Blogged Creative Writing

Latest

There is so much

There is so much space in this house.

So much space that I find things to fill it. I collect and gather, rummage and keep, a billion more things than I need. This house is empty without them. This house will creak and scream out my dusty thoughts, the ones I have hidden away.

 

There is so much I wonder all the time.

So much that these wonders could become my worst enemy. I wonder and think and I daydream about where and who I should be. My mind doesn’t know what else to do. Shows and books and music and wandering- the timekeepers of my wondering.

 

There is so much I wish I could do.

So much I wish to accomplish- so much- but so much what? I find this stifling issue of what it is I am supposed to do. My interests are passionate, immediate, varied. My interests are too short-lived. My future goal is a haze above a wicked, wild sea- whatever it may be.

 

There is so much of nothing.

So much nothing I wonder where something has gone. I cram my belly with comfort at night so that something is there when I dream. I make lists of matterless matters on scraps of papers just to throw them away. There must be a way for something to come out of all this nothing that I have done.

Thing

A canvas of color all for her own

Eyes to rest upon every

Night she kept it on

Her nightstand for she always

Appreciated how he had

Betrothed this treasure to her

But then they were shattered

One and one and not two

Now she is left

Unsure what to do

With this treasure that

Buries her

Whenever

She

Glances

At the thing that dwells.

You are a diamond in a dirty sea

Stand up straight
And act like you are a fucking queen
All that you need to do
Is see it for yourself

Your dance with the grudge is over
Clean the dirt from under your nails
And spit out the grouch in your belly
Let that shit go

Just walk like a fucking queen
And laugh and wink in the mirror
Put on your best shoes
Paint flowers on the walls
And take a bow,

You queenie darling

The Story

It’s hard to tell a story when there are so many parts. When there are so many little details, that the plot gets all tangled up inside, and soon you end up with no story at all. It’s not fair, really. When there is this story inside of you and you can never seem to get it out. Every time you begin, the details stream out, and pile up, and bury you alive.

You’re left with this struggling thing inside of you. This pulling, twisting, livid creature that wants to leave and leaks out every way that it can, but can never seem to fully escape. It clogs your dreams up, raw chunks, broken. It occupies the time you wanted to spend daydreaming, like a dull pain in the back of your eye sockets that never seems to go away.

Write! Speak! Share the story, that’s the only way to get it out! And so little fragments tumble out of you. They tumble out of your fingertips and spill out your lips, and still you know that it is not enough. All of the pieces must be sown up and quilted together; these splintered bits do you no good.

But you never seem to find the right thread. Or maybe it’s the right needle. The pen is wrong, the typewriter broken, the pen is inkless, the lips chapped, the throat raspy. You are left, alone and wanting, to bear the scraps you call your own.

Roof Thoughts

Zora stood at the edge of a roof, staring into the city below her. It’s funny, watching people from this point of view, she thought. Everyone is so focused on themselves and their worries and stresses, in these small bubbles, and they have no idea what the picture above them looks like. This is what it must be like to be God.

Zora was an average girl in a middle class home with her whole life ahead of her, and because of that she was miserable. She had everything easy. What were they calling it nowadays? Privilege. White privilege, straight privilege, married parents-only child-has a job-higher education privilege. Its not like she wanted it or wasn’t grateful or aware of what she had or anything like that. She just sort of got lost in it. And maybe, it wasn’t everything people cracked it up to be. But she knew she couldn’t say anything like that.

So Zora maintained the life she was supposed to. Study hard, straight A’s, do your best, please your folks. Take your dose of vitamins and fiber pills and fish oil, stick drugs down your throat so that you are just right. Save your money and make a budget. Burn your hair everyday with a flat iron and put on makeup and always smile. Just be thankful.

And Zora was. I mean, really, she was.

Zora stuck her toes over the roof. That’d be funny, she thought, if I lost my balance. Another privileged girl killing herself because she was depressed but never talked to anyone about it, people would say. Candlelight vigil, classmates she hadn’t talked to in years, all her best friends mourning the appropriate amount of time before moving along with their also suburban lives. Maybe always considering jumping as a way out, too. Remember Zora? No one would know that she had just lost her balance though, its not like she had really killed herself. No one would remember that she was a klutz, and sometimes forgot to brush her teeth, and was sometimes terribly moody, and really wasn’t perfect at all. She was an angel, a perfect angel they would say. She is watching us from above.

It’s not true you know, Zora thought. I wouldn’t be an angel at all, that isn’t really even how angels work. I would be the same, except maybe I would be a soul that zipped away into freedom, finally, into no expectations. And my body would rot in the ground. Rot, rot, rot. With maggots and worms and beetles. Really, they should emphasize the dust-to-dust part more in grieving, she thought. That’s the most beautiful part.

Zora watched as two women, arms loaded with shopping bags, fluttered to each of the shop windows, exclaiming over the displays. She watched many men and women in business suits face straight ahead and walk quickly and tuck their elbows tight into their sides so they wouldn’t touch. She watched yet another advocate advocating yet another cause. She watched a mother yelling at her squeamish toddlers to stay in their double stroller. She watched a homeless man wave his cup at the passersby, any spare change, God bless, God bless.

Zora’s phone alarm chimed.

Lunch break over.

And she faded back into her world.

Deer in the Headlights

Olympus stood against the wall of the Zeigeist coffee shop, waiting for his ride in the soggy Seattle streets. He looked at his watch, and realized he was going to be late for the meeting. Not again! He would just have to run, then. Maybe it would even be faster. He scrambled through an alley and then up the steep hill leading to the meeting place. He wished he could run faster, but after that damn accident he had a permanent limp. Onward he pushed, striving to make this meeting. He checked his watch again, phew! Not even a minute had passed.

Olympus suddenly stopped where he stood. Across the street from him waited Drew. “No no no!! Not again!” Olympus cursed under his breath. “What the fuck do you want, boy? I told you to never come back here!” Drew simply smiled, revealing his missing teeth, and pointed to his backpack. “Get the hell away from me!” Olympus screeched. Olympus chucked the bottle in his hand towards Drew, which missed and landed on the pavement and smashed to bits. Drew continued his unblinking stare and unfaltering smile at Olympus while reaching to unzip the backpack pocket. Drew reached into his backpack and pulled out what looked like a ball of fur. He slowly turned the thing around to reveal it was a severed deer head, the face mashed in and the eyes open in terror. The stench was overpowering even from across the street, and Olympus staggered back against a wall. When he placed his hand on the wall, it came away moist and sticky. Olympus ignored it and raised his fists to Drew. “I said get the hell away from me! Don’t you fucking look at me! Take that out of here!” Drew placed the severed deer head upside down, revealing a blood and innards stew inside. He then moved the head to its side and began rolling it toward Olympus, humming while he did so. Drew smiled again at Olympus and Olympus backed again into the wall, this time feeling a sort of sticky slime against it. Olympus turned around and screamed. The wall was dripping with deer intestines and blood, lots of it. There were patches of matted fur scattered all over, hair and blood mixed in. Drew giggled, then ran next to the wall and sat down in the blood. He hummed delightedly, pressing his fingers into deer fur and stretching and twisting the intestines around and around. “Stop it, boy! Dammit, you stop right now!” Drew screamed with delight, shaking his curly golden hair and rubbing his hands all along the wall. Drew started running towards Olympus, tripping and then beginning to crawl towards him. Olympus screamed, pressed against the wall as Drew crawled closer, his curls hanging low and covered in thick red blood, his hands and arms and legs crimson-coated. Olympus dug his fingernails into his arms, scratching and scratching them. “Wake up, wake up, wake up, no more, no more, no more!!!” He moved to sit on the ground, slipping in the blood on his way down, and he curled into a ball. Drew was upon him now, slapping Olympus’ back like a drum. Drew screeched, “Play Daddy, play!” Drew drummed on and on and on, humming and bloody and laughing. Olympus could do nothing but shut his eyes. He shut them as tight as he could, and he focused on the feeling of his fingernails scratching his arms, and he muttered over and over again, “No more, no more, no more.”

When Olympus had waited for hours until he couldn’t feel drumming on his back or hear humming or laughing or moving about, he decided to open his eyes. Drew sat staring at him, sitting against the blood-streaked walls, holding the severed deer head in his arms. “Say goodnight to Momma, Daddy! She’s tired.” Drew kissed the head, staining his lips and cheeks with dark red like a clown’s lipstick. With that, he shoved the head back into his backpack and tottered back up the hill.

 

Halfway through college and dull as a brick

Moving away to a new city, I’ve had a lot of time to reflect on the fact that I am already halfway through college. HALF. WAY. That’s terrible! I was thinking about how people say that their college years are the best years of their lives, and I don’t think I have achieved that yet. See, I am too worried about living up to people’s expectations of me. I “want” to be a nice looking girl with proper hair, nice looking clothes, and have the very best grades that you could ever imagine (I got straight A’s this semester!) I want to choose very nice friends and do very nice things. At least that’s what I think people want out of me, so that’s what  I have been doing.

If you think I am exaggerating, let’s face the fact that I chose to go to a convent (like with nuns) over spring break this year.

Now, I’m not saying I haven’t enjoyed these things, because I have. I have learned a lot of interesting things about Catholicism  and I have learned a lot about teaching and math and technology. But I don’t really feel like I have fully experienced the youthfulness of my college years. Sure, there have been a lot of really great moments, but I haven’t been independent and free thinking. I haven’t pushed myself to the full extent of my mental capacity and I haven’t had boatloads of pure fun.

This year, I took a break from theater- I didn’t audition for any of the shows at college. I focused on getting good grades, which was silly honestly. I will always strive for good grades whether I mean to or not- it’s just something that I do. But, I ought to at least have fun while I am doing it!

I have my entire life to have proper hair with a proper job and a proper husband.

But right now, I am draining myself. And I cannot take it anymore.

I am going to do what I want while I am young. These are the days where I can take long road trips and camp for days at end and eat at diners late at night and just experience the world.

These are not days I am willing to waste any longer.

%d bloggers like this: