Loving someone is like going to the beach.

Going to the beach is committing to taking some of it back with you when you leave. I don’t mean intentionally, either. No matter how hard you try, maybe by bringing a large beach towel, or staying out of the water, or religiously brushing off your hands, by some horrible miracle sand will always follow you home from the beach. You’ll be brushing it out of your hair for days, even after a shower. You’ll go to take a sip from a water bottle and find yourself gritting down on grains of sand. You’ll be swiping it off your legs, sticky with sunscreen, and from in-between your water-logged toes. You’ll reach into your bag and come back with sand stuck under your fingernails. Inevitably, when you go to the beach, you’ll come back with pieces of it.

Loving someone is a lot like going to the beach.

No matter how hard you try, grains of their being will inevitably make their way into your skin. You’ll bite down on pieces of them, and either spit them back out or swallow them whole. You’ll try to brush them out of your hair but come to realize there are some tangles that will never come out, without being cut. You’ll try to protect yourself from their powerful UV rays with sunscreens, or maybe you’ll opt for a tanning oil, to intensify their heat. You’ll find their hair on your clothes, on your bed pillow, stuck in the couch cushions. You’ll spend an hour in the shower rinsing their smell off your skin.

Yes, loving someone is like going to the beach. Once you go, you can’t come back without taking little pieces of it with you.

What we often forget, however, is that the beach gets a little of us, too, each time we go. We make impressions on the sand, manipulating its grains to create sandcastles, in burying our friends up to their heads, or by making imprints of our bodies through laid-out towels. And of course, we cannot forget our most telling clue that yes! we were here: our wandering footprints.

So, every time you go to the beach, take a look at where you’ve left some of yourself behind; take care to make these impressions kind.

breakfast on a friday mourning

sadness is when tears well up in my father’s eyes

as we sit across from one another in the worn red

leather booths of a worn down cafe chewing cinnamon

raisin toast that suddenly gets stuck in my throat

and scratches all the way down like nails on

a chalkboard the clinking of forks and knives against aging

porcelain plates fading distant in the background and i can see reflected

in the glassy blue of his eyes my own face twisted in an

anguish that is knowing i will one day cry his tears to

my own child and hope they don’t feel as though

they would morph into the tablecloth only to

catch his falling tears and so i reach between our tall

orange juices to grasp my father’s trembling hand

and the waitress comes to see if our toast is okay

yes everything is fine thank you.

Writing Exercise #1

Author's Note: Wow, haven't been on here in a while! For my fiction workshop class I'm doing lots and lots of writing exercises that challenge me as a writer to develop crucial skills - like developing a strong voice, sense of setting and character, and gain a greater understanding of story telling in general. I think I'll begin to post these exercises up on here in hopes they reach a wider range of eyes that can possibly supply me with a greater range of feedback! This particular piece was an exercise that required the writer to start with, "My mother never..." and then to finish this sentence, and keep going. This work is where that sentence led me to. **Disclaimer: there are a few swears in this piece.**

My mother never cursed.

And I mean, never. She was the kind of person who would stub her toe on an overbearing chair leg or slam her fingers in the car door or drop her keys down the sewer while running late to work and, instead of stream out a long line of expletives, she would exclaim in a voice similar to that of one admiring a small mammal, “Goodness me!” or, “Oh, dear!,” or the most nauseatingly innocent of her many catchphrases (always accompanied by a slight shrug of the shoulders and a knowing smile): “I guess that’s just how the cookie crumbles.”

[Insert gagging noise here.]

So, as you can imagine, being the angsty, millennial, only-child teenage boy I am, I hated this about my mother. It wasn't just her disinterest in the satisfaction of loudly yelling “FUCK” when you drop your perfectly sculpted ice cream cone on the ground before even getting in a solid lick, or when nearly crashing into the dick who suddenly slams on their brakes ON THE HIGHWAY - who, in my opinion, deserve a level of hell all to themselves - but her general saintly disposition in all aspects of her life led me to resent conversation with her, or meaningful interactions with her in general, really.

Every morning she would descend the stairs and into the kitchen already dressed in coordinating pastels, her blonde hair perfectly straightened, and a giant smile on her face. That woman must have had cheeks of steel with the amount of smiling she did. Seriously, the muscles in her cheeks could probably rival those of the Rock. Oh, how I hated this. Then, in a sing-songy voice she would announce, “What a beautiful day!” even if rain was pouring down outside and thunder shook the window pane.

“Nathan?” She’d then ask, and patiently wait until I finally dug out my head from a close inspection of my cereal bowl and acknowledge her question to continue.

Still smiling, she'd ask, “How did you sleep?” or a similar variant of a caring, motherly question, to which I’d be forced to reply in a matter that almost never met her Morning Happiness Standards, which, if I'm being fair, weren't very high. I just wasn't a Morning Person, or a Happy Person if I'm honest, nor a Person That Particularly Enjoys Sentimental Mother/Son Interactions, so you can imagine the painful repercussions of this morning ritual for both parties involved.

Yet it happened every day, for as long as I can remember.

Knowing that I’d hurt her feelings otherwise, I'd try to answer her questions as cheerily as I possibly could but seeing that this feat was physically painful for me to perform, my replies would mostly come off as sarcastic. But, even then, she never got mad.

Not even that time I got caught stealing records from the store downtown, or when that party sophomore year got busted. Not even when I crashed her car into a flagpole at school while drifting in the parking lot right after I got my license. Instead, my parents sat me down and my mother just smiled sadly and said she was “disappointed” in me, and then, get this, asked me if there was anything SHE could do to help me get out of this rut I was in. I would have preferred she yelled until she was blue in the face, grounded me for a month, hell, maybe even throw in a little backhanded slap to the face, huh, Mom?

But, never. Instead she showered me with all the love and support and smiles any kid could ever ask for. Except me, that is. Because I wasn't a kid worthy of that, I wasn't the kid my mother deserved. Or maybe, I just didn't deserve her.

Apparently, the universe agreed.

She was diagnosed in the beginning of summer, and Death came unapologetically with the fall, taking the leaves off their branches and the light from her eyes in one foul swoop.

One day near the end, after she had said she couldn't do any more treatment and just wanted to come home, I came into her room in the early morning when I thought she’d be asleep. I had stopped coming to her room during the hours she was awake. I knew how incredibly selfish this was and how it made me that much more of a horrible person, but it was too unsettling to see two sunken craters where plump happy cheeks should be, and lips that seemed they would crack if she tried to move them. I just couldn't stand the sight of her face without a smile on it. Ironic. I know.

She was sitting up in bed, staring out the open window. She'd requested to keep it open 24/7 ever since she got home from the hospital. She said she was catching up on all the “healthy air” she'd missed while she was gone. She made it sound like she was returning from a fucking summer camp instead of chemotherapy.

Since I wasn't expecting her to be awake, I awkwardly stood in the doorway of her room, not knowing if I should enter or retreat back to my bed where I could put on my headphones and turn up the volume and try to drown out the beeping of the machines hooked up to her chest. But then she patted the place on the bed next to her, and I had no choice but to sit gingerly on the edge- as if the weight of my presence could trigger some unseen hand to crawl out from wherever it was hiding and drag us both out of this life.

For a while, neither one of us said anything. I listened to the sound of air rattling in and out of her tired lungs; she stared contentedly at something outside the window I couldn't see.

Finally, in a voice so quiet I almost didn't hear her, she whispered, “What a beautiful day.”

Immediately, I stood up from the bed, seeing the startled look on her face as I did so, but continuing on anyways.

I shouted, “How the fuck can you say that, Mom? Look around you! You’re dying,” I let out a cruel, half-choked laugh. “You’re going to be dead. That is something that is actually happening. This is not a beautiful day. None of these days are beautiful!” I could only choke out the last few words because suddenly I’m crying for the first time since I can remember and my breath comes in hiccups and my palms are on fire and did I punch that hole in the wall??

Suddenly it hits me that this woman in front of me, who has never even had it in her to say a bad word, who has never raised her voice, who probably has never even tried a piece of that candy in the bulk section of the grocery store because who doesn't do that? - will shortly become just another name on the list of Non-Persons.

By this point I'm shaking and snot is running all over my face and I'm remembering the time I went to bed mad at my mom when I was six and refused to say “I love you” when she tucked me in at night and how much I'm regretting that moment. How I'd become a Morning Person and a Happy Person and A Person Their Mother is Proud Of just to take that moment back.

My knees give out and I fall back down to the bed, my head in my hands. I'm expecting my mother to tell me to get out, or my dad to come barging through the door, red-faced and demanding I apologize for speaking to my mother like that when she pulls me into a hug and whispers sadly into my ear, “That’s just how the cookie crumbles.”

I have enough left in me to get out, “That's one damn awful cookie.”

Ticking Tocking

Author's Note: Well, this poem is on my independent novel page, but I felt like it wasn't getting enough attention and I wanted some feedback. This poem is about a topic in my book came up about how time seems to fly right by, and there is not a thing that we can do to stop it, so I guess this poem is just the expression of these thoughts that we all encounter sometime during our life, and that will continue to show up within our lifetime, leaving bittersweet afterthoughts.

Ticking Tocking

In the house there is

Always a ticking tocking and a

Tocking ticking upon a moment of silence

That reminds us all of the fate that

Awaits us at the end of the hall where

The grandfather clock sits

Lurks with it's hands forever circling in

A motion of never ending counting
onetwo
       ticktock
              threefour
                     tocktick

It's face never revealing the

Slightest hint of emotion or hesitation to

Tell us the time tick tocking away faster

Each minute than the next almost like

His hands are trying to catch up for some

Important date that seems to ever loom

Closer and closer until it finally arrives and

His hands begin... to slow down...

Until... they stop... com...plete...ly.

Fading Away

Author's Note: This is a more personal piece about my grandmother, who we visited this past Mother's Day. It was hard to hear her not remember who we were, and this poem is just about how sad it is to see someone you love fade away before your eyes.

Little still lingers within your eyes --

Still the same color,

But not recognizing

Me;

Or your son.

I place the flowers on your bedside table --

Next to your pills,

Half empty, half full.

How are you doing?

But how silly of me,

For of course,

You'll only stare.

I want to do something,

Say something,

That will make you look up and see,

See with the eyes that I remember

The eyes that saw me through

Missions, and

Adventures,

I want you.

Not this shell of who you used to be.

You have faded,

Faded away with the color on the sheets.

Almost too light to see

Anymore.

I touch your hand

It is fragile and bony

I stare at your face,

It too,

Disappearing

Before my eyes.

Suddenly, a movement,

The nurse swings to your side:

Who are these people?

Make them leave.

Then we are gone,

Leaving you lost.

Alone.

Fading away with the color on the sheets.

Love Hurts, Literally

Recently while reading an issue of Time, I came across an article about how the pain of a broken heart and the pain of say, burning your hand, could actually be related.


Love already works in painful ways: falling in love head over heels, and then your heart is shattered. Like many have said, it's almost like "getting punched in the gut". And according to new research, this turns out not to be too far off -- the physical pain of an injury and the emotional pain of heartache are almost identical to the human brain and body. The pain a person can feel by both of these follows along the same neural pathways.

Until recently, studies have always shown the overlap in brain activity between emotional and physical pain, but those studies focused mainly on the feelings produced by them that were about the pain, like "I never want to feel that again" response after getting a paper cut or stubbing a toe. Not up until now have any studies linked purely emotional pain sources like grief or heartbreak with any sorts of pain like, for example, grabbing a hot bowl or mug.

For scientists to have gotten these results, they took 40 volunteers that had recently been through some heartbreak of their own, and, using an MRI took images of their brain when the volunteer was shown a picture of their ex. Surprisingly, the activity in the volunteer's brain was engaging the same pain circuits as when they were probed with heat sensors -- equivalent to the pain of holding a hot cup of coffee. The researchers that conducted this experiment believed that the intensity of the subjects' emotional hurting activated sensors in the pain pathways of the brain that are mostly tapped into only by physical stimulation, such as a slap or searing heat.

Could this be the cure for heartache? Unfortunately, no. Antidotes for physical pain, such as Ibuprofen, won't do much to mend a broken heart, but these new findings at least give some excuse to the hurt not being entirely in your head.

Then... and Now

Author's Note: Well, since we were assigned to keep writing over the break, here is a piece for your enjoyment(:

This is just some old writing that I dug up recently -- I am quite embarrassed by it actually -- but I thought that it would be a sort of statement for all of us to see how far we have come with our writing capabilities in the past years. 

This is so embarrassing, but here is a story about what pet we would want if we could have any pet in the entire world! from fifth grade: 

          The Perfect Pet

          

          One day, I was walking in the park when I was a little girl. Then I saw it! Right there in front of me was the cutest animal I had ever seen. A squirrel! I ran up to the little creature and reached out my hand. Just as I was about to touch it's milk chocolate colored fur, a giant hand seized mine and dragged me away.

          "No! No!" I cried, "Let me go! I want to touch it! Let me go!"

           The hand twirled me around. "Don't ever touch a wild animal! They are bad news little girl!" shout a very red-faced, tall man. I tried to free myself but the man had a firm grip on my hand. 

            "You listen to me little girl! Don't ever let me see you touch one of those little monsters!" his voice boomed. I continued to squirm until finally I wriggled free from his grasp. I ran to my mother and started to sob into her shoulder. I couldn't speak. I stood there staring at the red-faced man. 

           That was the day that I decided I was going to get a squirrel. Not so much for me, but to prove that man wrong and to finally get a chance to touch those wonderful little animals. 

          Today I started my search for my squirrel. I have already picked one out that I saw on the computer when I was looking at squirrels. I am looking at the International Squirrel Rescue and Adoption Center. There, they have many different varieties of squirrels. Many of which I was looking forward to seeing. 

          Once inside the ISRAC my ears were filled with the sound of squeaking and cages rattling. I was greeted by a not-so-friendly man who guided me to the cages. 

          "Here they are. Enjoy. " said the man with a completely noticeable smirk on his face and an unenthusiastic  tone.

          "Thank you!" I answered back, a lot more politely. I ducked through a squarish hole in the wall that led to the cages. 

          Walking into the room was a little overwhelming. Hundreds of cages lined the floor all around the room, reaching all the way up to the ceiling. "Wow..." I barely heard the word leave my lips. 

          I started to walk around the room, peering into the little cages occupied by he cute little animals. Finally, I would get my chance to touch a squirrel. My whole life I had imagined what it would be like, down to the very last detail. Now I get to actually have my own squirrel; a lot better than just being able to touch one! I approached a cage that held a small squirrel, it's back facing me. When it turned around I nearly fainted, it was the cutest squirrel I had ever seen in my whole entire 10 years of living! I looked both ways before reaching out to unlatch the cage. Right when my fingers touched the icy cold metal, someone slapped my hand and shoved a piece of paper in my face. 

           DO NOT PUT FINGERS THROUGH THE BARS, FEED, OR EVEN JUST PLAIN TOUCH THE ANIMALS! 

was what the paper said. 

          "Sorry kid, it's our policy," said a very tall and thin looking man. I looked at a small pin that was hanging on his shirt. 

MANAGER

ran across the top and below it, 

Tim

in shiny gold letters. 

         Once he saw my disappointed look, he quickly added, "But I'd be glad to take him out for you to hold if you're careful." 

          I stood there with a huge dumb grin on my face, nodding my head so hard I swore it could have just flew off. He unlatched the cage, reached in and grabbed the squirrel, pulled him out and sat him in my outstretched hands. The squirrel looked into my eyes, it's deep brown ones trying to explain something that I didn't quite understand. 

          "How did these all end up here?" I questioned. 

          "Well some of them, people thought would be good pets to have and then they found out that it takes a lot of responsibility to have animals like these as pets. Then they released them into the wild. and that's when we stepped in. And for the others, they just happened to stumble upon us while we were out," the man explained. 

          "What happened to this one?" I asked again with even more curiosity. 

          "Well, it was one of the unlucky ones that someone let go," he answered. 

          "I'll take it." The words just slipped out.

          "Excuse me?" Tim asked.

          "I'll take it!" I answered more confidently.

          He looked at me strangely and then told me to go to the front desk and fill out an adoption form while he put the squirrel in a take-home box.  I did as he told me and went to fill out the adoption form. 

          Later that day, I was sitting at the park with my new friend. I had named the squirrel Billy, after my uncle. We were just sitting there when all of a sudden a movement caught my eye. I slightly turned to looked towards the movement. Sitting down at another bench was a man. 

          He pulled out a book and sat there for a long time before he noticed me watching him. When he looked up I saw who the man was. He was the red-faced man from when I was a little girl who had yelled at me for wanting to touch the squirrel! He saw me and an ashamed look came across his face. 

          I smiled.

Fragile

Author's Note: This is the day one of The Truman Show. I know that this is posted a little late, but I had to make some finishing touches. It is kind of a ranting of my thoughts on the message of the movie, which I thought was quite interesting. I really enjoyed this movie a lot and actually found it one of my favorites  The second piece for this I am working on writing a story from the perspective of my life if I was finding that everything I had known my entire life was actually scripted. I think that it should be a fun piece and interesting, and I will post it soon!

Is what we do every day and every hour and every minute of our lives able to be called reality? Or are we being tricked into believing that it is? Those questions are the life of a man named Truman, born on live television to live a life inside a Hollywood movie set, evident to the entire world that his life is a TV show -- except for him. The people he meets, the town he lives in and the woman he even falls in "love" with is scripted and somehow filmed for the world to see.

Truman though, is not like the overly happy and eccentric actors upon the show, he is feeling trapped and depressed in this town, and wants to get away. Only all his attempts were failed one way or another. There was only ever one person who tried to reveal to him the truth about his life -- a woman named Sylvia that Truman was starting to fall in love with. She too, was whisked away from his life; they said she was going to Fiji. Evidently enough, Truman also had wanted to go to Fiji.

Finally Truman realizes that he must escape this town, this life full of fake and unreality. He is finally able to escape from the cameras and just try to get on with his life. Of course, his attempts for this are also tried to be stopped. Truman sets off upon the ocean, finally overcoming his fear of the water since his "dad" was drowned by a storm on the same waters. Surprisingly, even the tremendous storm created by the directors does not stop Truman from continuing to sail across the ocean. Then he hits the wall.

This part of the movie I believe is the most full of the symbolism for the message that the movie holds. It is here that Truman hits the wall, then seemingly walks across the water and up some stairs that lead to a door, hidden within the sky painted containment wall. Just before he walks through the door, a voice, almost seeming like God to Truman, starts to talk to him. He tells Truman that he has been there ever since he grew up, he watched him grow up into the man that he is, and that this world and life that Truman is leading is the best that anyone could have. He is protected from the dangers of the world, there is no evil inside this world, how could he possibly want to leave?

Truman does leave. He walks right out the door within the wall and there is nothing and no one that could have stopped him. This is like life. You live, protected and sheltered from your fears and weaknesses as a child, harbored by your parents and your innocence. For Truman to escape this, he is moving on to the part of his life that he must make his decisions, and his mistakes. He can no longer be protected by the scripts and the sets. That is the way that life is supposed to be. When Truman traveled across the ocean -- a symbol of the journey of one's life -- the directors did everything they could to try and stop him. Although it was hard for him to keep going, he still kept going. This is what we must do with our lives. If we are presented with challenges, we must get through them and continue our lives.

Advancing from your innocence to taking on your own responsibilities and living on your own is a tough thing. Truman was no longer being directed, and he was forced to make his own decisions as soon as he stepped through the door in that wall. The point is, when you have no one to direct you, you can do anything. "Life is fragile", is what Truman said during the movie. He is right, Life if fragile, and it is us who decide whether or not we want to take the risk of possibly making a crack in our fragile lives or not, and this is what makes life interesting. If no one was able take this risk, Life would be nothing but a boring shell. Truman was brave enough to take those risks, and we must also be this brave.

Author's Note: This piece is about a movie I recently watched in which a woman is left widowed by a freak accident that kills her husband. It is taking her awhile for the actuality of what has happened to sink in, and I wanted to portray the pain of what she was feeling through this poem. I experimented with format and capitalization of words that I thought were important feelings or objects. Comment what you think and any feedback for me!

I return home,

to what I Thought

was You and me.

But instead,

I find the House

Empty.

I return home

to where We used

to Stand

But now --

you've Gone;

Empty is my hand.

I return home

to once a Room filled

with Laughter

But now,

only Silence takes place

of what we Were.

And I return home

to the Regret

and the Stillness

Asking if the Pain of this

could ever Be

Less.

His Majesty

Author's Note: This is my response to the painting Jean-Léon Gérome - The Two Majesties. This painting is very romantic and a truly beautiful setting. This painting has a sort of harmony about it with the lion, the land, and the sun which really is what made me chose this piece of art.

The King stands

Surveying his kingdom;

An old friend at his side.

The two converse

About times past,

And times to come.

They look out

Across the land

That belongs to the King

"It is quite a beautiful sight, Your Majesty."

Says the friend.

"Ah, yes, indeed."

Says the King.

Solemn and quiet,

They watch in silence

The kingdom that stands before them.

And when the time comes,

They say their goodbyes.

The King

Surveying his kingdom.
Watching.
Watching...

The American Dream and the Past it Was Lost In

Author's Note: This piece is  a project on the independent novel that my group and I chose to read -- The Great Gatsby. This novel was considered to be the greatest American novel of all time, and it is understandable for this to be so with the complexity of the novel and the timeless theme of the American Dream: something so longed for, but something not actually achievable, as expressed in the novel. 

The Great Gatsby does not actually reveal the theme of the novel until the very end of the book in the last two chapters. During the closing pages of the novel, Fitsgerald wants to press on the point that the American Dream is not a dream, it is a lifestyle. In the 1920's when this book was written, there were some places where the American Dream was still alive, but where the novel takes place, the American Dream has been reduced to a small idea that is only of money and pleasure. Jay Gatsby is one of the people who confused the value of the American Dream with pleasure and money, somewhere in the middle his dream betraying him. 

Daisy Buchanan, beautiful and with a voice like silk -- Gatsby's dream girl. Unfortunately, Daisy was too much of this in the literary sense. When Gatsby met Daisy before he went to war, they fell madly in love but when Gatsby was forced to go off to War, he made himself useful to his men and was offered to go to Oxford. By this time, Daisy was lonely and feeling unloved. Her letters started to include less and less of the happiness that usually radiated from her smiling face, and more of the same loneliness that Gatsby would soon become one with. Finally, Daisy said that she could not continue on waiting, and so she left Gatsby. For Gatsby though, she never really left. She was always there, except now he was the one waiting. Gatsby felt incomplete, and instead of striving to fill the empty spot in his heart, he proceeded to attempt to fulfill the "American Dream", and became rich. He bought a mansion, filled this mansion with parties and people everyday, hoping to see her face of full of happiness stumble upon him. 

Daisy was now married to a man named Tom, and had a daughter who she fussed over. The 1920's were a time of money and pleasure, both of which Daisy and Tom had, but this was not enough. Tom was a straying husband, one who had cheated on Daisy multiple times, his newest mistress a woman named Myrtle. Daisy knew of these flings, but chose to do nothing about them. She instead questioned if what she had written in that fateful letter to Gatsby was the right choice.

Nick was the only being who knew the truth about Gatsby, about his obsession to find his love and his constant living in the past, and Nick stayed the only one to truly see through Gatsby's money. It also happened that Nick and Daisy were cousins, and Gatsby's only chance to fix what had gone wrong five years ago. Gatsby had worked up such a great vision of Daisy from what he remembered, that most of what she was to him had come out of his own mind and was far more than the real Daisy. When they finally re-unite, Gatsby seems to grasp this idea, but not fully, for he cannot see that Daisy is simply betraying him.

When the end of the novel comes around, Gatsby, one who has already accomplished the American Dream, and, one who has already found Daisy, simply has nothing else to live for. Gatsby must die. Gatsby held on to the green light of Daisy's dock for years, and he had almost been able to grasp it. Truly though, Gatsby's dream was behind him, in the past where he constantly tried to recreate. The green light has faded now, and with it Gatsby.  "Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that's not matter -- to-morrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther. . . . And one fine morning ----- So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past." 



The Dream


The green light illuminates the water

Bouncing between the waves

Playing with my eyes

My mind

A hush whisper calls to me

I know it is coming from behind me

Too far behind me

From my past

I try to turn around

But the light captures me

It holds me;

Gently caressing the corners of my soul

I can feel it emptying the pockets of my heart

Searching, or perhaps, 

I imagine it searching

For I do not feel anymore

Feelings are a part of the past

I can only live now

Or try to,

For what I do is not called living

I breathe,

My heart beats

But none of these actions are reality

Not since you became my dreams

I try to remember a time

That was not lived in my past

But the light is blocking my vision

I cannot see

But was this not what I wanted?

Had I not dreamed of this light,

Every hour,

Of every day?

This light

Does it not hold 

What I want?

Does it not hold you?

My hand gropes for something

To hold on to

But truly,

I search for you

Instead,

My fist closes on air

The light fades to blackness;

I am gone

Phoebe's Point of View

Author's Note: This is a piece I wrote from the book "The Memory Keeper's Daughter", by Kim Edwards. This book was written entirely from a third person and a first person mixed point of view of all the character's lives in the book, but the author never gave the view of a young woman in the book, Phoebe, who has Down Syndrome, so I wrote this piece about her. She was given away when she was born by her father, separated from her twin brother, Paul, and biological mother, Norah until she was 24 years old. Her father -- who was a doctor -- David, gave her to his assistant, Caroline Gill, who was instructed to take Phoebe to an institution; Caroline could not bring herself to just abandon the little baby, so she took Phoebe to another city and raised her, never telling Phoebe of the family she left behind. David was not strong enough to tell his wife that he gave their daughter away, so he tells his wife that their daughter died at birth. This secret stays hidden until David dies, two decades later. Caroline Gill then finds the strength to have the truth revealed, and this is Phoebe's view on the day she met her mother and her twin. This is my first try at writing fiction, so sorry if it is not exactly the finest piece of writing. Just for future reference, in the piece, I mention a person named Al and one named Rain. Al is Caroline's husband who she met while taking care of Phoebe. Rain is Phoebe's pet cat.

Phoebe walked outside carrying the tray of lemonade to Caroline, who was kneeling down in front of the garden, pulling out weeds that now lay strewn around her. The warmth of the sun washed down over her and she giggled; a slight breeze lifting her thin brown hair away from her face -- her body short and stout. She set the tray down on a table next to the garden and Caroline looked up at her, a smile appearing on her face, but also a worried line growing above her eyebrows. Caroline's eyes suddenly darted past Phoebe, seeing something behind her; her smile faltered, but Phoebe didn't seem to notice.

"Honey, why don't you sit down," Caroline said cheerily, but there was a nervous undertone in her voice.

Phoebe's giggle filled the air once more, ringing on through the breeze, and her voice, high and childish, yet the words somewhat slurred, answered her mother, "Yes, Mom. Do you want some lemonade?"

"Sure sweetie," Caroline answered as she sat down next to Phoebe, "why don't you pour me some, my hands are dirty from weeding the garden."

Caroline watched Phoebe as she poured the lemonade, her eyes seeing Phoebe's hands -- small and fragile -- carefully pick up the glass and smile as she succeeded in pouring the pale yellow liquid in a glass full of ice, but her heart aching as she realized what would come; Phoebe was so young and inexperienced in the world and none of it was her fault. Caroline sighed as Phoebe, content with having done the task she was told, smiled once more, her face slightly rounder and wider than a girl of twenty-four, her eyes, slanting such a slight bit upwards, that it was hardly noticeable. But it was noticed, noticed and recognized as the mental disability that had latched on to Phoebe and held her as she grew and aged on the outside; her brain still young.

Phoebe didn't seem to notice her mother's anxiousness, she was content that she was here with her mother, and the happiness of fulfilling the simple task of pouring lemonade still hung on her face. She had no way of knowing that within ten minutes, her whole life would be altered; she would not understand why the things that happened did, or for what reason they applied to her.

There was the sound of gravel popping as the red car pulled into the alley behind the yard where Phoebe and Caroline sat, and then the sound of car doors slamming, footsteps.

Caroline saw them before Phoebe, and quickly stood up and stepped in front of Phoebe's line of vision, not quite wanting Phoebe's moment of happiness to end. Phoebe tried to peer around her mother, the smile still resting on her face.

"Hello, Caroline," Phoebe heard a tentative voice of a woman speak from in front of Caroline.

"Norah, Paul," answered Caroline nervously.

"Who is it Mom?" asked Phoebe, a slight tremble in her voice.

Caroline took a deep breath, and then forced herself to smile, turning around to face Phoebe, "This woman is your mother, Phoebe, and this boy is your brother."

Phoebe's forehead scrunched in confusion, and tears formed in her eyes. Her lower lip trembled, and her face flushed with anger.

"I know this is hard to understand Phoebe," spoke the woman who had come, "but you grew inside of my stomach, and then once you were born," -- the woman breathed in deeply, as if struggling to say the words -- "your mother, Caroline, took you and raised you."

The tears that had welled up in Phoebe's eyes began to slowly slide down her face, and her high voice pierced the air, "My mother is not you. I don't have a brother."

Phoebe stepped away from her mother, feeling betrayed and confused; anger. All these feelings rushing up inside her collided, and another set of tears rolled down her rosy cheeks. Why are these mean people lying to me? Why is mom not trying to stop them? Phoebe's thoughts showed on her face and Caroline tried to step closer to her, but Phoebe backed away, shaking her head.

"No, no, no, no!" Phoebe shrieked, "Your liars! People who lie are bad people!"

Phoebe eyes looked questioningly up at Caroline as if asking her if she was right, and then she turned her gaze on Norah and Paul, who stood in front of Caroline. Norah's eyes were rimmed with tears and Paul's face was pale. Caroline's shoulders sagged and she turned towards Phoebe, pleading in her voice, and asked her to go show Paul her room while Norah and she talked. Phoebe unwillingly started towards the house, Paul following her.

"Your room is great." Paul said softly after Phoebe had led him upstairs to her room which was painted pink and had a small twin bed against one wall, a white filmy canopy top hanging over it. Caroline had decorated the room when she was little, and Phoebe had never wanted it changed. The sunlight streaming through the window captured the dust specks slowing spinning around the room, and for a moment, the room held still. Phoebe caught in the light, next to Paul, the brother she had never known; her twin.

"Thanks," murmured Phoebe, her face blushing.

"I'm sure this is really confusing to you. It's confusing for me too."

Phoebe only nodded.

"So, what's your favorite color?"

"Green. Not bright though...more like the color of grass."

"That's my favorite color too."

Phoebe smiled and then the room was silent. Phoebe looked at Paul. His hair was the same color as hers, a soft brown, but his was more full. They had the same green eyes.

"I'd really like to know you Phoebe," Paul broke the silence. His eyes cast down, barely visible through his hair hanging down over his face.

I don't understand why these people want to know me. Mom should have told them to leave. She should have told them that she is my mother; that I am her daughter. I don't want to leave Mom, especially with people that I barely know. I don't want to leave Al and Rain and my garden. I already have a family, I don't want another one. Phoebe once again only nodded.

The room went silent once more, and then footsteps were heard on the stairs and Caroline popped her head in through the door.

"Phoebe, Paul and Norah are going to leave now. Why don't you come downstairs and say good-bye?"

Paul stood, and Phoebe rose only to mumble a good-bye. She then went and sat on her bed, listening to the footsteps go back down the stairs and then out onto the front porch. She heard Norah and Caroline's voices mixing into the summer air, but she did not listen to what was being said. A few moments later, car doors closed and the sound of tires hitting gravel got softer. Phoebe sat on her bed, eyes closed, angry, hurt tears making paths down her cheeks.


Thanks for reading this if you have. Any comments on what I could change, should change, or add to this piece would be great. Again, thanks for taking the time to read this.

Anatomy of a Family

Author's Note: This poem is about the book The Secret Life of Bees. In this book there is a girl who pictures bees being this perfect, loving family in their hives and this poem expresses that.


Bees...
Small insects of wonder,
Studied through the eyes of one's heart.
Learned with the mind of one's soul.
Loved by the heart of one's spirit.
Bees;
One heart, one beat, one pulse...
The anatomy of a family.

Author's Note: With this piece, I just wanted the readers to have something to respond to and a piece that I could interact with the readers.


Today I was thinking about literature, and the use of words, letters. We all know how to read and write and say the ABC's, but in reality, aren't these little squiggles and lines just things that we made up? In truth, aren't letters just some person's idea of moving the world on to something bigger and better? These questions have been in my mind for awhile, and I have wanted to share them and get other people's opinions on them for awhile also. In my mind, letters and words are simply a person's imagination that turned into reality, the entire world's reality now; the past, present, and future, but are they really necessary?

Way back when human civilization was not developed, and cave people roamed the earth, they had no need to use words. They could communicate with simple nods of the head or hand gestures, or grunts. They were able to feel sadness, anger and love, all without the use of words or letters. Then some person came along and started to draw shapes, possibly on the wall of a cave or a clay tablet, and these shapes they gave meaning to, and then called "letters", and then, put these shapes together to form "words". Words and letters that the entire world knows, eats, sleeps, and talks. Everything in this world has a name, but in reality, is it just a few complex shapes pushed together to form a longer shape that someone decided was the label of an item, perhaps the closest thing sitting next to them on the table they worked at; or was it something deeper? These questions I, and perhaps other people, struggle to find a logical answer to.

Many people say that new technology pushed letters and words, also many other inventions, to happen, but does this mean that in the future, our world will have such a drive to find newer technology that is turns into a dystopic world? How we came up with letters and words, the world may never know. But if we didn't, would our world be the same?

Just something to think about. I myself need to think about this also. Comment your thoughts please!

Calling

Author's Note - I wrote this after a walk I took through a prairie somewhere up north. The scenery was beautiful and really calming so it inspired me to write this poem.





















This moment, so fresh--
crisp;
serene and peaceful

Wanting this moment to last,
to last forever,
to never end,
never change

Slight breezes blow,
cool and soft --
but not changing the way the sun warms our skin from the cloudless blue sky

Hand stretched out to run my fingers through the tall grass --
soft brown --
reaching up to touch the edge of the sky

Long stems waving in the wind --
sending a friendly greeting to me;
the breeze sending a hello of its own,
weaving around me, through me

As we walk,
I look around me, seeing the trees on the other side of this sea --
pale browns and tans --
barren against the blue of the sky

Reminding me
of how,
as new things say hello,
others say goodbye

I look all around me --
really look at all that is surrounding me --
and can't help feeling the corners of my mouth pull upwards

For when I leave,
and return home,
and fall asleep tonight,
I will wake up
the calling that pulled me to this place,
this place of peace and serenity;
the promise of happiness,
joy,
will still be.

The Dream

Author's Note: In this piece I was experimenting with different techniques, styles, and formats. It was orignally a paragraph of just free writing, but the writing fit more into a poem format so this is how it turned out.


White crystals falling gently to the gorund --
frosting the early morning grass with a different kind of dew
As the cool substance hits the ground --
once green and lush --
it slowly starts to build up
into a thick layering of wonder and beauty
The sky --
still starry from the night before --
begins to brighten;
pale purples and pinks,
oranges and yellow --
finally to a pale, pale blue
Being in this world full of tiny white flakes --
descending ever so softly to kiss the ground --
is like being inside a dream
A dream so real,
you can even feel the flakes landing on your skin,
catching on your eyelashes,
encasing you in a cool,
white blanket --
softer than anything in the world
Your heart feels lighter than air,
floating up towards the sky
Then it stops beating all together --
and this dream becomes reality.

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn Project

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Winter's Past

Author's Note - I wrote this night during a blizzard. I had walked outside and into the street, and then turned to look back at the house and saw my footprints in the snow. It was just a very magical moment that inspired me to write this piece.

For just this one moment
The whole world stands still
Me and the snow are the only things moving
I realize how beautiful the world is
When it is sleeping
And how wonderful it is
When the snow is cast for just one tiny second

Under a streetlamp
And how during that tiny second,
It turns gold

I notice

How even though the wind is blowing,
Sending whirlwinds of snow around me,
It never makes a sound
And how the snow is so clumsy in the air
Yet it never fails,
To land so gracefully
And to no avail,
Is quieter than the wind

My heart comprehends that,

With each step I take

Leaves another footprint

Behind me

An impression that seems so permanent

Yet, in the morning

This moment that seems so real to me,

Will be gone

Known to only me and the snow

When the people of this world wake up

The footprints long gone,

My past,

Lost in the snow's delicate beauty

And I will have left

Quieter, quieter
Than the wind and snow

The Duck Squirrel

One lovely day in the summer, Morgan Patterson and me were sitting in my front yard talking and enjoying the sun when we heard this really odd noise. We just ignored it at first, but then it got louder and we were like "Oh my god, what is that?" It was kind of like a mix between a duck and a noise a squirrel makes. It sounded like it was coming from my neighbors yard, so we decided to go see what it was. I took the sidewalk and walked around the outside of their yard, while Morgan went straight through it. Their yard isn't really that big, so it didn't take us very long to walk across it. We were standing there, listening for the noise when we heard it again and saw that it was coming from a squirrel perched high in a tree a few feet away. We were standing there laughing at the squirrel because it made such a weird noise when all of a sudden it saw us. Now, usually if a squirrel sees people it would run up the tree, but this one started to run down the tree AT us. So of course, being the girls we are, we screamed and started running. I ran out of the yard and down the street on the sidewalk. I reached my yard and turned just in time to see Morgan run smack into the other tree in my neighbors yard. Her shoulder hit it, and her whole body flipped and she landed on the ground. I started laughing so hard, and Morgan just kept lying there. As for the squirrel, we have never seen it, or heard it, again.