Hi All,
This is the last post for the term - and yes, finally, the ideal space for all your poems, stories, plays, artworks, videos, performances, etc that you wanted to share.
You are now contributing to Contemporary Canadian Literature!
Thank you :)
Gudrun
This is the last post for the term - and yes, finally, the ideal space for all your poems, stories, plays, artworks, videos, performances, etc that you wanted to share.
You are now contributing to Contemporary Canadian Literature!
Thank you :)
Gudrun
Here is a fun little portion of a scene I wrote.
ReplyDeletePart One:
Addison got off the bus on a scorching hot July afternoon and saw him standing there. Her head pounded from not sleeping the night before and she had no clue how she would survive four hours of summer school history class without falling asleep in the middle of class. Jordan’s sandy blonde hair, blue eyes and his quirky smirk made Addison blush. She did not know why, but in that moment she felt happy. She felt elated to see him, standing there, holding the blue coffee mug with coffee he said he would make her so she could stay awake during class. She had no idea he would actually make one cause she was only half joking when she said it.
They had spent all night talking to one another on the phone. There was no doubt in her mind that she was attracted to Jordan. The rest she had not quite figured out yet. She knew that she liked him, and she could not not like him, even if she tried now. They would be seniors when high school started in the fall and to be honest, she had been attracted to him ever since she was a freshman. She may have even had a crush on him. But of course, she was too shy to say anything. Now here he was, bringing her coffee in the early part of the day, getting up for her just to see her for the thirty minutes before her class began.
They walked in silence towards University Hill Secondary. It was funny how two people could spend literally the whole night talking to each other and then a few hours later she found herself feeling shy to be walking to school with him. Or even shy when she looked at him. Staring face to face and standing hip to hip with Jordan made her blush and feel dizzy but in a good way. She could not describe it in any other way than it feeling amazing. He made her feel amazing and he didn’t even have to be doing anything because just being together, talking to each other, or getting his texts at random moments of the day made her feel on top of the world. Addison felt excited when they were together like some young distraught seven year old with her first crush. She blushed in the silly way like a child who had never even talked to boys or something.
Part two:
ReplyDeleteIt was mid summer and Addison was enrolled in the summer session at her high school. She was taking twelfth grade world history. Although she had already completed the course last semester and gotten a B, she wanted to retake it to get a ninety-five percent or higher in order to qualify for the entrance scholarship at Stanford University. Addison knew that if she wanted to get that kind of average in the class, she would have to work very hard for it.
As they walked across the bridge leading to the school, Addison wondered to herself why he was so quiet and polite when he was normally the most chatty and loud one when he was with his group of friends. Jordan was different wen they were alone and she was enchanted by this side of him, a side she never really got to see before.
“Thanks for making me coffee,” Addison said.
“Your welcome,” Jordan said, “I put lots of ice cubes in it but they were kind of dry and shrivelled cause they were old or something. Ha-ha sorry.”
Allie laughed.
She was at a loss for words this afternoon and they walked to the end of the bridge and reached Crest Road High School. Addie had not told Jordan that she secretly did not like coffee but was actually trying to make conversation when she said, “And you should make me iced coffee, okay thanks…ha-ha.” She hadn’t told Jordan that secretly, while most of her friends thought Starbucks was the norm, her strict overly protective parents thought caffeine was an addictive stimulant that was the devil.
“Mmmm..takes good,” she said, taking small sips while wondering whether this drink they called coffee was supposed to taste this bitter. Iced coffee wasn’t actually her favourite drink, like Addison had so smartly blurted out. In fact, she could not exactly remember the last time she had it. She pretended to sip it in the blue mug he had brought it in.
“Is this sort of like a first date?” she thought. It was the first time they had actually been alone together, without any of their friends.
The bell rang for the start of first period. Addison and Jordan had sat on the bench inside the school and just talked. When he left he gave her a hug and kissed her lightly on the head. So lightly that she stood their confused for a second and wondered if it actually happened. It was the first time they had embraced and he gave her butterflies.
“OMG, you will not believe what just happened,” she texted to her best friend Stella, who’s summer school class was down the hall from hers. Addison giggled to herself then, with the realization that she was the last student left in the halls, ran towards her classroom.
Hey! Thanks for sharing this! To get right to the point, this is super cute. Aside from the minor grammar errors (your and you're), I thoroughly enjoyed reading this! :)
DeleteDark Demons
ReplyDeleteOnce, as a quiet stranger, you were easy to ignore. Your soft-spoken commentary seemed nothing more than a distant echo.
No one knew where you came from, but we didn’t mind and
I didn’t think your stay would long.
As time passed, the others deserted.
You stayed and
Whoever let you in forgot to see you out.
You spoke sweet pleasantries, made yourself at home and, for a while, you were welcomed company. But
You grew board.
With shut blinds and locked doors your mask came off.
As if this was your natural habitat, you flourished. With each word and every phrase you grew.
Stronger.
Bolder.
Louder.
Oh, conniving you, you’re not the wallflower you pretended to be.
You’re voice roars in the ears, bounces off the walls - shattering any remaining light.
Deafening is the din.
Pillaging and raping everything in your path you sneer at the destruction you’ve created and yet, you have the audacity to say, “I didn’t do it”.
You are an invader.
Your chants and taunts I once perceived as meaningless words have become my dependable dogma.
Guided by your power I go through the motions of the actions.
I am blinded by your darkness.
Where has the time gone?
I am weak and rusted with neglect. And
I feel I am fated to a gradual fade,
Like a shadow if I continue to follow.
Unless.
I open and swallow.
Some really nice images, Maclean. I thoroughly enjoyed reading this....sounds a bit like our 'friend', Coyote.
DeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteMoonlight
ReplyDeleteIn the night, the darkness rises,
Unsuspected in all surprises.
Despite the dark, may hope soon appear,
From the stars and moonlight, not far from here.
They say its darkest before the dawn,
Prepare to be stricken in all its awe.
The light well help you see again,
Illustrious beauty, heaven sent.
Part one: I would like to share a dream I recently had about what I believe to be an existential message the universe gave me in regards to finding my way in this life. Recently I have experienced a lot of life changes and the universe has thrown many life altering curve balls. I believe this change and shifting can be attributed to the time we live in, the awakening that is engulfing our world and our lives simultaneously. I believe this dream to be an example of this change, and its message is clear as day to me. It is only through waking up, that we are truly able to experience such a shift, and this shift often is generated from circumstances that we cannot help. In other words, the gravity of the experiences of change I have experienced were solidified by this dream.
ReplyDeleteThe dream occurred in the afternoon after school. I came home to take a nap and fell into a deep sleep. In the past I heard that in order to control your dreams you must find some tie to reality so often before bed I have looked at my hands and memorized their every detail. Therefore, when I am dreaming I am able to recognize if I am in a dream or not. In the past I have done this when I dream, I have looked upon my hands and have been able to recognize I am dreaming due to the appearance of my hands which is always fuzzy and non life like. This is how I know I am dreaming and this fact is crucial to the significance of the dream I am about to tell you.
So in the dream, it is winter and I am somewhere up north, surrounded by mountains encased in frosty snow. The day is ending and the sun is settling, casting shadows of pink, yellow and blue upon the landscape. I exit the forest and find my way upon a frozen lake. I walk down a pathway to the lake and I understand at this moment that I am exiting some realm and entering another. I know this to be a fact. The lake is large and frozen with mountains all around and children are playing. I remember that I can skate, even though I have not for quite sometime. I look at my feet, and realize that I am wearing flip-flops. A voice comes to me, familiar and true and tells me to dig my feet into the snow and ice and I will remember. So I begin to skate and find that my feet are able to move and cut through the ice. The feeling is that of when I was a child and would skate and I let it grow inside of me and I tread onward onto the lake.
I suddenly come to, and realize I was in a strong trance. I find myself alone, far from the laughter of the people on the lake, and see that they are leaving as the sun is going down. The air is in muffled silence and I can only hear my feet as they crunch along the ice and the snow falls thick in the silence. I look at my hands and see the snowflakes falling between my fingers. I acknowledge these are my hands. I realize that I am not alone however, and see my grandfather beside me. I know he has always been there. He is carrying his tools, his life in a metaphoric bag and although I cannot see the bag, I can feel the burden he carries with him as we walk to where he must inevitably go. We are both on some journey, but I realize now that this is his journey and he has come to show me something. It was him who told me to skate. I am a guest in this land.
Part two:We walk along the ice in silence towards the end of the lake. He is peaceful, yet determined to get where he is going. I become nervous and look at him. “Grandfather, where are we going?” I ask. He does not answer. We continue to walk. After sometime, I look back and the distance from where I have come is so very far away. I have become rather worried. “How will I find my way back?” I ask. He looks to me, “Your foot and hand guidance will take you back. Follow your feet, they know where to go; Look at your hands, they will bring you back to reality,” he tells me. I look at my hands, I know then I am not in the dream world. My hands are as clear as day, all mine.
ReplyDeleteWe continue to walk and I know now that we are ending our journey. We walk to a cabin at the end of the lake and I know he has to go inside, that he is leaving me alone on the ice. He tells me as we near the cabin, “What happens to those with intellectual minds like you are your brother who fail to use their foot and hand guidance?” I respond immediately, unable to even think of what I am about to say, “We die. We die.” I know this is the truth.
We are at the cabin now and Grandfather walks up the steps with precision and gravity. We both know they are the last steps. We stand now, him to my right, the steps to my left, upon a balcony and watch the last of the day’s light shimmer across the ice. “How will I find my way back?” I ask him. “What happens to those who don’t use their foot and hand guidance Nauv?”, he asks me turning to his right, leaving me. I look to see his back while I say the words, “We die.” However, before I am able to say “die”, and see where he is going to my right, a most powerful figure appears in the corner of my left eye and holds me with a force I have never felt before. The figure holds my eyes ransom and will not let me look where my Grandfather is going. I struggle to evade my eyes but the figure, a non human creature with the stance of a old man, vibrating like nothing I have ever seen, will not let me look away. The figure, vibrating with a frequency too powerful for the material world, cloaked in a beard of shimmering grey and white with glowing white eyes that stare into my soul, keeps me from looking into the door and my Grandfather. I wrestle to escape from this state and this figure as his power frightens me and I am able to pull myself away for a moment. I awake in my room eyes struggling to open, I am parlayed in my bed unable to move, but he drags me back into the dream and stares at me with the glowing eyes. He holds me here until I can feel my Grandfather has passed through and then he looks upon the lake, cast in shadows of looming night, with only the faint light of day resting on moments, he illuminates the path back and looks again to me. “Go Now,” he says trembling with all righteous, all knowing, all-powerful truth.
I wake up, gasping for breath. I run downstairs and write the dream down.
That night I lay frightened and uncertain of what the dream meant. Who that figure was. I knew he was not evil, but his power over me frightened me in ways I have never known possible.
Part three:Today, after much contemplation I have come to understand what this dream means. I believe I was in the land of purgatory, and my Grandfather was crossing over to the other realm. I know this because when I looked at my hands I knew I was not dreaming. The figure, I believe to be the guardian of the gates to the other realm and the significance of this I attribute to the instance of wanting to say “We die” to my Grandfather as he crossed over, and the inability to be able to say the word “die” at the figures moment of apparition. I understand now that I was not supposed to be there, that I was not allowed to cross over. That it was not my time. The energy from the vibrating figure frightened me because It was surprised of my being there and was protecting me. He sent me back home by illuminating the lake with his glowing eyes.
ReplyDeleteI know now, that no matter how hard it can be in life to find our way, these simple steps will light the dark, “Follow your foot and hand guidance Nauv”.
It is also important to note that my Grandfather is sick, and probably on his way out. I’m so fortunate to be able to have learned all that I have from him.
I believe this to be a near death experience.
Memories
ReplyDeleteA long time ago a family set out,
To plant a seed that soon would sprout,
As it grew strong and mighty over the years,
It witnessed pitfalls, happiness, tears,
It stood in the backyard solemnly sound,
Every year gaining thickness around,
As its temporary greens fell to the earth,
Children would jump, discovering their girth,
A treehouse, a swing, and stairs were built,
The friend held its strength, never to wilt,
Seasons and decades would go by so fast,
But the memories gained, weren’t left in the past,
Kids went to college and just parents stayed,
To bask in the beauty they created and made,
As they reunited later to finally see,
They remembered the one day they planted that tree.
I'd like to share a section of poem that I wrote this year. I wrote it with the idea of yin and yang in mind. Here's the section that focuses on the idea of the moon:
ReplyDeleteWhat are you to me?
You are my stars and my moon
No matter what time of day
I know you're always around even if I cannot see you
Like the stars, you give me something bright to look up to
And even if you do not see it
You brighten up my life
Without you in my life, like the tides
My chest would not be able to rise and fall
It would be difficult to live without you
And like the moon to the sun, you reflect what is best in me
Especially in the dark
This is a short story that a wrote a little while ago; the inspiration came from a close friend of mine.
ReplyDeleteFusili
Carrots, roasted and orange and lucid, stick to the pan I pull out of the oven. Creamy potatoes, sprigs of parsley, ordered rows of parsnips smelling of warmth and butter line the plates. Mountains of peas fill bowls like tiny pebbles, startling green, asking to be eaten. There is rich, red wine on the table, three glasses set out in anticipation of us. The other girls are laughing and throwing cutlery around carelessly. I wonder what it’s like to be able to speak without carefully considering each word.
Turning back to the stovetop, I stir the pasta, thick yellow spirals in boiling water. Should I taste it? Just to see if it’s ready?
I pause, hesitating with my spoon in mid-air. The fusilli bloats as it absorbs the water, taking up more and more space in the pot. I can’t do it, though. I can’t commit to pulling one piece out of the pot and into my mouth. I start stirring again, on the verge of tears. The steam hits my face, a welcome envelope of warmth and obscurity.
Each meal is this: a battle between food and my body, craving and hating it at the same time. Each vegetable has to be carefully examined, each grain of rice a cost-benefit analysis. Careful control. There is a sense of power that comes from foregoing another meal, but I am always tired. I am always hungry, craving nourishment and despising it at the same time.
The pasta is ready now. I move the pot away from the heat, draining the water into the sink. My friends are waiting at the table. Naomi and Julia, both so healthy and kind and normal. They worry about me. I love them and hate them for it. I’m paranoid about the eyes that watch my waist and wrists, even though they can’t help it.
Looking up as I carry the plates to the table, Naomi smiles at me.
“Food!” she exclaims, eagerly reaching out to help take the dishes from my arms.
Julia pours wine for each of us. There is such an abundance of food on the table, waiting to be consumed. I sit and stare at it. The other two begin eating with abandon, tasting everything and relishing in it. The wine bottle is too close to the edge, though. Turning to me, Naomi knocks it over with her arm, crying out in surprise as it smashes on the floor and spills all over my empty plate. Red liquid runs down my leg. I sit and stare at it. All I can do is sit and stare at it.
We are quiet, now.
I haven’t put any food on my plate, and they have both realized it.
“Sorry, Anna,” Naomi says, finally, her voice unsure but tender. “Bit of a spill. Do you want some potatoes or past? Carrots?”
I don’t say anything. Julia looks at Naomi now, her eyes troubled. I think about all the times I have refused to eat in front of them, seeing that same look reflected in their faces. I think about my body, angular and imperfect. My bones are just waiting to break.
I put some pasta onto my plate and smile at them both. I pick it up with my fork. I chew. I swallow.
“Tastes good,” I say.
I thought I'd share a film I wrote and directed a couple years ago. It's about a old-fashioned young man who pursues the girl of his dreams, only to find the path to love can be full of surprises. Looking back at the film now through the lens of this course, strangely enough, I can see there are prominent themes of masks and mirrors!
ReplyDeletehttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wtPYbQfWU2Y
hahaha this made me laugh out loud! Very nicely done :)
DeleteI wanted to share a very short piece of writing that I have tattooed on my back. I guess it's a poem although it doesn't follow any rhyme scheme, metres etc...
ReplyDeleteIt's a poem about my younger brother which I care deeply about.
Below is the poem and the link to the image.
We went on Trips for that was "all we had"...
A constant rival, but forever a teammate
At times we hate, but mostly we love
Fate chose us to be brothers, a genius plan
For I found the one person who I would love more than myself.
https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/0f/49/9b/0f499b6f02426e4b8ac3668b1f43cb72.jpg
This is incredible! I've wanted a tattoo for a while now but haven't found anything I'm really confident I want on me forever (and my relationship with my sister isn't the best, ha). I really admire the love you have for your brother, and this is nicely written.
DeleteI made this poem in our last class, thought i would share: respecting yourself
ReplyDeleteshe took me for a fool
i couldn’t stand her rule
I’m leaving, I’m gone
no need for hate, life moves on
i have my reasons
that man, he’s a fiend
you were what i wanted
now i feel haunted
you go where you want
ill let you run off with your thoughts
be who you are, don’t be fake
just let me go for goodness sake
I thought I would post some creative monologues I have created:
ReplyDeleteWell helllooooooo there! How you doing on this absolutely beautiful day ma'am?! Good? Good! My name is Garrett and I am here today to tell you that you have a very beautiful home, but there is something that's been clouding my head these past couple seconds waiting on your porch here. And if you don't mind me saying...I think you need a new one. I know you may be thinking, "who in the heck are you? and why are you trying to help me so much?". Well miss, the company I am representing - Wooden Nail Boys - is keen on helping wonderful people just like yourself Deloras. And we plan on doing with our patented three easy and crucial step program to getting you into a brand new house today. "Why do I need a new house when mine is beautiful?" you may be thinking, well I'll show ya. But first, do you mind if I take a little gander at this quaint home of yours?
Another creative piece I wrote during english...(I like to wonder off and write sometimes :)) Hey folks, I'm going to get right down to business here. Now Rose come here for a sec... (whispers to rose) Now I want you to go over to your lovely family there and tell them these two things. First tell them to sit down and relax, lastly assure them that everything is going to be okay. Can you do that for me Kristina? Okay good, good. So now Ada's family I need to really listen, because to do this right it will take a whole family effort. Are you ready?... I CAN'T HERE YOU... ARE YOU READY?... well then lets get started. To build a successful household there are three easy steps. First simplicity. Second safety and lastly having fun. If you aren't having fun, well then what is the point in even building the damn place ya know, am I right Martha?! Right here I have the blue print to your new beautiful and bodacious home! Now I told you that I can have this house built for you by today. (Looks at watch, well I'm sorry but that's just not gonna happen. But! That doesn't mean I'm not gonna try! So now Barbara can you come up here again for a second. Now I want you to--
ReplyDeleteSomething came over me today and I sat down and wrote up a story about faith, destiny and unrequited love. It is a story about the masks we put up each day that are not for ourselves, but rather for those who wants to perceive us a certain way. It is told through the lens of three protagonists, with the intention of drawing parallels of tiny details that thread the story into one. I want to share the message that sometimes in order to change something about your life, it is about the spontaneous choices we make and unplanned decisions that overcome our ability to reason. For the better or for the worse, it doubtlessly changes our course of path. Whether we are able to embrace these changes in the moment or take a little longer to accept, the doors have opened, and we simply have to make the most of what we currently hold. Please enjoy.
ReplyDeletePART 1: The Calm After The Storm
There is never a better time to say goodbye. I don’t think there ever will be and I choose to believe that a thing like ‘fate’ is determined through the tenacity of our hard work. At age 25 I decided to take my chances and make my first career leap from my little prairie town to the big Toronto dream.
“Lucas, you realize what you’re leaving behind, right?” My childhood best friend Lia would repeatedly ask me this question, and my answer to her would always hold firm.
“You know what I want Lia … It’s not here.”
I was a broken kid since the age of fourteen, having witnessed the grueling and painful deterioration of my mother’s health during her fight of three years with lung cancer. Doctors had confirmed that her cancer cells detached from the cysts in her lung and dispersed through the bloodstream, into her brain, and eventually grew into 4 tumors that entirely disabled her speech and mobility. In her last few months, everyday after class I would bolt through the school doors, take three buses across town to the hospital, grab her hand and eagerly tell her stories of what I learned that day. I would pretend her eyes were open and envision her chuckling at my sad attempts to ask Ms. Chesterfield for her number, proceed to divulge confessions like where I hid Lia’s lunch for the day, and which girl in my 9th grade class I was currently fancying. In a coma and plugged up to life aid assistance, I knew she could never say my name again. But I didn’t care. All I wanted her to feel were the very heartbeats that remain ferociously drumming through my sweat-drenched shirt and tell her that there was still one person in the world who faithfully believed in her recovery.
I was young and I was scared. I craved stability and I desperately needed love. My mother left my side the week before my high school graduation ceremony.
“Honey! Can you give me a hand with the baby? Nathan is leaking everywhere in the crib again.” My sleep-deprived set of eyelids pulled open, suddenly becoming very aware of my oddly cheerful bedroom. Not too long ago, my wife Christine had convinced me that the “Come Sail Away” soft blue-y green shade would go wonderfully as our new paint colour to match the khaki slipcovers, silver-leafed ceiling and ivory linen curtains trimmed with lace. It helps keep my worries at bay, like an ethereal, sky-like quality where problems can’t exist and miracles are an everyday expectation, she would say.
“I’ll be right there in a sec,” I groggily grunted as I reluctantly trudged over to the nursery room. Christine, crouched over the baby, attempted to soothe the little monster with an off-tune lullaby as she nimbly wrapped the corners of the disposable ‘toilet’ and secured a new one around. I took a mental snapshot and watched on, admiring the beauty of such a perplexing task.
PART 2: One Step behind
ReplyDelete“Lucas, you realize what you’re leaving behind, right?” I was exasperated for a different answer than the one that would leave his lips any moment.
“You know what I want Lia … It’s not here.”
I bit my lips to contain the quivering wave of disappointment that was about to faintly slip out in the few words of but I’m here. I tugged the mosaic quilt blanket closer to my end and turned my head away, leaving Lucas unshielded against the gusty prairie breeze. I refused to give him the satisfaction to see my sweltering tears again, not after the last time when he first broke the news and I had to pretend that hay fever in December was a normal condition.
“HEY, you want me to catch a cold?”
I didn’t budge, and instead reached for a couple swigs from our shared bottle of Grey Goose. The glistening stars danced in front of my clouded vision, and I released a louder-than-intended exhale. There was always something so tranquilizing about putting your body in a position of vulnerability against the massive construction of the universe. Maybe it was the idea that you allowed yourself to be tempted and potentially destroyed by the many things that life had to offer, but we choose to survive against the odds and come out a more resilient character.
“Are you going to miss me?” If only that was impossible. Of course I’m going to miss you. Hell, I’ve already begun missing you since the day you told me six months ago! The only impossible thing in the moment was answering him in the most nonchalant and unsuspecting manner.
“I’m not sure, do you want me to?” Jokingly but barely audible, I almost choked on my own saliva. Just take me with you.
Midway from adjusting the blanket he became motionless, and then an agonizing moment of silence ensued. He placidly turned his face towards mine, and my peripheral vision could feel his intense focus penetrating through the right side of my head. I didn’t give myself away, did I? My heartbeat quickened pace, my face flushed hot.
“Lia … Of all people you know best why I need this. I want to get lost in a new bustling city full of unexpected experiences and small, everyday wonders. I want to be with people of innovative ideas and partake in the beauty of building those interpretations to life. I want to have myself believe that the free will I am given today is a gift from a Higher Power, and yet understand that occasionally the circumstances beyond my control have also already been predetermined by It. I want to find myself as well as forgive myself. I need to let things go and I must start living in the present to mend for the decade I’ve already let slip by. I want to start seeing the world in colour again, and this time on my own.”
I knew that right there and then, God was probably watching us like a hysterical comedy show. He managed to take the better half of my soul, the one person who lived for me and ultimately me for him, and had put an end to what nothing else could have ever ended us. By bringing us together through his painful pubescent years, He cruelly set into motion the same element that severed us apart.
I wanted to see if God had mistaken our fate for somebody else. In one swift motion I flipped on top of Lucas, cupped him by his supple, tan skin and gave him a kiss that had me momentarily forget who we were only supposed to be.
PART 3: FINDING HOME
ReplyDeleteMrs. Rose, my caretaker ever since being admitted into Little Flower Orphanage two years ago, was acting strangely odd today. She was whistling and humming, allowed me to play hide-and-seek with the other kids for an extra 10 minutes, and even gave me a chocolate chip cookie when I forgot to make my bed in the morning.
And then I remembered: my 8th birthday was coming up in two days!
“Mrs. Rooooose, do you have a surpriiiiise for me?” Twirling my chestnut ringlets I simultaneously slipped her a cheeky grin. I knew I needed to act sweet and coy because she either got me that princess school book I’ve been gushing about, or the automated helicopter with the remote control I’ve been dying to get my hands on after oogling from TV commercials.
The plump, old lady was a sweet character in her sixties. With her graying wisps of fine hair tied in a loose bun and wrinkles deepened along the outer corners of her eyes and lips, she was the only person working at the orphanage who managed to heal my two streams of tears and an unstoppable case of hiccups when I first arrived. The day has been engraved in my mind: the hospital had called my kindergarten class and Miss Johnson promptly picked up. A series of gasps followed by a sympathetic chain of “Oh Dear!” and “Poor little thing!” had me curious, but in the moment I was too intrigued with what was going on by the doorway. Two police officers, my school principal and a lady with a clipboard were pointing in my direction, and before I knew what was happening, I was ushered out of class and put into the police car beside the lady with the clipboard. What soon followed afterward simply became a whirlwind of disbelief, devastation, painful screeching, solemn expressions and tearful memories.
I was told my mother died from a thing called “lung cancer” and “drugs.”
“My little princess Skye, you will have a surprise visitor today! Now, I cannot tell you who exactly, but I think you will enjoy his company very much.”
Before I could ponder or ask what Mrs. Rose meant, the entrance doors split open with an abrupt bang. There stood a man, perhaps in his early thirties, huffing and puffing and breathless, eyes frantically scanning the room until he laid his sight on me. He raised his right hand to eye-level, in it a photograph.
“Skye!” He raced over and kneeled in front of me within seconds, grabbing my shoulders with searching eyes. He had strong features that were bizarrely familiar. His full eyebrows, soft brown eyes, tall but slightly crooked nose and a beauty mark planted on the top left side of his thin lips … This was the same man my mother had held pictures of when she cried alone in the washroom. Whether I could ever forgive this stranger or not for causing so much torment and suffering, enough to drive someone into the depths of darkness and suicide, I did not know. All I knew was that I wanted to learn more about my mother through his memory.
“Just take me with you.”
This is something that I wrote when I first came to UBC. As a transfer student, I was feeling overwhelmed by the huge transition. I didn’t know anyone that went to UBC and was too shy and quiet to initiate any conversations. I was also not sure of what path I wanted to take with my education, if any really. As a student that relies on loans to fund my education, it was frustrating seeing the number I owe getting higher while I still wasn’t sure of what I was doing. Luckily, shortly after things got better and I started to feel more like a UBC student. So at least there’s a bright side! The following are just some thoughts that passed through my mind during the beginning of my time here at UBC.
ReplyDeleteEveryone is so absorbed into technology.
Cities full of so many people,
bumping into each other every day,
yet they are all alone and depressed.
Knowledge is power and imagination is freedom.
Universities with high fees,
students with crippling debt.
The young minds of today cannot bear the heavy load of debt
along with the requirement of higher education.
It’s the never ending cycle of consumerism and corruption.
These young souls that just want to succeed,
their ambition stifled by dollar signs.
To imagine is to escape.
Everyone with their lives contained in small mobile devices
that light up and invoke passing happiness.
They have forgotten how to experience reality.
Now reality is too much to handle,
and overloads the senses.
Chantel Wright
This is an excerpt from a longer piece I recently wrote. I wasn't sure how long to make it, so it's kind of an awkward chunk. Well, here goes!
ReplyDeleteThis is How You Tell Her
It was like a trend. One sheep jumps off a cliff and suddenly everyone else is getting married too. When you were in college, you and your boys stood at the 50 yard line on the football field to see who could piss the furthest. When you came out victorious they threw you onto their shoulders and paid for your drinks. Now everyone sits in a circle with their clothes on to talk about karats, honeymoons, weddings, whatever. You twiddle your thumbs. You sip your beer. You try not to think of the way your girlfriend rolls her eyes in your direction when she says, “You know me, always the bridesmaid, never the bride.”
It takes nine beers for your boys to remember you’re still there. It takes a tenth for you to admit that you don’t think you’re ready for marriage yet.
“Nonsense,” your friends say. “Don’t be ridiculous!”
One of them adds, “You think your girlfriend feels good when the rest of the girls have rings on their hands?”
Your best friend clasps your shoulder, tells you sternly, “Buddy, you’re getting older. You’re 33, and you don’t have the time to waste another 10 years on some other girl. She’s the best you’re going to get.”
“Do it now!” Everyone else adds in. It’s a canon of support and coercion, peer pressure. Finally, something you understand.
You haul your sillystring limbs out the bar. Your friends follow you as far as the jewelers round the corner. You wave your bank card in the air and tell the store clerk to grab you something you can afford. He hands you something silver and glittering in a plush velvet box and you stumble home cradling it in your fist. You ring your doorbell and collapse on your front porch with the ring over your head.
Your girlfriend comes out to let you in. She sees the ring, smells the alcohol, but god is she happy. She kisses your sweaty head, hauls you to your feet.
“Yes, yes, finally! Good enough, I’ll take it!”
You hold the side of the doorframe swaying. Your tongue holds the remains of your last ten bottles, and you kiss her with it. This is how you tell her you love her.
You are married in a dove-gray suit on the tip of Mount Khea, the sun the colour of beets behind you. You have a flute of champagne in one hand, your new wife’s slender fingers in the other, and you tell the world you love her. When your wife titters among the bridesmaids, you lean on the guardrail that separates the mountaintop from the ocean, and for a second you feel like jumping.
Rings are exchanged, vows are made, the maid of honour and the best man sneak off. You are married. For cost efficiency, you and your wife honeymoon on the island you were married and it rains all week. Your wife says, at least the sun shone on our wedding day and drags you back into the hotel room by the zipper of your pants and you oblige, grinning.
In college you learned Spanish. Your father mounted every major you’d ever considered on a board, and handed you a single dart. He told you that this was the answer to your indecision and in the soft light of his pride you felt compelled to agree. You met her second year in some Pablo Neruda lit class, and she was charmed though unimpressed when you handed her a bunch of tulips and said “me gusta you.” She majored-minored in art and art history. She claimed that once she met Junot Diaz and he said that her eyes reminded him of the Atlantic at sundown. She took you to gallery openings, music shows, and experimental plays. You followed her in wearing your best tie and nodded solemnly as she talked composition, position, archetype with smoke-stained intellectuals that looked at her with admiration, and at you with jealousy. Her world was vibrant and new, and when she smiled at you, you felt thrilled to be somehow included.
PART 2:
ReplyDeleteAfter college she found her dream job and you found what you could. You work eight hour days standard, stacking and unstacking, recording the contents of boxes and piles at Walden Storage. You have broad shoulders and back pain. You spend all day standing up, counting hours until you can lie down again. She works as a graphic designer, and only has to lift herself out of her cushy office chair to greet you when you come home. You work hard so she doesn’t. This is how you tell her you love her.
When you come home one day, your wife sits you down at the kitchen table and slides you a plastic Popsicle stick.
“I wouldn’t touch if it I were you. I’ve peed on it.”
Two pink lines on a white background. “What does this mean?”
“It means we shouldn’t trust knockoff condoms.”
The blog won't let me post the entire story and I don't want to take up too much space on the comment section, so below is the link to a story that I wrote around the writing prompt: mistaken identity.
ReplyDeletehttp://opushorologium.tumblr.com/post/117150382133/and-so-i-wake
Feel free to click on my crying face/avatar to look at the remainder of my journal entries.
Hey guys, just a poeam I wrote a while back. I hope you all enjoy it!
ReplyDeleteHe sits on his throne
Made of metals, plastics, and oils
He tell the land of his ventures
Riches beyond compare
He shouts for anyone to hear
Knowing no one is listening
"Burrow yourself a hole"
He tells himself
In the things that will never leave you
Build an empire
Of things
For your possessions will never object
They are forever complacent
Burn out your eyes
For there is no place in a kings mind for the sight of burning skies
He need not see the suffering of other kingdoms
The ones made of flesh, but bound in chains
Your chains
To build your empire
Of metal
This is none of your concern
Your concern is your decibels
The metal which you rule
And which rules you