhat dull.
Dad left last Thursday, but not for the first time. He leaves all the time, but he always finds his way back after a guilty drinking binge.
“Want me to order for you?” she says.
“He’ll be back, Mom.” I say. She nods and covers her face. “He always comes back.”
“I just wish you didn’t have to deal with this.” She removes the silverware from her napkin.
“I’m used to it,”  I shrug.
“This isn’t something you should have to get used to.” She blots her eyes with the napkin.
The waitress quickly makes her way toward our table. Smiling, of course.
“Are you ready to order?” Her thick accent hasn’t gotten anymore understandable. It seems to be horrible enough to provoke tears because before I know it my Mother is sobbing so loudly the gibberish coming from all around us has silenced and the cooks all stare, gathered in a mass by the tiny door leading into the kitchen. The smile our waitress is known for suddenly leaves her face and she quickly turns and retreats to the counter.
I scooch myself out from my side of the booth and sit down next to her. I put my arm around her shoulder and pull her in close.
“It’s going to be okay, Mom. I swear.”
***

February 18, 2007
Chinatown, New York City, New York
Chinese New Year
    “James, I told you that you didn’t have to come home for this.” Mom says.
“Mom, it’s tradition.” I respond. “And I missed you guys.”
“Why do we even celebrate Chinese New Year? We’re not Chinese.” Charlie says as he puts his menu down on the table. He proposed to Mom last week. It’s nice to know Mom has company when I’m not around. He keeps her happy.
Mom and I exchange smiles. She turns to face Charlie.
“We don’t care. Didn’t you hear him?” She says pointing toward me. “It’s tradition.”

Fractured Folk Tale - The Last Letter

    He was found sprawled out on the sidewalk, like a squashed ant. Barely clinging to life with the unsteady beat of his damaged heart, and gasping for air with slow, broken breaths that rolled from his shriveled lungs like the smoke that rose from the windows of his office building.
    We received a short call from a calm, sweet voiced lady telling us that he had just been checked into the hospital and was in critical condition. My older sisters, my mother, and I packed into our little station wagon and made the silent, twenty minute trip into the city to see him.
My mother and sisters threw themselves to his side and sobbed into his chest and proclaimed their love for him and how they have let go of all of their accusations and anger that they had been clutching close to their chests for months. I made myself comfortable in the corner of the tiny hospital room and listened to their cries of love for a man who couldn’t hear them. Begging for forgiveness in fear that this might be their last chance. In fear that karma would come for them for resenting a dead man.
I understood why they did this. When the people in your life are just barely hanging on to the edge of their existence, your worst fears become eternally loose ends. Things left unsaid and undid, remaining that way forever because you let the opportunity slip from your grasp.
But the opportunity was lost. That’s what they didn’t know. Dad would never have the chance to forgive and forget. He was gone before the beat of his heart flat lined and I knew it.
So there I stood with my back against the blue paint and eyes that refused to shed tears because I remembered his laugh and the sound of his voice. I knew what it felt like to be hugged by him and I could easily describe the way he smelled. Like old book pages and coffee.
“Quinn.” Mom whispered as she approached me. Her mascara left black rivers that meandered down her cheeks. “Come over here.” She picked up my hand from its place on the arm of my chair and tugged at it. I complied and stood up. She led me over to my father’s bedside and I found myself standing over his body, staring at the wall.
I wasn’t a crier.  I never had been, but right then, my eyes started to ache and fill up with tears. Between the beeps of the respirator, the heartache consumed me. In that moment I realized my dad was gone and my whole life would change when the beeps that separated those thoughts ceased.
We lived at the hospital for the following week. We’d leave to go shower and get a fresh change of clothes and maybe an hour of sleep, but that was it. My sisters and I stayed home from school and my mom skipped as many meetings as she could, but sometimes she couldn’t get out of them and she’d leave with worry struck across her face and fear that she’d come back to the sheet pulled up over my father’s head and a doctor’s well rehearsed, pitying words that tell her that there was nothing they could do.
Dad was never one to abandon others.
He took his last breath on a Thursday night. We sat around his hospital bed clutching burritos from the Mexican restaurant down the street and the beeping suddenly turned into a ring that signified a flatline, but if you ask me, my dad hadn’t breathed in a long time.

I sat at the top of the stairs listening to their angry whispers in the dark.
“I know you’ve been with that girl.”
“Lisa, what girl?”
“The girl at your office. The one at the desk that you’ve been spending so much time with.”
“She’s a co-worker. I have meetings with her sometimes. That’s it.”
“Meetings? What happens at these meetings?”
“Nothing! We work.” It wasn’t the first time mom accused him of something like this. It was constant, but I knew she was only paranoid. So were my sisters. They constantly reminded him that he was lucky that mom hadn’t thrown his stuff out on the front lawn and that he was a horrible father. I didn’t believe any of the accusations. Dad wasn’t a cheater and he loved us all with everything he had, even if we didn’t love him back.
We drove home that night in silence. Deafening silence. Mom threw a fit in the lobby of the hospital, but it didn’t come from love and loss. It was a cry for attention. She was now the widow left with three girls that everyone would pity and this wasn’t what she bargained for.

The reading of his will was on a Tuesday. My mother, my sisters, and I sat in a line of chairs in the center of the room surrounded by friends and family I barely knew. A tall, skinny man with a gray beard sat behind a desk with a folder in his hands.
“Shall we begin?” He asked. We nodded in unison. “Alright.”  He opened up the folder and began reading from a packet. He left the house and car and the majority of everything to my mother. My sisters and I were all too young to be left with anything of any real significance, so I didn’t pay attention to the majority of the reading. “Which one of you girls is Quinn?” I slowly raised my hand. The man pulled a yellow envelope out from one of the folder pockets and slid it to the other side of the desk. “He left this for you.” I nodded and held the envelope close to my chest.
We walked through the door and retreated to our separate rooms. The house was dark and rain streamed down the windows and the night went on silently. I sat on my bed holding the letter. I held the last surprise my dad had for me in my hands. No more presents, and jokes, and ice cream trips, only a letter.
Quinn,
    I wanna thank you for never giving up on me. I know your mother and your sisters lost any faith they had in me and you never did. You stuck by me. I would’ve understood if you had taken their side and believed the accusations, but you didn’t. I know it would’ve been easier to take their side, but I also know you never take the easy way out. I love you Quinn, more than anything. Thank you for always sticking by me.
                                                                                                -Love Dad

Short Story - Riches to Rags

The summer nights of 1926 were spent dancing, drinking, and socializing with friends and business associates of my family. Soirees were held at the Chateau most nights. These nights were filled with beautiful music, shimmering gowns, and waiters in black tailcoats with bright red bow ties carrying polished silver trays stacked with hors d’oeuvres and crystal glasses filled with bubbling red and white wine.
I remember running through the grand foyer under the gold chandeliers and peeking around the legs of our guests in search of my parents, whom I'd eventually find at the center of a crowd. I’d stand next to them and watch as Papa entertained the group with his stories and jokes and Mother would smile and watch him with admiration.
Their love for each other radiated off of them like steam from a hot kettle. You could feel it just by standing in their presence. Every time they met each other's gaze they couldn't help but smile.
 I remember watching Mother's dangling diamond earrings swing a little as she laughed and when they caught the light they sparkled. I had always dreamed of the day when I would get to wear those beautiful diamonds. I thought maybe if I was wearing those I could be as beautiful as Mother. She was all flawless elegance and charm. Everything I dreamt of becoming.
Papa always looked his best. He had a look about him that was approachable, but you could tell he was a smart man, a man you shouldn't mess with. You never saw him without a cigar and his wire rimmed glasses. He smelled like Spearmint and cigar smoke. A smell I loved so much. A smell I miss so much.
    I tapped my fingers against the cold window. Rain drops raced each other down the opposite side of the glass. I spent most days curled up in the window seat of the bedroom I shared with 9 other girls at Saint Joy’s Orphanage. I spent other days adjusting new children to this sort of life. A life of waiting. For new family, old family, adulthood, and really anything that meant a way out of this place.
One of two things occurred during adjustment. Either the child puts the sadness aside or wallows in it. The sadness is there no matter what. Some are just better at hiding it than others.
    I heard the doorbell ring from my bedroom. I sprang from my spot on the bed and grabbed my robe from its hook on the back of the door. I ran to the top of the grand staircase and peeked around the corner of the banister. There were three knocks on the door followed by the sound of a man’s deep voice.  
“Mr. and Mrs. Williamson? This is Detective Charles speaking. We have a few things we’d like to discuss with you.”
I watched as Mother ran down the hall to the door. Papa followed closely behind her and watched as she slowly unlocked and opened the door.
“Hello, Detective.” My mother said.
“Hello ma’am. I’m sorry about the late hour, but we have some questions for you.”
“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” Papa questioned.
The detective stepped inside and was closely followed by two officers in pressed, navy blue uniforms. One of the officers looked around a little and noticed me. We made eye contact and he quickly averted his eyes back toward his feet.
“No Sir, I’m afraid not.” The detective spoke seriously. I could sense the urgency in his voice. Mother tried to hide the obvious worry on her face but it was too late. It spread over her like wildfire. She was usually so calm but now she couldn't stand still. She suddenly looked out of place in her own home. Estranged from her flawless elegance. Papa's arms found their way to her shoulders, helping to hold her up on her feet. He turned her around and held her close. She whispered something in his ear and he responded with a kiss on the cheek. Mother turned back around, looked at the detective, and began to walk into the next room. Papa, the detective, and the two officers followed.
At the time, I wanted so badly to know what they were saying in that room. I have regretted listening in on that conversation ever since. I could've just gone back to bed. I could've waited until our maid, Maria, came to tell me some made up story about what happened the next morning. I was only a child and I didn't know any better.
I crept down the stairs and hid myself behind the doorway to the parlor. I could hear the detective's low, serious voice.
"We received a tip earlier this evening."
"A tip?" My mother asked.
"It was about all those parties you have been having this summer." He said. There was silence for a moment.
"Mr. and Mrs. Williamson, do you know anything about the illegal distribution of alcohol in this house?"
"I'm sure this must be some kind of mistake." Papa said.
"No, no mistake." The detective had no doubts.
"We have witnesses claiming that you and your wife have been holding those parties as a diversion. They say that your guests pay a fee to attend and leave with however much they paid for."
"You're crazy!" Papa exclaimed. Mother stayed silent.
"I'm sorry Sir, but these two officers are here to arrest you and your wife."
"We've done nothing wrong!" Papa was angry. He never yelled, ever. Mother still said nothing.
My heart started beating faster. I could hear the two officers standing up and I could hear the jingle of the handcuffs. I didn't move.
The detective was now standing and I could hear his footsteps approaching. My mind and heart raced. I felt sick to my stomach. My knees went weak and I slid down the wall. I sat holding my legs close to my chest. The detective didn't notice me as he walked by. He was followed by the officers and my parents. Papa saw me.
"Charlotte? Charlotte, baby." He pleaded as he was being pushed toward the door.
"We love you so much. I'm sorry." Papa’s words cut me like a knife.
"I love you." This was the last thing Papa said before being pushed out the door. It was the last thing Papa said to me period. Mother said nothing.
Maria arrived shortly after my parents left. She found me in Mother's closet, wrapped up in her pink satin robe.
My heart rate finally slowed and my tears subsided. I walked down the dark hallway toward the back staircase. My footsteps echoed through the empty house. The house felt bigger than it ever had. I stretched out my arms and put my hands on the walls, letting them guide me down the hall. I walked through the kitchen and opened the door to the narrow, spiral staircase. Maria always told me I wasn’t allowed to use the back staircase. She said Papa told her not to let me because he was afraid I would fall. The stairs creaked with every step I took.
I stepped into Mother's closet and the smell of her perfume immediately hit me. I ran my hand down the long line of dresses hung up on the rack along the wall. The majority of them were different shades of blue because Papa always told her how much he liked her in that color. Her robe was on the hook at the end of the rack. It was a gift from Papa and I last Christmas. I made Papa buy it for her because of how soft it was. I took off my robe and put it on the floor. I pulled the pink satin from it's hook and wrapped myself in it. In the middle of the room were the diamond earrings Papa bought for her after I was born. They were laying on a silver tray alongside her perfume and a picture frame. It was a picture of the three of us. I was just a baby when it was taken. Mother was holding me up and kissing my forehead while Papa had his arms around her waist. I was giggling and they both had wide smiles stretched across their faces. I loved that photo. I grabbed the picture and sat on the floor against the wall. Tears fell from my eyes as I held the frame close.
They were found guilty and sentenced to a minimum of 10 years in prison and I was sent here. It's been seven years.
I heard a knock on the door and turned. The new little girl Samantha stood in the doorway holding an envelope. She got here two days ago. Her eyes were red and her cheeks were tear stained, but she was adjusting relatively well compared to a lot of the others.
"Hi Sammy! How are you doin’?" I said and managed a smile. She walked toward me and held out the envelope.
"This is for me?" I asked. She nodded. I grabbed the corner of the envelope and pulled it from in between her fingers. She immediately turned around and ran back out the door. I hoped it wasn't another letter from my parents. I stopped reading those a long time ago. They hurt too much.
The envelope looked more official than usual. The return address read 536 Varick Street, Manhattan, New York, New York.
I ripped the top of the envelope open and pulled out a perfectly folded sheet of white paper and a newspaper clipping. I unfolded the paper.
Ms Charlotte Williamson,
    I am pleased to inform you that on February 23, 1934 your parents, Patrick and Julia Williamson, will be released from incarceration and all charges held against them will be dropped. Though you are almost eighteen, they have requested permission to take you home following their release. They will be coming to visit you on February 25, 1934 and you can make your decision then.
- Grace Baron
The newspaper clipping was of the headline "Does an End to Prohibition Signify the Release of Criminals?"
The word criminals stared back at me. This word referred to people like my parents. People my parents always taught me to take pity on and to never associate myself with. Now they themselves are criminals. Only criminals would rip me from everything I love and leave me. They left me with nothing and nobody.
 Tears started to fall from my eyes. They hit the newspaper and smudged the ink a little. My own parents are criminals. They're monsters.
                                      • • •
I sat at one of the small circular tables in the cafeteria. I watched as the hands of the clock crawled to 1:30. The room felt cold. Colder than usual. Like a window had been left open. It was probably all in my head. Maybe it was fear.
I rubbed my eyes and yawned. I hadn't slept in two days. I had been dreaming of a way out of this place for years and here it was but all I wanted was for things to go back to how they were before the letter. I could just spend my days in solitary peace with nothing but the day I turn eighteen to look forward to or dread.
1:32.
"Charlotte?"
This voice silenced my thoughts. I looked up to find a woman standing in the doorway. An aged version of my mother. Someone with wrinkles at the sides of her eyes and a gray streak in her hair.
I nodded my head.
"You- you're so grown up" Her voice cracked. A man came up behind her. He had graying hair but he was still just as I remembered him.
"My baby girl." He said with a smile. Tears threatened to roll down my cheeks but I quickly wiped them away. Mother started to walk towards the table and I stood up. She opened up her arms and hugged me tightly. The smell of her perfume was gone.
"I've missed you so much. It's been such a long time." She was in tears now. All I could do was nod. I didn't want to cry. She stepped back and Papa immediately wrapped his arms around me. The smell of spearmint was there but the cigar smoke was gone.
"Look at you! You look just like your Mother." I couldn't help but smile a little bit and a tear rolled down my face.
We had an hour to talk. I didn't say much. Mother went on a rant about how much time we need to make up for and all the things we're going to do. They asked about my time here but I saw no use in trying to explain. How do you fit seven years of man eating loneliness into an hour? I couldn't bear to tell them I didn't want to go home. The idea of it made me sick.
They want to pick up right where we left off, but I can't. I know I can't because whenever I dreamt of leaving this place it never meant going home for me. It meant finding a new home. Somewhere that has no intention of being perfect.
They said they would be back first thing tomorrow, but by that time I'll be gone.

Travel Essay

    I struggle with the door. It’s old and its knob is hard to twist sometimes, so it takes a little bit of work to open. It takes a couple tries, but I always win. It’s early. Too early for anyone to climb aboard their pontoon boats and drink margaritas in the sun, but not too early for me.
I step out onto the warm, wooden boards of the deck and throw my body against the railing. It looks out over the dock, and the boats that bob in the water. Waves tumble in underneath their hulls and sparkle in the early morning sun. I look up toward the hills and trees that hug the opposite shore.  The way they act as a frame for the glistening water that pulls me into its portrait. I can never resist.
    The inside of our little family hunting camp is a mix of grungy and charming. The old door of the camp leads into a wide family room that always seems to be filled with the crashing of dishes, and yelling, and laughing. The 50 year old stereo blasts classic rock all day and it’s turned down low at night, but guitar riffs and drumlines still hum along with the static carried by “Rock 105”. My cousins and I crowd around the glossy wooden table playing cribbage, a game we forbade the playing of anywhere else, and we lay cards down and count fifteens as we pass the box of lucky charms around.
    We lose track of time and no one sleeps until our eyes are too tired to even see our cards. When we finally do climb into our bunks and zip up our sleeping bags the bunk room is pitch black and all you can see is the soft glow of our phone screens that illuminate our faces.
    I only wake up once my aunt opens up the bunk room door and bangs two pans together. We shovel pancakes and eggs into our mouths and rush out onto the deck where we find our fishing poles still leaning against the railing from late last night. We rush down the steps and begin screaming “NOT IT!” when we realize that we forgot the worms upstairs, but we all know that the youngest will always be the one that has to drag themselves back up the neverending staircase to get them. I am the youngest and I complain but everyone else is already on the dock telling me to hurry up. We cast lines off the dock all morning until the water is still and the fish stop biting by the pointy rock under the trees. One by one we begin jumping into the water and race out to the trampoline that floats about 50 feet away from the shore.
We make it out there and lay in the sun until our skin is dry and our cheeks are sunburnt. I claim I’m too tired to swim back and I clutch onto anyone who will let me. They drag me back to the dock and we climb down onto the beach to skip rocks, something I was never all that good at. We get called back upstairs for dinner and it is quickly decided with full mouths and nodding heads that a trip up to the falls would be a nice idea for tonight.
The blue coolers are quickly packed full of drinks and ice and we find ourselves wrapped in blankets on the leather of our seats, under the pink clouds of the lake.  We watch the splashing of cascading waters under the bridge and we only go home when the drinks are warm and the mosquitos are biting.

   

Intensity

Intensity wears a bright shade of red on her lips. She carries the lipstick with her and reapplies it when faced with an obstacle. She has a smile that captures a picture of charm and allure, but won't be tied down because no rope can hold her. They never fail to collapse in the flames of her fiery eyes. Eyes that could cut a diamond and burn a hole in your heart.
She has black hair like a sky without its stars and it seems to go on forever. It catches the wind and reminds me of the wings of a raven against a full moon. Intensity has frostbitten veins and the blood of a wolf. When she speaks, her words fall over you like hail and the pieces hit you so hard they leave bruises. Once intensity has you, she has you forever.

Hint Fiction - Stale Candy

My life fell apart like the rotting jack o'lantern on my doorstep in November. It's February now.

Hint Fiction - Butter Knives

Family became friends and friends became non existent, but I still set six places at the table on Sunday.

Hint Fiction - Blue

Tonight I made it home from the boardwalk. Her eyes were what saved me from my plans for myself.

Hint Fiction - Nerves

I waited for the reaper in the mornings when I sat on my bed tugging at my fingers. He never came.

Hint Fiction - Pain Pills

I dropped the bottle on the floor and smashed it with a hammer. Ever since that night I’ve been shaking.

Solidity

Last autumn we walked along the side street.
The long one
that starts over by the little brick cafe.
The place where I used to order two coffees
and set one across from me.
Then I’d sip mine while I sat in the company of the other.
I hoped that I would absorb some of the warmth and comfort that radiates off of a cup of coffee
because my soullessness drove everyone away.

One day you sat down
in the empty seat that had only acted as a backdrop for my company.
And more warmth came off of you than I’ve ever felt
from a glass cup of liquidity.

But, you were solid.
Something I could hold in my hands.
At least, you looked solid.
Inside of you,
was something transparent and breakable
and Autumn wore on
and you became less and less solid
and the leaves fell in the water of your soul
that was so clear, and so easy to pollute.

And so quickly
our walk along the side street
met its end.
And you became just another cup of coffee.

Flowers on their Doorstep

Dressed in black with tear stained cheeks
And you can hear their wails and see their puffy eyes
Where are their flowers?
Or were you too busy watching the coffin drop to notice the grieving
Why are those flowers on a grave?
A grave is a ride to relief, right?
And even while you know that,
 you still waste mourning flowers on letting go
Don't let the grievers go
Let them rest their heads in your lap and hold them
Send them flowers before they lift shovels and make their beds
Beds where they will rest too soon
Save the grieving while you still can
Before death offers them a meal and a place to stay
Offer them comfort on their doorsteps
Wrapped in blue tissue paper and pity
There the grievers go buying flowers for loss of conscious
Something that can’t thank them or hold onto their wrists to trace their veins and feel a pulse
Their blood feels cold in their skin and they spend their days curled up in bed
Huddled under thin sheets with dark faces that look like roofs on the verge of caving in
Beat death to asking them out for coffee and listen to their words in between sips from a ceramic cup
Unwrap them from their sheets and wrap them with your arms
Just hold them tight

Vignette Story

Free Fall 

    I fought back. I wouldn't leave. Nothing could make me leave. I stayed firmly planted to my chair hoping it would swallow me up. I covered my ears, and screamed, and cried. I cried out for someone that didn’t exist. I wanted someone to decide for me. I  was still learning to add and subtract. I wasn’t ready to make a decision that would change my life forever. I shouldn’t of had to, but here I am. Being told to stay or go and I made my decision. No. I was told that it was too much for him. That he was on the verge of leaving. On the verge of falling. The rope holding him, suspended in air, was on the verge of snapping. Sending him on a free fall and he would be gone.

Vignette Story

Repetition

   I decided against speaking about it. What was there to say that hadn't already been yelled? It had all been screamed at the top of lungs so why say it again? It was a pointless gesture to repeat things that had already been said. No one asked me to say anything so I didn't think I needed to. I held my words inside and they remained thoughts. Thoughts that swarmed my head like bees. I would close my eyes and see them. I could hear them sometimes too. When I slept I dreamed about muffled yelling and cracked doors. I would push them out one ear but they would immediately go back in the other. Repeating themselves and reminding me constantly.

Vignette Story

Endless Flood

   Tears flooded my face. Though I was silent, I struggled to catch my breath. It didn't end. More tears replaced ones that fell. They followed each other like kids in line. I couldn't move. I had been hit by something that held me down. Something that made me shed tears to no end. I had always been able to hide myself from it but it found me and it attacked.

Vignette Story

Details

   I forgot how she looked. It would hit me in the middle of the night and hurt like the thought had been burned into my mind. Could I forget? I left pictures ready for these nights. Within arms' reach. I would hold them close and make sure I noticed every detail. Every detail I had been over hundreds of times. It's scary how easy it is to forget those things. You are reminded of these details everyday and then when the reminders are gone these details scare you. They become something more than what they were because then you realize how much more you must've forgotten. Things that made you what you are, are now lost.

Vignette Story

Pause Button

   Home wasn't home anymore. It was cold and quiet. Before there was yelling so I guess it was a step up. He spoke to me a couple times at night and was gone when I woke up in the mornings. It was coexisting and nothing more. The bare minimum. When she was gone we froze. Like we were in a tv show and someone pressed pause. Things were supposed to be better and they weren't. They weren't worse, but they weren't better. They weren't anything. We just waited. Through every day that crawled by before our eyes we stayed on pause. We knew we had to because if the play button was pressed we would fall from our snapped ropes that held us for so long.

Vignette Story

Muffled 

   Waking up in the middle of the night wasn't out of the ordinary for me. I had always had trouble sleeping through the night. The sound of muffled yelling is what drew me from my bed. I stepped out into the hallway as I rubbed my eyes. The yelling was no longer muffled but not loud enough to be understood from my place outside my bedroom door. Where they were felt so far away from me. They weren't just downstairs, they were somewhere else. I knew this because I could still go back to sleep. I could pretend nothing was going on because I didn't know what was going on. This was my normal.

Vignette Story

Wall of Sand                                      

 She spoke with slurred words. It made me sick to my stomach. She tripped over her syllables and dragged her way through her sentences. Every letter fought back against her. She struggled to keep her balance as she walked towards me. I backed away and covered my ears. I hid myself away. I put my emotions in a bag and tied it up. I put them under lock and key and buried them like treasure. Then, I buried myself. Buried myself in sand that choked me. Sand that caused me to cough and gasp for air. I built a wall with that sand. Packed it together and built it up high. Higher than anyone could get past. Some scrape away at the sand and fight their way through and still I build it back up again. Though I’m choking, I build it back up.

Vignette Story

Pounding Part 2

    I stood outside the door watching the crack grow. It grew like a vine, wrapping itself around the door and stretching out onto the walls. All I could hear was the sound of him yelling “Let me go. I hate you.” in a way that caused tears to gather in my eyes. 

    “You can't.” She spoke in a hushed tone but it was the saddest thing my ears had ever been witness to. As if she was begging for her life even though she knew she would be killed. I always thought she was so strong but I suppose even the strong go through times of weakness. You could hear his fists and feet slamming against the door. With each new smack against the cracked wood a new one immediately followed. The sound was so horrible it felt as if my ears began to bleed. Blood dripping from my ears like the tears that dripped down my cheeks. Blood that drowned me and put up a wall between myself and the surrounding sounds. I felt like I was underwater, isolated from everything that went on above the thick darkness of my tears that submerged me. 

“Don’t make me hurt you.” He said this hesitantly. He didn't want to but it had come to that point for him. His breaking point. When his body took the form of a vase and it threw itself to the ground.

“It won't make a difference. I’ve already done more damage than you can do.” She spoke in a tired voice. She was only holding on by a thread. It sounded as if her soul was collapsing like a house of cards. 

“Let him go.” I had come up from under my tears and clotted the blood raining from my ears. I said this in a way that I had never spoken before. Not in the warm, careless way I had always spoke. My voice was cold. So cold I could see my breath as I spoke those words. Completely and utterly unfeeling. Then, the pounding stopped. My mother dragged herself from her spot against the other side of the closed door and the broken door knob turned slowly. The door opened to reveal his face. He was red and his eyes were wet. He looked down at me and met my eyes. He looked down and began walking towards the stairs. He stopped next to me and touched my shoulder as if he wanted to hug me like he always had when he was going somewhere. He let his hand fall back to his side and continued walking. Down the stairs and out the door. 

Vignette Story

Pounding

    The sound of the crash filled my ears like a firework set off closer than it should’ve been. I slowly made my way up the stairs and stopped at the landing. I had run into a force field that wasn’t actually there. Something in my little head told me to stop. It was as if the walls were speaking to me telling me no. As if the stairs I had just stepped on were pulling me back down. Back down to my spot on the striped carpet in front of the tv. Back down to the show with the characters that made every problem go away. Where I sat happy in my own little oblivion. Something as forgiving and forgetful as a child’s mind is a beautiful thing. Beautiful things are often taken advantage of. Beautiful things often have a fatal flaw. My mind was flawed with curiosity. So I continued past the nonexistent force field and the speaking walls and pulled away from the steps that tried to drag me down. I made it all the way to the door. The door with its fresh white paint and broken door knob. The same door knob that had trapped me in that room accidentally for years. Or maybe it wasn't accidentally. Maybe the door knob and the walls and the stairs and the force field all served the same purpose. To preserve my forgiving and forgetful mind. My mistake was ignoring them. The door with the fresh white paint and the broken door knob had a crack. A long jagged crack right down the center. Not a literal crack but a metaphorical crack. A crack that represented how my look on life would change. How the grey areas would be colored in like one of my coloring books. The perfectly painted door with the  broken door knob was imperfect. Imperfect like my curiosity. Imperfect like my life. 

Interpretation

My previous post was called a Sestina. In class we were told to pick six words (preferably ones with multiple meanings) and I chose the words current, wind, channel, coast, sense, and cast. We were given the format for a Sestina (google it if you don't know what a Sestina is) and told to begin. Normally, it takes me most of the period to begin writing, but that didn't happen. It was just kind of like something that was a blank page and then it wasn't. But, the strange part is that when I finished it and read it over, I realized that I had written about something very close to my heart without being conscious to it.
That has never happened to me until now.
My favorite part about writing poetry is that anyone can interpret it anyway they want. You could see your own poem as a bunch of random thoughts and someone else might see it as something that's like otherworldly. The variation of interpretation from person to person is crazy.
But, anyway, the Sestina I wrote was called For Now and deals with a lot of fighting and loss of consciousness. When I wrote it I thought I was just writing what I thought sounded okay. What else was I supposed to do with such a strict guide line? Definitely not the outcome I was expecting. When I read it It made me think of addiction, and loss, and instability. Things that have been huge contributing factors to the person I am today and they will probably affect me in the future too. I just never expected to be able to interpret one of my own poems and relate it to myself like I would do with someone else's as an attempt to create a connection and develop an understanding.

Sestina Poem

For Now

A    Sometimes I sit by the Ocean just to challenge the current.
B    I provoke the waves and they carry along their strong gusts of wind.
C    The sea writhes with anger and it stirs up the channel,
D    but I continue to fight from my stance on the coast,
E    with the endless determination of a shark's sense
F    like playing a character of my own movie in which I was cast.

F    I hide backstage in the frame of the shadow I cast,
A    and I will never see light again if I continue snapping the wires of an electrical current
E    that chills my bones and ignites my blood and hits me with the uncertainty of the loss of sense,
B    but I know I will always reawaken to the whistle of the slow wind,
D    and then I will rest upon my thoughts that will never lose the soft inertia it takes to coast,
C    and I will crawl to the change of an emotional channel


C    when I find myself in the passenger seat of my car, fiddling with the knobs of the radio,     awakening the voices of each channel,
F    and I listen intently, dodging the words of the spell they cast.
D    "There is a power whose care teaches thy way along that pathless coast,— "
A    Maybe this power will be visible when I am conscious and able to keep time with a ticking clock, holding myself to something more current.
B    But the car still drives itself, so I stick my head out of the open window so I can be carried away by the wind,
E    and I fight the punches thrown, defending my last thread of sense.


E    I fight for the small thread because that is all that holds me to my seat in the car that drives me home to the fragile arms of sense,
C    but it still breaks and I'm slipping back into a ferocious channel.
B    I try to grasp onto the reliability of the wind,
F    but when you're falling like I am, there's no time for safety nets to be cast,
A    so I listen to the air that drops me quick with each push of its current,
D    and I reminisce over the days when this was just an internal war on the coast.

D    My mind was clearer on the coast
E    A full moon could be seen as easily as my sense,
A    and now I'm drowning in the current,
C    of my own creation, and in the channel,
F    filled with my consciousness that I have cast.
B    But, when I pay attention, sometimes, I can catch a few pieces that throw themselves above the surface, like what I once did with the wind.


B    It's easier to catch the wind.
D    So for now, I will hold my head to the seat of my car that will continue its coast,
F    and I know my mind will not shatter if I stay in this cast,
E    and maybe, one day, I will see another full moon that looks like sense,
C    and maybe by then, I'll be swimming, not drowning, in the channel.
A    I just have to remember, that one day, I will win the war against the current.

20 Little Poetry Projects

    1. The night sweeps over us like a lingering broom.

    2. The bristles of which swallow me up.

    3. The sight of stars pulls me from my coma,

    3. and I feel the salt water that soaks my gums.

    5. It tastes like the beaches of Greece once did, when I spent my days wrapped in the words of Sylvia Plath.

    6. The dissapearing sun makes me tired

    4. and I smell the smoke of a candle as its rays set across the sea.

    3. We hear the clouds that tumble in above us,

    9. but we sit without umbrellas to keep out the rain.

    19. The sand builds up castles to provide itself asylum,

    8.  so I feel like a fool when the sun continues to fly.

    7. A queen to us all, holds her scepter up against the clouds and they bow and scatter.

    16. A weak ruler who we love with the intensity of bleeding lips.

    18. She reminds us of an old saying, qui vivra verra, that fills the cracks left by uncertainty in our hearts.
    3. A phrase that sticks to the roof of your mouth and tastes like hope

    17. and we must carry it with us if we ever want to be able to live without it,

    10. so we write it on our skin until the eleventh hour,

    13. then we stretch the words and wrap them around our veins.

    11. The solid rocks of reliability gripping the shore with the last of their strength

    14. and love uses her small arms to pin them to the beach.

    3.  The smell of darkness fills me with emptiness

    12. and though I’m alone on the sand, I have to fight through a crowd to get a good look at the last setting sun.

    15. To be remembered for her rays that held us while we slept

    20. and to thank her for ending my coma.

Places Where Writing Hides Poem

Words that Hide Beneath the Syllables of an Uneasy Parent
   
Reading in between the lines of words that form a stuttering agreement.
Mutterings accompanied by weak smiles and hesitant nods that quickly digest themselves into memories
that is followed by the dreaded ambience of a goodbye,
in the presence of stuffed bags that dig their claws into the carpet,
who morph into the soft fibers that hope for a change of heart.

But, I will not stay in a room that fills itself with routine and the familiarity of an unfamiliar childhood.
A place where younger years climb the walls like frightened spiders,
and the floor walks across me,
where the happy eyes of unfamiliar frames follow my every move from behind reflective transparency.
   
Today I will walk across these floors
and give birth to a creak of a floorboard that calls my name.
In a fish bowl called home that has never seen the rise of a day where it is synonymous with refuge.

I will turn dreary door knobs and fill this house with the draft of resolution,
and put myself on the other side of the boundary.

REVIEW: The Stranger

At first, I struggled to follow and register the storyline of The Stranger, by Albert Camus, due to it being originally written in French and interpreted by Matthew Ward. Once I got used to the fast paced and non descriptive writing style used by Camus, I began to appreciate it for its simplicity. The plot doesn't hide behind endless adjectives and irrelevant details which was refreshing.

You are first introduced to the main character, Meursault, as he is coping with the death of his mother. "Maman died today. Or yesterday maybe, I don't know." It is immediately clear to the reader that Meursault in unlike any ordinary person. He is emotionally unattached. He approaches the death of his mother with such a careless demeanor that it's almost as if it means absolutely nothing to him. Yes, it is true that people cope with things differently, but this isn't the only time that his detachment from the world around him is displayed. "A minute later she asked me if I loved her. I told her it didn't mean anything but that I didn't think so." He is asked by his girlfriend, who is named Marie, his opinions on their relationship, how he feels about her, and what he believes the future might hold for them on several occasions. Every time he is asked, he replies with the same indifference that he had before. It is unchanging. He sees no point in thinking or feeling anything, and sees no greater purpose for mankind or anything else in this world. This attitude is what creates eventual turmoil for Meursault when he kills a man for no apparent reason and his refusal to feel or show any remorse raises questions.

Meursault is put on trial for the murder and his mother's death is very quickly brought up. The prosecution, as well as Meursault's own lawyer, question why he did not grieve when his mother died, but Meursault felt no need to display feelings he did not feel. He simply refuses to adhere to the moral standards set by society and he is very quickly seen as a threat to those who are sentencing him. "I made him feel uncomfortable. He didn't understand me, and he was sort of holding it against me." This challenges the idea that society does away with what it can't control. So, that's exactly what happens to Meursault. Sentenced to death by beheading because he held a different understanding of life.

You must keep in mind that this story was told entirely from the point of view of Meursault, therefore, it's almost like yellow journalism because my opinion on Meursault's predicament is based entirely on observations made by Meursault. He still killed a man without motive, and that makes him guilty. What bothers me is how his sentence was so heavily based upon his generally indifferent views. Indifference is displayed so frequently throughout this story that it becomes one of the main themes. "for the first time, in that night alive with signs and stars, I opened myself to the general indifference of the world. Finding it so much like myself-" He faces his execution with the same indifference he held in the very first sentence of this novel.

What I like most about this story is how it questions so many theories and views about life and death with an unbelievable amount of ease. The story expresses so much tragedy, but without expectations or beliefs that all means nothing.

REVIEW: The Age of Miracles

    When I first laid my eyes on the glossy cover of The Age of Miracles I figured it would just be another slow paced, coming of age novel that I would fight my way through for the next couple of weeks. After reading the first few chapters, I developed an interest in the story. I'm not usually one for the types of books that I am only reading because they have been assigned to me, but this one wasn't so bad. I liked it. It's not the type of book I might read in my free time, but it certainly broadened my horizons to a different style of writing.
    Karen Thompson Walker displays a variety of ways to pull a reader in through her sentence structure, plot choice, and point of view.
    Her use of short, descriptive sentences in the very beginning allows the reader's mind to wander by giving them an idea of the main issue the characters in the story are facing without giving it away. It quickly leads the reader through the first chapter and on to the second. Mind you, the first and second chapter are extremely short, but it shows the reader early on that they shouldn't just read to the next chapter. Why not continue?
    While reading a book, most people make goals for themselves. "Oh, I'll just read the first chapter." Little do they know, they get to page three, they're already on chapter two, and still don't know anything about the plot. They then continue reading and start relying on the actual plot for a goal rather than what chapter they're on. She has sparked the reader's interest in the plot without them even realizing it.
    Maybe I'm over thinking it and misinterpreting her intentions entirely, but there might be something to that.
    The plot of the story revolves around the slowing of the Earth, a possible future for our planet in the eyes of science. Naturally, human beings are curious about what the future might hold, so this type of story is bound to draw an audience. An audience full of people interested in the idea of the Earth's slowing rotation and how this might affect their daily lives.
    Last but not least, point of view. For me, point of view played a big role in my interpretation of the story. Julia, the main character, tells this story later in life as she is looking back on when 'the slowing', as Walker refers to it, first began. It has a profound affect on the development of Julia's character because you see how she has grown through the years by revealing how she saw things in the beginning, and her change in perspective looking back on it.
    Julia originally believed that the problems she and her family face throughout the novel are separate from the slowing, but now realizes that it was the root of all the situations she dealt with.
    I recommend this book to those of you who fit under the category of "people interested in the idea of the Earth's slowing rotation and how this might affect their daily lives". Enjoy.

"Don't judge a book by its cover."

PSA: Please pay no attention to the complete and utter lack of creativity this post is bound to have as I am following a series of prompts. So, here it is.

Hello. My name is Sara. I am a student at School of the Arts and am currently taking a Creative Writing course that requires a blog. This is my blog.

End of prompt one. (Yes, there are more than one.)

    I am a fantasist and a realist. I like to read a variety of books. My favorites include The Five People you Meet in Heaven, The Night Circus, and The Stranger. I've never picked out a book based on genre. If it looks cool, I'll grab it. Yes, I've been told in the past not to judge a book by its cover. I just ignore that. An appealing cover really goes a long way for me.
    I've always liked to read. I have used it as a way of procrastinating in the past. It offers an escape from everything I have to do, but just refuse to do until the very last minute. Exceptional work ethic, I know. Aside from that, reading has taught, and continues to teach me, a great deal about writing and about life in general.

End of prompt two.