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