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