I figured I really should write, even though I am not in any classes over break. Before it gets intensely Christmas-y and I start getting gifts for anything that breathe and I "can't find time" I wrote a quick scene.

MUTT

Breathtaking and fresh. The rain tickles my nose as it drips from the café awnings above my head. Toes of my boots sodden and bleak. A little past one and I walk down the cobbled street to the market in the square.  Vendors produce covered with large red veranda umbrellas, harbored from the rain. Wanderers walk slowly, softly in the rain like me. Others dart, quick steps, navy umbrellas over heads.  Gusts of wind cup umbrellas, tossing hair.

The market closes at four on Sundays, but some vendors already close shop as the gale tosses apples from carts. I look up, tenting my eyes from the rain with one hand. Clouds, grey when I left my flat, now swirl purple. Knitting together, clouds are a tangled mess, knotted and ugly. Water comes in sheets, wind throwing it sideways, howling like a dying mutt.

I pick up speed, sliding into a seat at an outdoor café, and hide under the awning. A blast of wind assaults the furniture, bleating at potted trees. It takes less than fifteen minutes for the square to clear of all people. March, bitterly cold. Hands blotted and blue. I sit and watch as buildings, lost dogs, left over market apples take a beating from the storm. Mesmerized, memory of some teacher eons ago comes to the front of my mind, “We find beauty in the loneliest of places.”

Love from home,

The Blonde and the Bullshit

Well, I finished my portfolio Monday and turned it in. I did manage to lengthen my short story but I don't really like it...probably because I really don't like writing love stories. However, that's kind of the road this one took sooo here it is anyways.

FORGET ME NOT

I left the house, a quarter to five and the sun was just setting. Grasped the old Ford pick-up’s peeling dusk blue handle and swung one leg inside the truck. Using the steering wheel as a balance, I hoisted my other leg into the cab and just sat for a moment, eyes closed, air leaving my lungs heavy. I could remember her sitting next to me. Pale yellow sundress, red bow in her hair, a supple smile turned towards me. Her glittering laugh touched me as if raindrops were kissing my balding head. The cab shuddered in harsh wind. Tired eyes opening slow, without rush. Sighing deeply, I turned the key in the ignition.

The sun had just begun to set. No longer summer, not yet fall. I could feel her long hair tickling my neck as it swirled around her face, strewn about by the wind pouring through the open windows. The radio hummed a few lines of Sinatra. Pretending as if she was with me in the cab, my arm hung over the back. The familiarity of the drive kept my hands turning the wheel robotically. Air still thick with flowery scents of heat and summer.

The transition from empty farmland to suburbia and townhouses was sudden. Houses all the same sat like dollhouses side by side. Each wearing a different shade of blue and boasting white fences. The truck’s engine too loud as I passed Prius after Prius. Gone as quick as they appeared, replaced with trees. Drove like that for some time, trees lining the road. Still wishing her head was on my shoulder. The sun bounced reds and oranges off the sky as the sun set. City buildings, each taller than the other begin to appear. I swung the truck into staff parking lot behind a white building, with hundreds of windows.

Still buckled, I looked to the empty seat next to me. I took out the keys and set my hands in my lap. Three deep breaths, eyes closed. Time seemed to drift between wanderlust and fantasy as I felt her soft lips graze my cheek. Eyes still closed I whispered, “Miss you, Ev.” One of her small fingers traced my jaw line and I sighed, my breath fluttering her out the open window.

            Hand still resting on the door handle, I pushed it open and stepped outside. Heavy air, evening heat clinging to skin. The day’s heat rose from the pavement in steam. I walked up the short path; different colors of greenery decorated the sides. The automatic sliding glass doors of the hospital lobby rushed open when I approached. The blast of air-conditioned sickness stung my nose.  My body went through the paces of finding the elevator, my mind in a different realm. I joined the morning shift cue that waited for the large metal doors to open. Most of us got off on the third floor, heading for the locker room. I nodded a ‘good morning’ to the few other doctors already changing from their street clothes into blue scrubs. I took off my regular clothes and replaced them with the periwinkle scrubs. I felt my motions quickening, it was now almost 6:45, I had a few minutes before I needed to do inventory. By the time my leathery, nobbled knuckles had finished a sloppy job of tying my black tennis shoes I could feel my breath quickening. Quick to the sink, water bathed my hands. Soap foaming between fingers, rinsed and dried.

            I slipped out the locker room door, with the agility of a younger man and headed for the elevators. Alone this time I reached for the wall of buttons, my fingers finding the familiar number 5.  The doors slid open and I was greeted by the nurse’s station. Next to the desk, in bold, red print, ALZHIMER’S WARD. Slipping down the hallway to the left, steps quick.

            I reached room 526 where a small plate below the room number read EVELYN MARLOW in chicken scratch doctors writing. The nurse was just setting breakfast down on the table. Doctor Vlist, checking Evelyn’s vitals looked up at me. She was roughly my age, somewhere in her seventies, with close-cropped grey hair, “Hey Charlie,” she says softly. Neither of us says it but I look at Evelyn pointedly. The nurse leaves the room while I stare at the sad, wispy smile on the doctor’s face.  Hand on my arm and we go into the hallway.

            “Evelyn’s been here awhile, Charlie,” She starts in, no preamble. “When she first came in she was at Stage 4, which is moderate decline. We ran tests her memory tests again this morning.”

            Opened my mouth to speak when she cut me off, hand raised, “The same tests as normal, Charlie. We just added to them a bit.”

            “Meaning?” I said, feeling nervous.

            “Charlie, Evelyn is now in Stage 6: severe decline. Her bodily health is also a concern to me. Last week’s test results came in. Her heart is failing, Charlie.”

I breathed slowly, in and out. Memories rushed through my brain as my body went numb. As if I had my personal slide show playing in my mind of the life, that Ev and I had before all this. She had been spry and beautiful when we met. We met at Shelton High School, and dated for two years. Ev wanted to get married right after school but her parents put her in the nursing academy. We tried long distance for years, though every time we saw each other something new was different between us. I thought that was it, nothing left to be salvaged.

Evelyn graduated nursing academy in the spring of 1932. We didn’t see each other for over a decade. I had been married once already and divorced, she had been sent to England during the second world war to help the Red Cross.

It wasn’t until 1952 that we saw each other again. I sat in the Blackbird Café three blocks over and two up from my small apartment in lower Manhattan. Meeting a friend who was frequently late, hopelessly forgetful. Evelyn walked in the door, bundled in more layers than an Eskimo, whisking in flakes of snow with her. She was with two other similarly clad women, who babbled about stitch work patterns.

They three ordered and sat at a table three away from me. The two women left after a small cup of tea, each kissing her on the cheek as they left. I could not help but to stare at her, it had been more than two decades since I last saw her. She looked older, red hair now dabbled with silver.

Lost in my past life, I couldn’t pin point when things had gone so sideways. Evelyn had always been the healthy one, strong. When the Alzheimer’s first crept in, I denied it. Now looking into Doctor Vlist’s pitying eyes I realized, I was losing her again. The doctor looked at me expectantly, waiting for some kind of response. I let my breath seep out trying to find the appropriate words. All I managed was a curt nod, a check of my watch and I turned away.

            I stood in the elevator for a few moments, without pushing buttons brain fuzzy, mind numb. Finally, I pushed for level A, where my rounds were to take place. When the elevator doors opened into the morgue, the rush of loneliness and death greeted me as I began my night shift of tagging the freshly dead bodies.

We are on Christmas break now so maybe I will do some non-school writing (I know I should...). 

Love from home,

The Blonde and the Bullshit

This is my final creative non fiction essay for my English 251 portfolio. I'm still struggling with the short story one. But I think this essay turned out pretty sick. Make your own judgment:

WHEN THE HOUSE CALLS HOME

We lived in a yellow house that sat on a little hill in a neighborhood full of people we liked. Our driveway was cut into blocks, each separated by a large crack, running the width. I used to walk the lines of the driveway on my tip-toes, a container of water on my head, testing how far I could get without spilling. We moved in a week before Thanksgiving. On the second move in day, the rain was lashing the windows. Wind slinking in through the fireplace.

Rain dripped onto the cement from the edge of the gutter outside my window, sounding like a metronome. I counted the seconds between each drip, as if it was thunder. “One Mississippi, two Mississippi…,” until the next droplet fell and I started over. Rain gushed from the clouds quicker, pelting the roof. Water was coming from the gutter’s drain spout so fast, I could hardly get out the first syllable.

The cold glass window pushed against my forehead as I looked down. A small puddle was pushing outward as the enlarged drops continued to fall into the center. The water in the puddle began to slouch south, pointing towards the storm drain at the bottom of our driveway. The drops no longer distinguishable in the family of rain. They gained speed as they rushed down the hill, rolling on top of one another. The family jerked to a halt, caught in a driveway crack. They lie paralyzed and separated, grandmas over here, nephews and mothers over there.

__

When I was six, I won a goldfish at a carnival and took her home, in the plastic bag where all goldfish first live. On the drive home, I cupped her bag in one hand and prodded the plastic with the other. Her eyes darted around; as she looked everywhere she could all at once. I stared into them as she flicked around her transparent house, they didn’t blink, like they were scared they were going to miss something. I don’t think I’d want a home like that, one where everyone could see me all the time. I kind of felt bad then. My eyes followed as she danced around her plastic bag making loops and spirals with her fins. I didn’t know what to do with her; didn’t have a home for her that wasn’t clear.

Home, she and I sat on the porch swing. Back and forth, we flew. Looking through the slats in the swing, there grew a pool of water on the wooden deck. Next to me, my fish clung to the bottom of the plastic, breathing the last of the water as it drained from the bag to the porch. Plastic in hand, foot falls quick. We reached the drain spout of the gutter, water slipping into the plastic bag as I held it under the mouth of the spout. Water swirled with gold as she danced in new waters.

We sat on the porch steps, with her in her plastic home and me in my sandals. Later that afternoon I poured her down the storm drain, giving her back.

__

            Burnt rubber. Metal shimmering with heat. Broken glass and broken bones. Laying on the concrete, face down, my breath coming sharp in my lungs as they grasp for oxygen. Fingers, singed and raw, I run them down my left forearm: not broken. Part of me tries to make sense of what just happened. My legs feel whole too and I think about rolling over and trying to sit up. My ribs crunched together even as a memory jumps to the front of my mind. The firefighter who came to fourth grade, “If you cannot remember how you got where you are, do not move.” I tried to retrace how I got from singing in the car to crumbling cement. Instead, his words circled my mind like a broken record.

            I can hear the taillight rapping against the bumper. Clinging to thin, striped wire as it knocks against the car, like a metronome ticking for a choir. Eyes squeezed shut I listen hard. The hissing of the car, the taillight’s taps, a gasping breath to my left. I roll my head a fractional amount. My left eye shows me a body lying on its back, head pointed at me. A raised arm and I could have touched her hair. Bones where they shouldn’t be, too much blood. Dead pan stare at the girl who had just cranked the music, minutes ago. I can’t stop staring.

            A siren bites into the air, silence ripped. Let the sound drip into my ear like a lullaby, as I drift.

__

            Plastic, lavender turrets poked through the sparkly pink roof of my princess castle. Yellow and beribboned the castle door stood open in the backyard. Forced into snow boots by dad, followed into the yard by mom. The snow had been cleared inside, replaced with sand from our broken sandbox.  Glittering in silver, the words The Princess Is In bedazzled the back wall.  Squeals erupted from me as my mom snapped blurry picture after another.

            Christmas memories bunch together. No recollection of other presents that year. I remember begging to have a castle sleepover with mom. Remember building sandcastles in March. Remember letting sand slip through slim fingers as I sat in time-out.

            “It’s time for the palace to go,” mom said to dad, sometime in summer. I sat in mom’s office, windows open, as they talked on the porch about the removal of my castle. I was too old for it, summer before seventh grade.

I retraced my four year old self’s Christmas morning steps from the living room to the turreted castle. Door shut, sounds of summer blocked out, I sat. Dug my fingers into the cool sand, collecting small rocks under my nails. Sandy fingers skimmed my cheek as a tear escaped my eye. Embarrassment swept over me, even though no one was there to see me cry in my childhood haunt.

            A soft knock on the door, rapid blinking, and the door opened before words could process in my brain. Mom walked in, sat in sand, and looked at me. Sucked in my breath as I waited for her to tell me what to feel. Sad smile on her lips, she said, “Sometimes it’s just time for things to go.”

__

Whitney sat with her legs crossed on the kitchen counter, eating honey-nut Cheerios out of the box. I sat on the carpet in front of the sink staring up at her as she talked all about the rights and wrongs of eye shadow colors. She seemed so big, sitting on the counter, far above me. She created this perfect man in thin air and made me promise that I would be a bridesmaid. I remember when Whitney graduated high school and we all stuck our hands in wet cement. She leaned down and whispered to me, squeezing my pinky with hers.

Now all I can do is stare at the gold urn sitting in the middle of the oak altar, as it peers down at me.  Flowers, shockingly alive in their vases. They spill onto the stairs, dripping with petals. I look around at the mass of people clad in black and try to spot the ones I know. Grammy and Poppop sit behind us, sad smiles fixed on their frozen faces. Josh’s body tremors in the first row, cheeks, patchy and pink. We are sitting in the second pew. My dad on the right, eyes unblinking, thin lips white. A shaking voice comes through the borrowed sound system, sounding tinny.

“We had this sandbox in the backyard for years. Whitney would sit picking up handfuls of sand in her fists, then drizzle it back into the box,” my mom paused, voice quivering, a small gasp. “Sometimes the wind would push the sand back at her, clinging to her shirt, and she would get angry at the sand, saying, ‘That is not your home sand, you live in the box’.” My breath caught. That’s a church thing, right? “You are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

Love from Pullman

The Blonde and the Bullshit

Edited poems for my English 251 portfolio. I have to make a creative non fiction and short story into 4-5 pages so I'll post those once I figure out how in the hell to do that.

YOU, ME AND THE MOON

                   

I remember Jack Elliot, in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania,

talking about what should be and what is.

I spun across the hardwood floor,

and the music was bitchin’ 

and his toes were tapping,

and the chandelier was quivering.

The somber air outside locked out.

Our steps were perfect;

my feet and yours.

Annie twisted her hips 

as she riffled through records

and our smiles shattered against

the cement outside.

The record was singing before

the needle touched and

we danced until the moon cried,

and she wept until we fell asleep.

 WE MET IN THE DARK

We met on a country lane.

The air was honeysuckle.

I stared at him from the end of the road,

His face dark.

The stars drowned in the sky painted black.

The moon had gone to a single smudge.

My heart skittered along the crumbling dirt road.

A bounce and a low gasp and

His arms hugged me into the densest dark.

Love from Pullman,

The Blonde and the Bullshit

More creative nonfiction:

JULLIARD

The first time I rode in an aid car was in New York City, on one of those rare, warm days in October. I remember practicing my dance, for days, even before I was invited to audition at Julliard. I had lived the piece since I learnt it in April. I practiced it first and last every day, I dreamt about it, I visualized it.

                I was practicing over and over in the holding room, waiting to be called on deck.

                “278,” the young stage manager called into the room full of nervous dancers, and again, “Number 278!” this time with more urgency. A woman, in her early twenties, slid off her purple leg warmers, tossing them on her street shoes as she darted after the stage manager.

                I looked down at the number safety pinned to my spandex, 279. I got that nervous sensation, that I used to get before performances, feeling as though I was going to cry, just holding it together. One more practice and then I’ll wait, I thought. As I landed the final leap, I crumpled to the marley floor with a crack that quieted the whole room.

                I stared up at the ambulance’s ceiling, bright with its lights glaring down at me, glistening off the tears sliding down my neck. The paramedic told my mom as she sat next to the gurney, hand clenching mine, that I had popped out my knee cap, tearing my ACL.

I looked down my horizontal body at the knee wrapped in ice packs, tripled in size. It was grotesque, unearthly, but I couldn’t stop looking. My mom dropped my hand to lean across to my left side, unpinning the paper number 279 and pushing it into the depths of her purse. 

Love from Pullman,

The Blonde and the Bullshit

In my Creative Writing class we are now working on edits of each others creative nonfiction essays. Mine will not be edited for a couple weeks, but this is my first draft. I chose three "topics" to write about. I wrote three long paragraphs for each and then took lines and spliced them together so the topics are mashed, but hopefully you saw the connection that I found at the end. I wasn't sure how all the pieces and metaphors were going to fit together as a I wrote it but once I finished I found out.

WHEN THE HOUSE CALLS HOME

Whitney sat with her legs crossed on the kitchen counter, eating honey-nut Cheerios out of the box. I sat on the carpet in front of the sink staring up at her as she talked all about the rights and wrongs of eye shadow colors. My eyes opened at the seams, my tears flooding the floor. The urn sat in the middle of the oak alter, before the same wooden pews. Flowers decorated the sides, shockingly alive in their vases. They spilt onto the stairs, dripping with petals. My breath caught in my throat as I pictured her tall frame returning to dust and fitting into that small box. That’s a church thing, right? “You are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

The rain dripped onto the cement from the edge of the gutter, sounding like a metronome. A small puddle was pushing outward as the drops continued to fall into the center.  Our driveway is cut into blocks, each block separated by a large crack, running the width of the driveway. The blind family of raindrops continue on toward their final destination, unable to see in front of them; too focused on the future. Suddenly the family is jerked to a halt, caught in the crack. They lie paralyzed and separated, grandmas over here, nephews and mothers over there.

She seemed so big to me, sitting on the counter so far above me. She created this perfect man on thin air and made me promise that I would be a bridesmaid. Now all I can do is stare at the gold, immaculate container sitting on the alter, staring down at me.

We lived in a yellow house that sat on a little hill in neighborhood full of people we liked. The water in the puddle began to slouch south, pointing towards the storm drain at the bottom of our driveway. With a drip, that acted as the blade in a guillotine the puddle took to the cement, catching speed as it swam down to a home filled with others just like it. The drops no longer distinguishable in the family of rain; one is one and one is the same.

When I was six, I won a goldfish at the carnival and took him home. In the car, I sat staring at her in the plastic bag where all goldfish first live. Her eyes darted around; as she looked everywhere she could all at once. I stared at her eyes as he flicked around her transparent house, they didn’t blink, just stared, like they were scared they were going to miss something. I don’t think I’d want a home like that, one where everyone could see me all the time.

I remember when Whitney graduated high school and we all stuck our hand in wet cement, so that she wouldn’t forget us all when she left. She leaned down and whispered to me, “Now we’ll be here forever.”  I kind of felt bad then. She didn’t ask to be put in this plastic house and to have all her feelings on full display. I watched as she danced around her plastic bag making loops and spirals with her fins.

She held my pinky in hers and made me swear that if she ever moved too far away that I would call her and make her come home.  I didn’t know what to do with her; didn’t have a home for her that wasn’t glass. We sat on my porch, with her in her plastic home and me in my sandals. Later that afternoon I poured her down the storm drain, giving her back to her home.

Love from Pullman,

The Blonde and the Bullshit 

We just began Creative Non-Fiction in my creative writing class.In class, my teacher says: "if it doesn't make sense you're doing it right." We have practice by taking three random categories, writing a paragraph for each and then putting them together.For example: in class we did a money problem, your ideal love and wind. So I chose two, a bit more vague, categories: death and water. So here it is:

WHEN THE HOUSE CALLS HOME

My eyes opened at the seams, my tears flooding the floor. The urn sat in the middle of the oak alter, before the same wooden pews. Flowers decorated the sides, shockingly alive in their vases. They spilt onto the stairs, dripping with petals. My breath caught in my throat as I pictured her tall frame returning to dust and fitting into that small box. That’s a church thing, right? “You are dust, and to dust you shall return.” The rain dripped onto the cement from the edge of the gutter, sounding like a metronome. The raindrops slid down our driveway into the storm drain. When I was six, I won a goldfish at the carnival and took him home. He danced around his plastic bag making loops and spirals with his fins. I didn’t know what to do with him; didn’t have a bowl big enough. We sat on my porch, with him in his plastic home and me in my sandals. That summer I poured him down the storm drain, giving him back to his home.

I'll be writing more soon, seeing as this unit has just begun.

Love from Pullman,

The Blonde and the Bullshit

Here are the last two poems for the section on poetry for my English 302 class. The first was called ego-tripping. We were suppose to pull from our real lives but also pull from a life that you don't have:

I was born in Norway

I was recruited for ballet before I could walk

I quit for crew, almost quit that too

I know that any pain is temporary

I know I can replace it with fear

I can do what I want, not what you think I can do

I eat all my wishes and luck for strength and happiness

I’ve already seen more death than you and you combined

I’ve already said goodbye but you’re still here.

The second was to be an ode. I did mine in tribute to crew. So here is my ode to my blister:

She sits on my hand, pink and peeling.

She winces in pain when I

stretch my hand out wide

like a child making an angel in the snow.

Raw, baby skin peeks out of the corners

of my ripped skin, searching for fresh air.

She is my prize, my gantlet, for the day.

She is proof of my work and she is stunning.

She is the tear that clings to my patchwork skin,

waiting to be tested again tomorrow;

waiting to prove her tenacity.

We are finished with this poetry unit and I'm a little sad to see it go. However, we are still working on poetry in my English 251 class.

Love from Pullman,

The Blonde and the Bullshit

I have two poems today because I forgot to put up this first one from September 24. It was another mimic poem, this one of "This is Just to Say."

‘THIS IS JUST TO SAY’

I thought you

Should know,

You’ve moved out

Of the

Apartment.  Your

Boxes are

In the kitchen and

Your cat

In her crate.

Forgive me

But it turns out,

It’s time for you to go.

This next poem is crazy long, unintentionally. We were suppose to write a poem in the form of a recipe and wrote mine about how to make a blackberry pie.

BLACKBERRY PIE

                       

Mom said you can’t make blackberry pie

without a little luck, so I guess that’s

where you start.

You get yourself some luck, put it in a

container so it doesn’t slip away,

and stick it in the fridge for when we need it.

Because, mom said, you always need a little.

Then you put your cornstarch in a bowl,

add all that sugar and the 6 cups of blackberries.

Before touching this mess, you’ve got

to wash your hands because

blackberries don’t like to get sick either.

Now you push up your sleeves,

hold out your hands like a grizzly ready to attack,

and start mushing the stuff together.

Once they’ve all become such good friends

that you can’t tell one from the other,

you stick it in the fridge next to the luck.

Now, mom said, it’s time for the tricky part:

The crust.

Mom said the crust is like a hospital.

Everything has to be cold before you begin

and everything is crème colored.

Your flour, nearly too cold to cut butter,

a pinch of salt and little sugar and

some water that mom said if you poured

on a baboon's behind it would fall straight off.

Then go ahead and mix all of that together.

Now, before you get all cocky and lay down

your dough, thinking you know what you’re doing.

Stop.

Go to the fridge, take out your container of luck

and pour the whole thing in, because, like mom said,

you’re going to need it all, not just a little.

Okay, now you can lay it all out and take the rolling pin

and spread it into a circle, nine inches wide and this much thick.

Mom shows me by nearly pinching her fingers tips together.

Now because you’ve got all your luck weaving

throughout all that dough, it’s perfect and you can

lay it over your red ceramic pie dish.

Pinch the sides of the crust like mom does it.

Go to the fridge, take out the insides and pour

them all into your perfect pie shell.

Once the pie is out of the oven, all that

goodness and happiness and momness

will seep into your pores and you’ll know that,

with a little bit of luck, you did it just like mom.

Love from Pullman,

The Blonde and the Bullshit

For English 302 we could chose from four writing prompts for our poem due Tuesday:

1. Write 5-10 words you don't like and use them in a poem.

2. Write a ten line poem where each line is a lie.

3. Write a poem, that uses overheard conversation as a starting point.

2    4. Write a poem in the form of a personal ad.

4

I I decided to do the second one and here it is:

ALFRED

I brushed my teeth tonight.

I even checked under the bed

For monsters, all by myself.

There was just one under there.

He was maroon and hairy and a little lonely.

 I invited him up for hot cocoa,

He was very honored but he declined.

He asked me if I could do him one favor.

He asked me to turn on the night light,

For you see, he said, monsters are most afraid of the dark.

Love from Pullman,

The Blonde and the Bullshit

       

In English 302 we read Gregory Corso's poem 'I Met This Guy Who Died' and created mimics of them in class. Our professor called on us randomly to read our versions outloud. I made the classic mistake of making eye contact and didn't look down quick enough. But, luckily, it was enjoyed by the class and prof!

Here is the the original poem as well my mimic.

I  MET THIS GUY WHO DIED by Gregory Corso

We caroused

                Did the bars

                                Became fast friends

He wanted me to tell him

                What poetry was

                                I told him

Happy tipsy one night

I took him home to see my newborn child

A great sorrow came over him

“O Gregory” he moaned

                “you brought up something to die”

I MET A PRIEST WHO DIDN’T PREACH (mimic of ^)

We sat in the pews.

Silence hung between us.

I wanted him to

tell me what to do.

But he just sat there, head bowed,

ropes hanging off him

like clothes on a line.

Then, somberly, he said,

“Sometimes, you just

 got to give up”

Love from Pullman,

The Blonde and The Bullshit

Today in lab for my English 302 class we had to write a mimic of the Poem 'We Real Cool' by Gwendolyn Brooks. We also had to write two poems about random objects provided for us. The first was a plush garlic toy and the second was a plastic T-Rex toy.

The original poem by Gwendolyn Brooks:

We Real Cool
                                 THE POOL PLAYERS.
                                 SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL.

We real cool. We
Left school. We 

Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We
Die soon.

My version:

We Play Ball

                                THE NEIGHBORHOOD BOYS.

                                SEVEN ON THE STREET CORNER.

                          

We play ball. We

Catch calls. We

Trade tricks. We

Sling sticks. We

Ride real. We

Sneak steals. We

Place plates. We

Go state.

GARLIC – Random Object Poem

The garlic’s tang bites at my nostrils,

scraping tears out of my eyes.

I whip them away as focused as a

race horse in the gate.

I chop the garlic, with vicious strokes.

 Taking the day’s anger out on it like

a snake thrashing on the ground with its prey.

The juices from its crushed segments drip onto

the cutting board, like my tears on my palm.

T-REX – Random Object Poem

It snarls at me from its stand,

taller and larger than me.

It gnashes its teeth at me,

and roars a scream like a

lame horse being shot.

It stands there on its platform

glaring out of sockets without eyes

like two holes in the wall.

It’s rancid breath hits me like a

slap in the face but I can walk away,

he’s just a jumble of bones stacked together

for an exhibit at the National History Museum.

Love from Pullman,

The Blonde and the Bullshit

In class quick write. Object: write a poem about any of four people depicted in an image. I chose the man who looked angry.

FATHER

He spewed his bullshit at me

like a mechanical man; no emotions, just sounds.

I didn’t listen to his words, just the

the way his tongue torqued them.

He was angry again, I knew that.

I could tell by the images his words made on the air.

The words he spoke became tangled and matted,

struggling against one another to find my ears.

Instead, they blotted together,

forming a depiction of hell in the air between

the mechanical man and me.

Beasts with two heads and no legs,

recoiled behind snakes with spiders arms,

who struck out at me, begging me to come closer.

Not urging me to listen, but begging me to hear.

Love from Pullman,

The Blonde and the Bullshit

In my English 302 class (different than my Creative Writing class), we have started our second unit, focusing on Creative Writing. We are first going over poetry. Our first assignment was to write a poem about an inanimate object using one metaphor, two similes and as many sensory details as possible.

PUSH-PIN

Your single tooth is a fang,

that snarls at me like a rabid scrap of a dog

as I hold your nobbled head between broken fingernails.

I steady the picture, keeping it straight,

and drive your cruel tooth deep into the drywall.

It’s quiet in the room, just the crunching of

fractures, spawning from your puncture wound.

Creeping up the back of the wall like veins,

you give me the sensation of dripping water tracing my spine.

Your tooth drills into the once clean, innocent wall

that now stands broken and naked between

this room and the next.

Love from Pullman,

The Blonde and the Bullshit

We have started poetry! This is my poem based on the style of Robert Gilbert.

YOU, ME AND THE MOON

The stars kissed me goodnight like my Nana did, while

the moon grasped my heart and wouldn’t let go,

and the first droplet of rain fell, nestling into my skin

like my hand cupping my chin,

while the strong scent of paraffin tickled my nose,

tasting like home on my tongue.

I remember Jack Elliot, in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania,

talking his talk about what should be and what really is.

I spun across the hardwood floor,

spinning dreams and wishes for tomorrow.

And the music was bitchin’ and his toes were tapping,

and bass was beating the floor and the chandelier was quivering.

The somber air outside was shut out

by the melody that was tickling my ears.

Our steps were perfecting in unison;

my feet were yours and yours were mine.

Annie twisted her hips as she riffled through records

and our smiles slipped through the window panes,

shattering once they hit the cement outside.

Annie’s record was placed on the player,

beginning to sing before the needle touched.

But we danced until the moon cried

and she wept until the stars fell asleep.

Love from Pullman,

The Blonde and the Bullshit

We have been editing our short stories in class by fours. Mine will be edited next Tuesday so I am interested to see what people have to say! Here is another Thursday scene write, with a little something comforting, if not happy, at the end (for once):

SOMEOME

She sat, back straight against the cold, brick wall. Her fingernails dug into the cement, palms grounded. Her already chipped, garish red nail polish made pink lines on the crumbling sidewalk as her fingers quaked. A silver chain charm bracelet with the signature Tiffany heart, the only charm, made soft taps on the ground as her body tremored. Her soft brunette, barrel rolled curls were drawn half up; revealing her tear stained, make up blurred face. Despite the fact that there was a light dusting of snow on the ground, she wore a sleeveless, black dress. The A-line lay in a pool in her lap, barricaded in by her bent knees. She was only seventeen, I knew that.

I was sitting in my beat up Ford F-150 in the St. Barnabas Catholic Church parking lot, hands still on the steering wheel, even though I’d been there ten minutes already. I was in my black suit, dark grey collared dress shirt and brown oxfords. I should have already been in the church; I was late already, but I couldn’t bring myself to get out of the truck. I knew I’d have to pass her; knew I’d have to say something, I couldn’t just walk by. It wasn’t just that though, I was strangely mesmerized by her. She sat there, in the frigid air, crying over the death of her junkie mother who hadn’t given a shit about her. Why did people do that? I knew there wasn’t a chance in hell her mom would be acting the same way if the tables were turned, and yet, here Maia was.

But I realized the answer, as I sat there hands gripping the steering wheel, palms sweating. She didn’t have anyone else. Even the pathetic shell of a mom she had a week ago wasn’t there anymore. I released the wheel and, without taking time to process my thoughts, opened the truck’s door. She didn’t look up when the door slammed shut; still in her desperately alone world. The air was colder than I had guessed and I shrugged my shoulders up against the biting wind. I sat down on the severely cracked sidewalk beside her, her head moving up a fractional amount, eyes darting sideways at me. As she looked at me, I saw some of the anguish in her eyes replaced with exhaustion, so I stayed sitting.

I don’t know how she tells the story, but that’s the only part of the funeral I remember anymore.

Love from Pullman,

The Blonde and the Bullshit

Another Thursday scene write:
This one was from an assignment in class in which we were to describe a very specific setting and then add in a single person.

LIGHT

A single florescent bulb glared down onto the stained concrete of the back parking lot. The once white lines of the six parking spots were worn out, nearly unseen. There was a crow picking at the regurgitated remains of someone’s lunch as the single light flickered in and out, in and out. The needle pricks of light that strained through the churning, purple sky were the only hints of nature in the cement wasteland. There were black gum stains half way up the dirty walls of the building in front of the lot. Sheets of barely legible paper covered one another, each advertising something else, each ripped and shredded from years of existence. Sitting on the filthy, decrepit pavement was an immaculate woman. She was dressed in a carnation red strapless dress, bedecked in tulle and lace. Her dress rested half way down her shins as she sat, back against the reproachful wall, eyes closed, feet together and in front of her. Encasing her feet were black patent leather kitten heels, which shone, in the fractured light emitting from the lone bulb. Her professionally made up hair was squashed unceremoniously against the dank background.

Besides the crows’ relentless picking at the vomit lying mere feet away from the red woman, the only other movement was the unknown woman’s head, rolling left and rolling right, pushing hard against the concrete wall. Her lips too were moving, but unlike the slow motion of her head, they were rapid. Soft, raspy whispers occasionally escaped her flying lips, as her finger nails clawed terribly into the sidewalk.

Love from Pullman,

The Blonde and the Bullshit

This is the first short story that we have had to write for my creative writing class. There were only three requirements: It must be a maximum of three pages, it must involve two main characters and it must include a shitty job. So this is my first draft that will be butchered by peer edit groups come tomorrow afternoon.

FORGET ME NOT

I left the house late, a quarter to five and the sun was just rising. I opened the old Ford pick-up’s peeling dusk blue handle and swung one leg inside the truck. Using the steering wheel as a balance, I hoisted my other leg into the cab and just sat for a moment, eyes closed, air leaving my lungs heavy. I could remember her sitting next to me. Pale yellow sundress, red bow in her hair, a supple smile turned towards me. The glitter of her laugh touched me as if raindrops were kissing my balding head. Harsh wind blew into the cab from the still opened door, whisking her away too. I opened my slow, tired eyes without rush and sighed deeply, turning the key in the ignition.

As I drove I felt her next to me again. I could feel her long hair tickling my neck as it swirled around her face, strewn about by the wind pouring through the empty windows. Her head lay nuzzled somewhere between my shoulder and neck. My mind hardly knew where I was driving, but my body took control of the wheel. I was caught up in the rich aroma of her sweet, succulent perfume that seemed to linger on the air as I paused at every stop sign.

I had swooped into my parking space some minutes earlier, but the truck was still rumbling. It took me a few moments before realizing that I had arrived. Shaking myself out of my reverie, I turned the keys, quieting the engine and, again sat, eyes closed, waiting. Time seemed to drift between wanderlust and fantasy as I felt her soft lips graze my cheek. Eyes still closed I chocked out a stumbled whisper, “Miss you, Ev.” One of her small fingers traced my jaw line and I sighed, my breath fluttering her out the open window.

                Hand still resting on the door handle, I pushed it open and stepped outside. The thick, sweet summer air tickled my nose, the heat clinging to my skin. It was barely day yet and mirages were already dancing above the pavement. I walked up the short path with different shades of greenery lining the sides to the entrance of the hospital. The sliding glass doors rushed open when I approached; the familiar feeling of death entered my soul as sickness cloaked my heart.  My body went through the paces of finding the elevator, my mind in a different realm. I joined the morning shift cue that waited for the large metal doors to open with a soft “ding.” Most of us got off on the third floor, heading for the locker room. I nodded a ‘good morning’ to the few other doctors already changing from their street clothes into blue scrubs. With a still numb mind, I wound my combination lock, feeling the click and opened the locker door. I took off my regular clothes and replaced them with the periwinkle scrubs. I felt my motions quickening, it was now almost 6:45, I had a few minutes before I needed to do inventory. By the time my leathery, nobbled knuckles had finished a sloppy job of tying my black tennis shoes I could feel my breath quickening.

                I slipped out the locker room door, with the agility of a younger man and headed for the elevators. This time when I entered, I was alone; I reached for the wall of buttons, my fingers finding the embossed number 5.  When the doors slid open, the large metal sign that alerted new visitors of their whereabouts was positioned halfway up the crème wall opposite the elevator. In bold, red print, ALZHIMER’S WARD was etched. This time my body followed my heart as it led us down the hallway to the left. The horrid feeling of death that had followed me from the downstairs levels mingled with a sense of confusion and fear.

                I reached room 526 where a small plate below the room number read EVELYN MARLOW and pushed down on the handle, walking into the room. The nurse was just setting breakfast down on the side table when she looked up at me. She was roughly my age, somewhere in her seventies, with close-cropped grey hair, “Hey Charlie, she’s doing well this morning.”

I nodded and she left the room. I walked to the side of the hospital bed, eyes fixed on the shrunken figure covered by a pink and yellow patchwork quilt from home. I began to stroke her white hair with my left hand, remembering her once thick black hair. Her green eyes, once bright and alive, looked up into mine, a subtle smile turning up the corners of her lips. “Hey there, Ev,” I whispered.

                “Darling, I’ve been waiting for you,” her voice was rushed and she was almost panicky, “the nurse said you were probably just running late. Oh, but I was worried.”

                Evelyn’s eyes searched my face for some comfort, “It’s alright, it’s alright, I was just running late,” I said softly, trying to soothe her.

                She still seemed unsure that I was alright, so I lay down in the bed next her both of us on our backs, her right hand in my left and I began to sing, “Tall and tan and young and lovely, the girl from Ipanema was walking.” Evelyn let her head sink onto my chest and I hugged her close, as I butchered the tune she whispered, “I’ve just been so scared, Charlie.”

                “I know, babe, I know. I’m here now though, right here.”

                Evelyn lifted her head an inch turning so that her lips were inches from mine and she whispered softly, “Forget me not, Charlie. Whatever I forget, don’t you forget too. Forget me not.”

                I cupped her head with my left hand, holding her close to me, wiped tears away with my right, “Never, Ev, you’re always with me.” She fell asleep with her head resting on my chest and I snuck out, scared she would wake up and I would be another doctor in scrubs not her husband.

                I stood in the elevator for a few moments, without pushing buttons or thinking much at all. Finally, I pushed for level A, where my rounds were to take place. When the elevator doors opened into the morgue, the rush of loneliness, death and disparity greeted me as I began my Monday morning shift of tagging the freshly dead bodies of the previous night.

More to come!

Love from Pullman,

The Blonde and the Bullshit

Here is the first product of my creative writing English class. In this activity we were to write a scene that had a memory within it.

I left the house late, a quarter to five and the sun was just setting. I opened the old Ford pick-up’s peeling handle and swung one leg inside. Using the steering wheel as a balance, I hoisted my other leg into the cab and just sat for a moment, eyes closed, air leaving my lungs heavy. I could remember her sitting next to me. Pale yellow sundress, red bow in her hair, a supple smile turned towards me. The glitter of her laugh touched me as if raindrops were kissing my balding head. Harsh wind blew into the cab from the still opened door, whisking her away too. I opened my slow, tired eyes without rush and sighed deeply, turning the key in the ignition.

As I have learned, every Tuesday we will be turning in a short story (no more that 4 ages in length). While every Thursday we will be bringing in a single scene. So I should be posting rapidly this semester!

Love from Pullman,

The Blonde and the Bullshit

I think that I have come to the realization that this is mostly an online journal. And if someone does decide to read it, it'll be as if they accidentally came across it and flipped through. 

With that in mind, I will soon begin posting stories or poems of my own. Some will be from one of my two English classes while some may not. As an English major, I am very excited to have two English classes as I enter my fall semester of sophomore year, one with an emphasis on creative writing. 

I am not entirely sure what I hope to gain from this. However, I believe that this is the best way to archive my writing and, for better or worse, it will be cemented within the internet for any casual passerby to flip through.

Love from Pullman,

The Blonde and the Bullshit

P.S. Either for my future self or for anyone else, if you are having a bad day just go to YouTube and type in: Miley Cyrus 2013 VMAs. After seeing them last night I guarantee you will realize how thankful you are that you are not her.

Fourth installment to Chatham Cove:

By 7:30 A.M. Wilcox had showered, dressed, flipped through all eight of the travel magazines that were fanned out on his bedside table and again tried to gather up some remorse for his father but failing. After having opened the curtains at 6 o’clock he realized that the storm that he had hoped would merely ‘blow over,’ would be doing no such thing. Any thoughts of taking a walk were swept from his mind when he looked out of the small bay window and saw the destruction that the storm had already created. Halves of trees that had been struck down were either laying vertical against the rocky cliff down to the ocean or else were being ripped apart by the vicious waves. The clouds, still black in the sky, were seething and spraying rain, the wind picking it up and throwing it forcefully against the small white inn. Lawrence was rarely frightened of storms when he was a child, often enchanted with the aftermath that provided; the clear skies and calm waters. However, this storm seemed different from any he had seen, the ominous feeling that began in the back of his mind crept down his spine, nestling in the root of his back, quivering, waiting.

                Finally, the smaller of the two hands on his watch crept closer to 9 o’clock. At 8:45 A.M., Lawrence made his way down to the main lobby in which Tara Daley had checked him in, the previous night. He passed the reception desk and opened two dark cherry wood French doors with a sign posted above, in the same font as the decorative sign above the front door that read DINING HALL. A long table made of a rich oak with matching chairs greeted him. The table, meant to seat twelve, was set with six place mats, plates, napkins and silver wear, crystal glasses sitting directly above the knives. There was already a man, close to his own age he guessed, sitting adjacent to the head of the table, reading the London Evening Standard. To this man’s right sat a young girl, pretty and almost whimsical, no older than 25, to be sure. When Wilcox closed the doors to the dining hall, both heads glanced upward, their reactions unique from each other. The man glanced down at his newspaper yet again and, while still with his eyes focused on the page, said in a noticeably Irish accent, “You’ll be the bloke from London, then?”

                Before Wilcox could say so much as a “yes,” the young woman shot the newspaper reading man a look and said in a voice delicate as a whisper, “Are you finding the inn to your liking, Mr. Wilcox? It is so beautiful when the sun is out. This storm is just awful. Breakfast should be out any minute, so just grab a seat,” All of this was said very quickly and Lawrence had to breathe a moment to take it all in.

                The first to register in his mind was that the young woman knew his name. This struck him as odd, this being the first time he had met any of the other guests in the bed and breakfast. The realization that he was still standing and the placid stare from the deep green eyes of the black haired girl forced him to take the seat opposite her. Through this the man with the newspaper never said another word.

                Soon the doors opened again, this time no one looked up, as an elderly woman with a three-pronged cane each with a tennis ball on the end crept into the hall, taking the seat to Wilcox’s right. Less than five minutes later Mrs. Daley came in through a side door pushing a trolley. A top the trolley was a plethora of food: a large plate of scrambled, two bowls of meat, one sausage and one bacon, a plate with pancakes and another with waffles, hash browns and multiple plates of toast. Jellies and jams, syrups and gravies and multiple plates of butter laden down the second level of the breakfast trolley. Tara Daley placed plate after plate on the table along with the many condiments, finally sitting down next to the black haired girl with the green eyes.

                “This looks marvelous, Tara,” the old woman sitting to Lawrence’s right spoke for the first time.

                “Thank you, ma dear, just a little extra time in the kitchen this morning, I had a difficult time falling asleep last night.”

                “Again?” chimed in the youthful girl.

                “Aye, my arthritis in my fingers is getting’ on towards worse I’m afraid,” said Mrs. Daley shaking her head, and then, “Have you all introduced yourselves to our newcomer yet?” and everyone’s head turned to look at Lawrence, who was just cutting up his sausage. There was a short pause, until finally Mrs. Daley was unable to stand the silence. She pointed to each person as she said their name as if they could not hear her, “To your right is Collette Montel, then across from her is Taylor Michelson and next to him is the lovely Meredith Cartwright,” she finished beaming around the room. “Oh and of course our in house judge, James Cameron ,but he hasn’t been down since the day before yesterday. Says he’s working on a large case and does not wished to be disturbed. Very important man in America, you see?”

                The final name pricked at the back of his mind, he was sure he had heard that name before, but where? After all, he had only been to America once and that had been when he was a boy. Instead of saying any of this he nodded and smiled at each of the guests as they were introduced. It seemed perfunctory, as if everyone already knew his name, but nonetheless he said, “It’s nice to meet you all, my name is Lawrence Wilcox.”

xoxo,

The Blonde and the Bullshit