I was bored one night, and wrote this for our university literary magazine. I really should take the time to edit it, but the premise will remain the same. Perhaps with a bit less literary cheese. Ha!
The Waiting Room
The waiting room was very busy that day, busy enough that she thought she would be waiting next to these strangers forever. And though there were a dozen or more people waiting, they seemed nice enough. Molly stood just inside the door to the office where the office manager sat, legs propped up on the desk and his hands behind his head. Odd for an office manager, Molly thought. She’d never seen this man before, the man with long white hair and a pleasant, content expression. The name on the desk read simply, ‘Pete’. She smiled pleasantly and looked around the waiting room, clutching her purse.
Immediately to the right sat a small, old lady with white hair that looked as though it must have been set in curls just this morning. She smiled to herself, thinking fondly of her grandmother and the excitement she exuded just after she had gotten her hair set at the beauty parlor. Those tight, uncomfortable curls had never appealed to Molly, but, she thought, to each their own.
The waiting room had such a mix of people; young, old, white, black, Asian. Quite a different clientele from the usual mix of small town patients, but Molly didn’t know everyone in her neighborhood, so it didn’t strike her as overly odd as she took a seat next to the lady with the tight curls.
As she sat down in the comfortable, cozy chair, she turned to smile at the little lady, but the lady didn’t look up, instead focusing on the white yarn that, through the magic of ancient, talented fingers, spun into the beginnings of a sweater. In lieu of meeting Molly’s eyes, the lady smiled down at her knitting and said, “I wondered when you were coming.”
“Excuse me? I don’t think I know you. My name is Molly Ashley, and I’m waiting for the doctor.”
“Oh honey, of course you are. We’ve all been waiting here for a long time. It feels like I have been here for years, and in fact, I probably have,” she stopped and looked over at Molly, laying her aged and spotted hand on hers. “But what have you got if you don’t have patience?”
Molly smiled sympathetically at the little old lady with the tight white curls. Obviously she suffered from dementia, although sometimes it did seem like ages when waiting for an appointment. Molly was a little irritable today, having just been in a car accident that morning. She had been driving her usual route to work when a truck came from nowhere and she glanced up just in time for the collision and braced herself for the worst, but by some miracle, she was fine.
She thought her injuries must not have been that bad because she just got up and walked home, glancing sympathetically at the paramedics who were working diligently on a poor young woman who didn’t seem too well off. She was lying on cold, wet pavement, and the paramedics hovered over her, shielding her body from the rain as they worked, but her limbs were bent and twisted, and pools of dark blood had formed underneath her. Though Molly was deeply concerned for the poor girl, she just stepped out of her vehicle and slipped away in the melee.
Though she was very shaken and a little sore, she calmly walked down the street and to the waiting room of the doctor’s office, walking ten blocks in pouring rain, not feeling a thing.
I must have been in shock, but I feel much better now. I wonder how that girl is doing…she certainly didn’t look very good.
But just as her mind wandered to the girl, she strutted into the office. No one else in Chicago had that pair of shoes, she was sure. The girl was either fashion forward or completely crazy, but she looked gorgeous in a white pencil skirt and a stiff-collared white shirt. But those shoes…they were red sequined and glimmering in the fluorescent light, just like Dorothy’s from that old movie. How funny.
“Hi, I believe I saw you this morning just before the accident,” said the young woman with the crazy shoes. “You were in the little red car. And you look like you died quickly and painlessly.” She sighed and sat next to Molly. “I believe I’m jealous.”
Molly’s heart thudded and her hands began to tremble furiously. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I’m here to see the doctor. I wasn’t hurt.”
But the young woman and the old lady with the tight curls shared a compassionate smile before turning back to Molly.
“Honey, you’re in The Waiting Room. You died this morning immediately after that truck hit you. Don’t you wonder how you got away with not even a scratch?” the old lady said as she patted Molly’s clammy hands, but Molly didn’t feel the touch as she began to rock a little. The memory of her own death flooded her senses, but oddly enough, her broken heart healed itself quickly and she came back to her senses, turning to the young woman with the ruby shoes named Elizabeth.
“And how are you so calm? And why are you wearing those ridiculous red shoes?” she snapped. But instead of taking offense at her questioning, Elizabeth just smiled sweetly, as though conjuring up a fond memory.
“Well, you see I have-had a gift for seeing things that most people don’t see. It’s not that they can’t, it’s just that they are too afraid to look into things past their control. Anyway, I could always see beyond the living life, and I knew something that very few people could see. The Waiting Room.” Elizabeth looked perfectly content as she dug a mint from the bottom of her purse, plucked off the fuzz, and popped it into her mouth.
“Okay, I’ll bite. What is The Waiting Room, and why am I here?”
“It’s simple. You’re waiting for someone. The question is, who?”
“Whom.”
“Okay, for whom are you waiting?”
“I’m not sure. I never knew this place existed. It’s The Waiting Room, you say? Who all gets to wait?”
Elizabeth reclined in her chair, as though settling in for a long stay and said, “Well, from what I can see, there are those who, when they die, they pass right through the gates of Heaven to immediately begin their afterlife, confident that they will be able to find their loved ones when they come to join them.”
The old lady with the curly hair added, “And then there are those like us. Those who choose to stay outside of the gates, denying ourselves that undeniable, indescribable joy that comes in the hereafter.” Her eyes welled with tears, and she put her half-knitted sweater down.
“I was ready to go, but John wouldn’t let me leave him so easily. So I made him a promise that I would wait for him just outside the gates of Heaven until he came to meet me.” The tears spilled over, her voice full of ache and longing.
“I’ve been here waiting for my John for ten years now, and he’s meeting me here today. I got my hair done for the occasion, can you tell?” she asked, glancing at the two young ladies, anxiously awaiting their approval.
“It looks beautiful. You look beautiful, but why have you waited outside? Don’t you think he would find you when he got here?”
“Oh honey, I know he would come and find me. It’s the promise I made him, and after fifty years of marriage, I just can’t image Heaven without him. Oh, look! Here he comes!” she squealed, and as she stood, John shuffled through the office door. She jumped up with the vivacity of a teenager and ran toward him, jumping into his arms where they clung and spun, just as in love now as they had been on earth.
Molly felt a strange tug as she watched John and the curly-haired lady embrace and stare into each other’s eyes, professing their love for one another.
“Honey, I made you something while you were still there.” She held up the white knitted sweater, smiling proudly up at her husband. “I thought you might be chilly here, so I made it myself.”
“I love it Anna, and I missed you like crazy all these years. But we’ll never leave each other again,”-he stopped to wink broadly- “and that’s what I’ve been looking forward to ever since you left me.”
She smacked his hand in return, just as she had done all those years ago.
“Oh, you’ll never let me forget that, will you? At least you didn’t have to sit in a waiting room for a decade. My back is killing me.”
John and Anna, the little curly-haired lady smiled at Pete the doorman, and opened the door, where they were bathed in a blinding light. Elizabeth turned to Molly, wiped a tear from her cheek and sniffled.
“Well, all’s well that ends well, as the saying goes. Can you imagine waiting for that long?” she glanced sideways at Molly. “And whom are you waiting for?” she asked, smiling.
In response, Molly looked down at her skirt, plucking at the little fibers and dust that had gathered on it, feeling hot tears sting her eyes. She tried to blink them back, but they fell like rain anyway.
“I am waiting on the love of my life, though I’m not sure why.”
“Why is that? Doesn’t he love you back?”
“I don’t know. He’s been my best friend since we were twelve, and I’ve loved him since then. But he never loved me back. So why am I waiting for him?”
Elizabeth signed longingly. “Love does strange things to us. And if you’re waiting for him, I have a feeling that he loves you too. You’re a good, romantic soul, so I say wait.”
“Well, I’ll just have to see what happens. Now what about those shoes?” She eyed Elizabeth suspiciously. “Did you rob The Smithsonian or something?”
Elizabeth laughed deeply and fully. “Well, I always loved the Wizard of Oz, ever since I was a little kid. I even liked those creepy monkeys, and when my mom died, I told her she could find me because of my shoes. And today I just happened to wear my ruby shoes. Chalk one up for karma, and tell me more about your boyfriend.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” she snapped, then calmed, turning toward Elizabeth. Molly made an effort to try and explain herself very carefully, because this feeling just needed to come out as thoroughly as possible-otherwise this complete stranger might think she was nuts.
“Do you know what it’s like when you meet that person who just fits you like a glove? I met him when I was twelve, and I immediately knew that he was my destiny. Unfortunately, he never felt the same about me, and I lived my life waiting for him to show up.” Molly’s eyes blurred with the flow of tears, and she sniffed angrily.
“I wasted my life waiting for Jeff to change his mind and let us live our lives together, and there was no time. Oh God. Just not enough time.”
But before she let herself slide into depression over things that would never be, her blood rose and gave way to her notoriously hot temper.
“There’s no rule that says once we come into this room, that we can’t leave whenever we want, right?”
“Why would you want to do something like that? How will you ever be sure?
“Because I lived my whole miserable life waiting and wondering, and I’ll be damned if I’ll spend my afterlife waiting on his sorry butt. I’m leaving!” Molly shot up out of her chair and marched toward the door. She marched past Peter, who merely glanced meaningfully down at his watch and smiled at her, because just as her hand reached the door, it flung open and a tall, dark haired man wearing a black sweater, jeans and muddy boots rushed through it, colliding with Molly, and instead of apologizing to her, he pulled Molly into him and kissed her long, deeply and softly until Molly finally understood what was happening.
Jeff finally released her from his grasp, and said, “Oh thank God! I knew you would wait for me! Damn it, you left me before I could tell you-”
“You left me, damn it, before I could ask you to be my wife.”
Molly grinned broadly, and said, “But I waited for you.”
Friday, July 31, 2009
Gothic Short Story
This was a midterm project for a Comparative Literature class. I chose to write a gothic story, becuase we had had a semester filled with Hawthorne, Poe, Blake, Shelley, etc. Call me inspired.
Jessica Ruckman
Midterm Project
11/21/2006
*My holiday began innocently enough. I had been fortunately boarded at the Delacroix School for Ladies in the wilderness near Boston, Massachusetts. My parents, Lord Albert and Lady Adeline Grey brought the family to this country in search of a new beginning, and to escape the monstrous tyranny of the ruling government. They sought democracy and freedom, so we began a new life here in America. I was a mere child of seven when we made the crossing from England to America, but I remember distinctly the long and arduous journey across a frigid, choppy and grey sea with naught but storm clouds to keep our group company. Many men, women and children spent the journey in the throes of seasickness, and many more of our group died aboard the ship only to meet their burials in an icy, storm tossed grave.
*Father Riley, one such unfortunate soul passed into the afterlife before my very eyes. As he drew in and released his last shuddery breath, I stood over him, mesmerized, frozen and otherwise unable to move. His icy hand was clamped down on mine as his eyes, filled with terror and eerie relief, relaxed into the regular position of a corpse. His chest stilled, the muscles fell into a mask of death. I know not what compelled me to stay with the body but stay I did until finally the next watch came and discovered his death. I stood by silently, the iced and salty wind whipping my disheveled hair about my face, as Father Riley’s last rights were given and his body was slid off of a plank to fall unceremoniously into the water. I peered over the ship’s rail after the Father’s corpse and watched as those wide open eyes stared blankly up at me and as his body slipped silently beneath the waves. As the corpse disappeared into its watery grave, I felt distinctly as though a large piece of my soul too had sunk with it. I felt myself a corpse and from then on, without my own soul.
*I digress, but I reflect on that treacherous crossing often during my daydreams. I do not dream at night anymore. Those dreams blur too intoxicatingly with reality and prove to be much too terrifying for the average soul. When we landed on this continent, I attempted to tuck away the circumstances of our crossing neatly into my memory-locked away and removed from my consciousness.
*I was raised in the bourgeois comfort of my parents’ home in central Boston surrounded by maids and servants and tutors, the best that money could buy. By a stroke of luck or breeding I was accepted into Delacroix School where I delved hungrily into the arts and literature. I became engrossed and extremely passionate about knowing, understanding and feeling, immersing myself, as it were, in the romance that these things offered me. Powerful and terrible works of art and penmanship flooded my senses and the more I studied, the more I hungered.
*I spent almost all of my time in the library, so it stands to reason that in that library, large and archaic, rough hewn and endless, is where I met Angela. As privileged as I, with a pale, drawn face and sunken eyes, mousy brown hair and a tall, lank figure, she stood in direct opposition to myself. Perhaps the contrary description was the initial attraction to my new bosom friend but as we learned more of each other through mutual interests in the romantic arts and through intense conversations lasting well into the night or until the headmistress begged us to exit the library and retire to our own quarters, I grew to love her as my dearest friend. Angela’s pallid face soon was the only visage I looked forward to seeing when I awoke, and it was the last thing that I wanted in my mind as I laid down to sleep at night. Her friendship became everything, her smile, my world.
*My suitemate Rebecca became increasingly suspicious and skeptical of my friend, having never met the girl herself. Through my narrations of our conversations it is my understanding that Rebecca merely became entangled in jealous feelings for my newly cultivated friendship because previous to meeting Angela, Rebecca was my closest friend and perhaps she’d lost some territory at the boarding school. In retrospect I can understand her misery-a suitemate should be a bosom friend and I must admit that I became preoccupied to an extreme degree. Thus was my passion for Angela’s friendship.
*My admiration for her also permeated the academic arena of my life. Although our conversations were academic to an extreme degree, the marks that I had consistently held began to slip from exemplary to questionable. Constantly exhausted, I spent my sparse free time sleeping deeply, almost to the degree where Rebecca thought me dead. Dreams metamorphosed from pleasant and peaceful, much like the smooth mirrored glass of a placid lake to black, white and grey storm-tossed nightmares. My sleep was to such a depth that, in my dreams, no matter how I struggled to wake, the horrid monsters, zombie like and blood-stained fangs chased me ‘round rain-slicked streets, until I awoke, heaving and screaming, calling for Angela to comfort me.
*She always came, and held me until the horrors passed and looking back, it was almost as though Angela had a peculiar hold over me, and I was nothing but a helpless fly trapped in a web of madness. But it makes no difference now. It is all over now. As for the memory of better days then…
*For almost six months, Angela and I remained bosom friends in what seemed like a symbiotic relationship, each growing stronger in the light of the other. We spoke often throughout the days and stayed up many evenings relating with one another the trials and even minute matters of our lives. Soon it became the holiday season, and as November was ushered in by an explosion of leaves into a myriad of magnificent colors, it became time to arrange a holiday home in order to be with my dear family for the holiday months.
*My mind exhausted itself with thoughts of excitement with the impending season of glowing candles, family and warmth, my heart also ached with the thought of leaving school and Angela for a month or more. As the time drew to within a fortnight of my departure, I was sitting in the cavernous study, cuddled with my feet tucked beneath me, the warmth and glow of the fireplace to warm me as I devoured Shelley’s Frankenstein. It was nearing midnight, as I recall, when the heavy oaken door to the study creaked ominously open. Into the dimly lit room stepped the diminutive and yet imposing figure of the headmistress, but her stern expression of discipline with typically clouded her features was replaced by one of apprehension and sorrows. My heart fell immediately as I scrambled out of the leather armchair and to my feet: I was the only soul in the study, so instinctively I knew the news was for me.
*The headmistress stepped into the dimly lit room, carefully closing the heavy door behind her. She looked about the room quite nervously, as though hoping someone else had miraculously come to deliver the news, sparing her from the task. I merely stood silently on wobbly knees and I clutched the back of the warm leather chair with one hand and with the other I clutched the book to my heaving chest. At the very second that I felt certain my knees would buckle beneath me, the headmistress spoke.
*“Miss Grey, I am afraid that I have some difficult news for you. It seems that your family, well, has contracted the fever. They will all be quarantined until further notice.” She halted, and in an uncharacteristic gesture, seemed to be gathering her wits. She moved closer to me, gesturing for me to sit as she entreated me further. “I took the liberty of writing to Miss Black’s father so that he may ask you to stay with them for the holidays. It is only the two of them, you know, as Mrs. Black died during Angela’s birth. O dear, look at me babbling on like a sack of monkeys.” She patted my knee. “Chin up Isabel. All will be well.” And with that miserly assurance, she stood straight as a ramrod and marched quietly from the room, leaving me alone in the dark, empty room.
*The darkness and damp of the empty room matched my somber and desperate mood as I waited and worried for my family. Luckily I had escaped with my health as almost everyone in my burrow became ill with the fever. And through this tragic turn of events, the invitation was extended for me to spend many weeks with my dearest friend at such a magical time of year.
*And still I was a bit apprehensive at the thought of a wonderful vacation while my family was suffering and, to a more extreme degree, perhaps dying. But what choice did I really have in the matter? The thought of going home was simply out of the question and I could not tolerate staying at the school for weeks by myself. The only viable option was in fact to go to Angela’s home and enjoy my stay with her and her chemist father, Dorian. I remembered that the headmistress had let slip that Angela was an only child and that her mother was dead, so when our carriage came upon a long driveway lined with dismally dormant, grey and ice coated trees that, in summer, would be positively magnificent, but now against a steel grey sky, the twisted and gnarled limbs jutted out at odd and unsightly angles that it struck an ominous fear into my heart that I could not explain. I felt an impending and desperate sense of gloom, to such a degree that I could scarcely catch my breath, but with Angela’s pale but reassuring countenance next to me, I felt sure that my mind was simply overwrought due to the stress that I had been under with regards to my family’s precarious situation.
*As we drew nearer to the property, my fear was put swiftly aside. The house itself was a singularly beautiful sight, even in the gloom and starkness of winter. It was a three story masterpiece, stark white against the ominous grey sky. Four large and broad pillars were evenly spaced on the front of the house and between the second and third pillars, a grand red door, at least three times the size of an average front door stood in cheerful greeting. On the massive front porch, an extensive arrangement of shrubberies and plants, obviously out of season, but beautiful all the same, sat in tasteful elegance. In my delighted state, I turned to Angela in full expectation of a similar expression because were this my home, I would try my absolute best to never have to leave! Such a wonderful home I had never seen!
*My own was of course beautiful, given my family’s status and rank within Boston, but we lived in the city, surrounded by other affluent families and their regal homes. Our residence did not have a large yard, nor were there so many trees or the proper space to raise them. And here, there was so much to explore, between the grounds and the immense house itself. In my excitement, I searched Angela’s face for some sign of happiness but found none.
*In place of ecstasy, apprehension reigned. “Angela, why do you have such a look in your eyes? I should think you would be happy to return to such a beautiful home. Whatever could be the matter?” I asked, waiting patiently for a reply, but she only turned to look out the carriage’s window. More than a few moments passed in uncomfortable silence before Angela finally spoke again.
*“You know, it has been so long since I have been home. I’m not quite sure what to expect after a year of being away. My father is a scientist. He works many hours, sometimes for days before he sleeps. He’s a very driven man, and because of his career choice I was never most important in his life. I spent my childhood in the presence of nannies and governesses and tutors. I saw my father at dinner, and every year that passed, he aged. Not just aged in years but in sanity as well. He’s not a crazy man, mind you. He does, however, become more and more engrossed in his work, some type of psychology, the maintenance of the mind-” She stopped, tore her pale green eyes from the window and bore them strangely into mine. “The mind is a dangerous arena, Isabel. My father is stepping heavily where only a light touch is necessary and I am afraid that your stay here will not be as pleasant as you might expect.” And with that, silence enshrouded us.
*Stepping out of carriage where our boots crunched into the snow, we were helped from the carriage by a gaunt and ashen-faced man in a dusty grey suit. His name was Frederick Riley and he had been the family’s butler for decades, but there was absolutely no indication of relationship between Angela and Mr. Riley. In fact, I may have only perceived that perhaps there was an air of resentment between the two, and the sensation left as quickly as it came, but a remnant of some strange feeling remained. Our group solemnly walked to the pretty red door, and it opened seemingly of its own volition just before we reached it. But behind the door stood a matronly older woman wearing a dress of faded vermillion, accented with a long white apron and cap. Silver hair bounded from underneath the cap even though I suspected that the lady had tried strenuously to tame it while two emerald green eyes twinkled merrily as she smiled broadly at us and welcomed in the trio. “For Heaven’s sake, do get in here before you turn into icicles where you stand. We have been waiting for you for hours, but naturally I assumed you had been delayed by the inclement weather. All of the papers have said that an ice and snow storm will be coming in this evening after sundown, so I was getting worried about you!”
The lively woman named Elizabeth ushered us into the parlor where Angela and I parted from Mr. Riley. We removed our overcoats and stepped further into the house and into a lushly decorated sitting area. I sat down next to Angela on a plush velvet sofa in deep scarlet velvet, and while we waited for tea, I pressed her further regarding her thoughts on her father and his career because I was in need of reassurance that these next few weeks would pass rather smoothly.
*“Angela, you are my bosom friend and I feel we can share anything with each other, and I was curious if you would expound on your father’s career, I think I would be comforted extremely. In fact, you gave me an awful sense of fear during the ride here. I’m hoping you could offer some relief.” I looked into her eyes and awaited a response. Angela looked more pale and ill than before as she glanced over at me. It seemed as though the house was making Angela ill, but she smiled broadly, and patted my hand as she said, “I am sorry for being overly dramatic while we rode in the carriage. I’m afraid that I was in an overly somber and dramatic mood due to the fact that I haven’t been here in such a long time. I had mixed feelings, and I chose to show you the absolute worst of them. I am sorry.” She bestowed upon me such a loving and enthusiastic smile that I could not help but to be reassured, and with my best friend by my side and weeks to explore this wondrous house and lush grounds, my heart absolutely floated within my chest.
*Angela and I spent the next little while touring the house and meeting the staff. She took the liberty of introducing me to the entire household which consisted of two maids, a butler, two chefs and a groundskeeper. Their names, I swore I would never be able to remember, but they all shared the same characteristic, except of course for Elizabeth, whom I had met previously. All of the household staff looked as though they had been dead for years but unable to give up the motions of life. All had grey, sallow skin and sunken eyes which contained vacant expressions. Their hair had a dull grey tint which hung limply down to their dusty and rumpled uniforms, which all of course were colored in a dull and sickly shade of grey. In short, the entire staff moved and lived as though they had continued on through a life that they had left long ago.
*Angela and I continued our tour and she herself showed me to my room, which conveniently stood just across the hall from her own. It was a very expansive and beautiful room that contained highly varnished wooden floors with Persian rugs and tasteful paintings, all in different shades of red. The large four poster bed stood in the center of the room, an island unto itself, hooded by a red velvet canopy, but as I peeled back the curtains, a lush pile of bright white bedding layered onto the bed seemed to invite me to jump in and wallow around in them. Such a luxurious bed I hadn’t even seen in my home, but manners prevented me from doing so.
*I had quite a bit of time before we were to be called to dinner, so I leisurely unpacked my toiletries as Mr. Riley had given my clothes a home while Angela and I were exploring the house. During the exploration, Angela had alerted me to the grand library in the house’s west wing so in lieu of jumping into the luxurious bed with the possibility of never lifting myself out, I decided that I should explore that luxurious library. I finished putting my things into their proper places, changed out of my riding clothes and into a dress befitting a guest. I knocked on Angela’s door, but she was not in her room, so assuming that she had gone to find her father since, after all, it had been almost half a year since the two had come face to face. Innocently I assumed that they were having a private family reunion, so I quietly let myself into the small, cozy library and wandered among the books and periodicals.
*This room, however incongruous to the staff, was spotless in its cleanliness and life. The books seemed to absolutely breathe with verve and hum with excitement. Such a library I had never seen! It was very small, to be sure, but with every book I opened, a new spell had been put on me. I found a particularly exciting book that I had previously begun to read, but for some reason or another, put it aside. It was the terrifying tale called The Portrait of Dorian Gray, and I was very excited to learn that I had remembered just where I left off within the novel, so I ventured back through the crowded shelves and sat myself down by the fireplace and pass a few hours in the company of a positively excellent book. I had decided that I would stay out of Angela and Dorian’s way in order for them to become reacquainted with one another, although it did seem odd to me that he did not greet us at the door as one would expect from their hosts, speaking nothing of Dorian being the father of my companion. Odd, indeed! Pushing that thought aside, however, I began to devour the sumptuous details of Oscar Wilde’s most fantastical and horrifying work. I do not know how much time had passed from the time I sat down and the time that I was assaulted with a kerchief filled with some type of hypnotic poison, but I do know this: how I got when I awoke from an ill-gotten state of unconsciousness, tied to a bed not unlike the sumptuous one in my guest chamber.
*The difference, however, was that I was chained like a dog onto the bed which lay in the center of a damp and windowless room somewhere within the belly of the house. I was fully clothed, mind you. Please put that thought from your mind. Everything about my confinement was proper if anyone can say that about their false imprisonment and be serious about it, but to be perfectly truthful, I was under an extreme fear that I was to be held here against my will and used for some sort of madman’s toy. I was not thinking coherently, however, having just been awakened and finding myself in such a predicament but no matter how I worked myself up, I felt nothing but anger tinged with slight morbid curiosity. I only struggled mildly, knowing that regardless of how I fought, I would merely suffer from exhaustion added to whatever distress may befall me.
*Angela, who had previously been missing from this disastrous scene, came through the door, carrying some concoction or another in a ceramic bowl. The steam rose menacingly from it as she smiled grimly down on me. In my helpless state, I asked, “Angela, bosom friend of mine, why is this happening to me?” She merely laughed softly, deeply to herself with almost a twinge of pleasure dancing around the corners of her lips as she dipped her naked hands into the bowl of steaming juices. Without a word, she wrung out several long, heavy cloths and laid them over my chest, my arms and legs. I screamed in wild agony. Angela burned me with some agent or another that seemed as though it would burn right through my flesh and begin to gnaw at the very bone at any second! I writhed in pain, trying desperately to loosen myself from the fetters of my captors. Angela, in her ghostly way, reached out a slim and surprisingly unmarred hand into the potion and, having pulled it out, brushed against my burning cheek. My chest heaved with agony and fear. “Angela, why are you doing this to me? What have I done to deserve such torture?” I cried, my voice reaching a hysterical pitch. She, however, must have been immune to my desperate pleas because as she burned my cheek with her own hand, she continued in her sad way to comfort me, repeating, “Poor girl, it will all be okay. Shh, now, it is all okay but you have to trust in me, Isabel. This is for your own good. I know it hurts, and oh! how your skin must burn, but I promise you, it will all be okay.”
* What nonsense! Exactly what was she playing at? Was this a trap, an elaborate scheme all along? I did not know, but just at the moment where I think I would have given it all up for lost, the heavy door to my prison chamber opened, and in walked a very tall, salt and pepper haired gentleman with a kind disposition and a gentle manner. My rescuer had come to save me from Angela’s demented torture! He walked straight to me without hesitation, and, sitting in the spot that Angela had just vacated whispered to her, “Honey, go rest please. You have done enough here, and I will take over for you.”
*“But Father, I don’t want to leave now, I-”
*“Angela, go and rest, please. We have a long time to go before everything is settled.” Without another word, Angela left the cell and disappeared from sight. I was alone with the madman.
*“You must be Dorian Black. Can you please tell me why I am here? I am sure my family will want to know where I am, so if you please, just-” and before I could finish, Dorian the Chemist took over the job where his daughter-his protégé-had left off. He rolled up his shirtsleeves and dipped his hands into the steaming liquid, began to coat my face and chest with it. I screamed again and again writhed in severe agony! My face, what possibly could be left of my face? Dorian Black continued to bathe my arms and face in this poison, obviously unaffected by my pleas of mercy and screams of pain, for he did not stop for what seemed like hours until I blacked out into oblivion. The last I remember is my torturer saying, “Isabel, be strong and fight. Be strong, fight, and the worst will become like nothing at all.”
*When I awoke again, I was alone in a dark and damp chamber, wrapped in blankets like a mummy and still chained to a bed. What on earth would have possessed the Blacks to kidnap and torture me? What could I possibly have done to warrant such horrors? A servant lit a small fire across the room, and I could not even bear to bring myself to look at him because he must have been a monster too, like them. As he stalked away, however, my focus became my body. I felt angry red lesions and blisters running the length of my torso, and by the state of the gauze in which I was bound so tightly, I could tell that I had been tortured most violently. The lesions that I could not see left their evidence as they seeped through the gauzy material; my torso was bleeding and seeping in small patches that ran up to my chest. I could see no closer nor farther than my chest and stomach, but just by feel did I understand that my body had been injured significantly.
*Days must have passed, because some of the patches were dry, and new ones cropped up in their places. How long would they keep me here, in this chamber? Until I succumbed to death, madness, or both? I knew that in order to save myself, I had to find a way out!
*I’ll not bore you with the details of how I managed to loosen the bonds that held me; of how for hours upon hours while my captors thought I slept, that I rubbed my wrists against the bonds until there was no longer any skin left that might hinder my escape. I won’t tell you how, though bloody and exhausted, I managed to slip out of the bonds undetected in order to hunt down a weapon-a dagger, in fact-and replace myself exactly how I had been before I had so cleverly found a way to escape.
*The gory details of how, when Angela and Dorian returned in their calm and clever ways, I reached out for Dorian and cut him neatly about the neck before he even knew what had happened would horrify you if I told you, as would how, after murdering her father, and her teacher, Angela begged for her own life after she had so carelessly toyed with mine! She begged just as I had, pleaded for her life as she crouched in a corner of the dark and damp room, but I ended it all the same. I murdered her in the same manner as I had murdered her father. They tortured me for days, and I murdered them. They thought they would get away with kidnap and desecration of my body, but indeed, I turned the tables on them! But before I could gather my wits completely, I again fell into a state of black oblivion.
*When I awoke, however, I was back at the Delacroix School, and in my own bed. The room was awash with sunlight, and it positively streamed into the windows of my chamber. I yawned broadly and stretched my dormant limbs, and as I did, the nightmare came flooding back into my memory. I laughed nervously to myself, as if to shake away remnants of a horrible memory. It had only been a nightmare. Angela and I had not even left the school and it must have simply been my mind’s way of dramatizing a chain of uneasy events.
*I made a move to throw the down covers from my bed, but something stopped my arm from reaching out properly.
*A chain!
*"And that, gentlemen, is when I knew that I had not been dreaming.” Every gruesome sequence that I thought had been a mere imaginative tool for my discomfort was the truth, and actual happening, and to my horror a part of my life forever.
*It was only when I snapped out of my terrific revelry that I looked about me. In my bedchamber sat two armed guards and my pastor, all with grim looks of dread creeping across their stony faces.
*“Why have I been chained here like an animal? I was the victim of some horrific experiment by Dorian Black and his daughter! I was lured there by some elaborate scheme and I beat them at their own sick game! Why am I in chains?” I fairly screamed as tears of angst streamed down my face.
*And that is when I learned the truth.
*The official furthest from me was a tall, lean man with merely a fringe of hair and stooping shoulders. His eyes were of the dreary color of gray that I remembered so well in the Black household that I shrank from him as he spoke.
*“Isabel Grey, you have had a horrific chain of events befall you. And if you will be patient, I will tell you everything that I know. We have pieced together what is likely to have happened, and if you will please listen, I think that we can get to the bottom of this. Your family came down with Scarlet Fever, and the Blacks invited you to stay with them for the holiday season, correct?”
*“Yes, of course.”
*“And at some point or another, you yourself came in contact with the disease. During the carriage ride from this school to the Black house, you were overcome by the fever, and in your delirium, the Blacks rushed you to their home where you passed out in the library. Mr. Black tried to revive you with a cool cloth to the face, and you woke momentarily, and then slipped back into oblivion.”
*“That cannot possibly be! I was drugged with some concoction or another!” I yelled in a panic. “They held me captive day and night and tortured me by dousing me with a liquid that made my skin blister! Look at me; I am the proof that what I am saying is true!” I felt weak and helpless because if what this man was saying was the truth, I had-NO! Impossible! Surely Angela was in the next room, perhaps recovering herself; or perhaps in prison.
*The man pressed on. “The Blacks took you to a lower level room where you might be cooler. You kept an extremely high fever for days which caused your skin to blister and lesions to open and bleed. You were tied to the bed because according to the staff, you were delusional, and becoming increasingly violent. You broke free and murdered your best friend and her father.” This man sat next to me now, and patted my shoulder. The other two people in the room, guards as it was, glanced away from me as my priest told me the remainder. “Although you were in a state of delusion, you are to be hanged for your actions. Immediately. ” He made the sign of the cross about my chest, and added, “May God have mercy upon your soul.”
*My family recovered fully from their own illnesses, but made no attempt to contact me in the days before my hanging. I was not bothered though, because of my preoccupation with Angela and her father. Dreams became nightmares, and in my mind, every night, they walked behind me, in front of me, in a slow and deathlike march, as though leading me to the hell that I would know for all eternity. My mind became the torturer, and I the victim.
*On the predetermined day of my death, I welcomed the rough and thick rope that slid about my neck in such a way that I knew my life had come to an end. I welcomed it, and as the floor beneath me dropped, a thousand demons reached up from the depths to take me home.
Jessica Ruckman
Midterm Project
11/21/2006
*My holiday began innocently enough. I had been fortunately boarded at the Delacroix School for Ladies in the wilderness near Boston, Massachusetts. My parents, Lord Albert and Lady Adeline Grey brought the family to this country in search of a new beginning, and to escape the monstrous tyranny of the ruling government. They sought democracy and freedom, so we began a new life here in America. I was a mere child of seven when we made the crossing from England to America, but I remember distinctly the long and arduous journey across a frigid, choppy and grey sea with naught but storm clouds to keep our group company. Many men, women and children spent the journey in the throes of seasickness, and many more of our group died aboard the ship only to meet their burials in an icy, storm tossed grave.
*Father Riley, one such unfortunate soul passed into the afterlife before my very eyes. As he drew in and released his last shuddery breath, I stood over him, mesmerized, frozen and otherwise unable to move. His icy hand was clamped down on mine as his eyes, filled with terror and eerie relief, relaxed into the regular position of a corpse. His chest stilled, the muscles fell into a mask of death. I know not what compelled me to stay with the body but stay I did until finally the next watch came and discovered his death. I stood by silently, the iced and salty wind whipping my disheveled hair about my face, as Father Riley’s last rights were given and his body was slid off of a plank to fall unceremoniously into the water. I peered over the ship’s rail after the Father’s corpse and watched as those wide open eyes stared blankly up at me and as his body slipped silently beneath the waves. As the corpse disappeared into its watery grave, I felt distinctly as though a large piece of my soul too had sunk with it. I felt myself a corpse and from then on, without my own soul.
*I digress, but I reflect on that treacherous crossing often during my daydreams. I do not dream at night anymore. Those dreams blur too intoxicatingly with reality and prove to be much too terrifying for the average soul. When we landed on this continent, I attempted to tuck away the circumstances of our crossing neatly into my memory-locked away and removed from my consciousness.
*I was raised in the bourgeois comfort of my parents’ home in central Boston surrounded by maids and servants and tutors, the best that money could buy. By a stroke of luck or breeding I was accepted into Delacroix School where I delved hungrily into the arts and literature. I became engrossed and extremely passionate about knowing, understanding and feeling, immersing myself, as it were, in the romance that these things offered me. Powerful and terrible works of art and penmanship flooded my senses and the more I studied, the more I hungered.
*I spent almost all of my time in the library, so it stands to reason that in that library, large and archaic, rough hewn and endless, is where I met Angela. As privileged as I, with a pale, drawn face and sunken eyes, mousy brown hair and a tall, lank figure, she stood in direct opposition to myself. Perhaps the contrary description was the initial attraction to my new bosom friend but as we learned more of each other through mutual interests in the romantic arts and through intense conversations lasting well into the night or until the headmistress begged us to exit the library and retire to our own quarters, I grew to love her as my dearest friend. Angela’s pallid face soon was the only visage I looked forward to seeing when I awoke, and it was the last thing that I wanted in my mind as I laid down to sleep at night. Her friendship became everything, her smile, my world.
*My suitemate Rebecca became increasingly suspicious and skeptical of my friend, having never met the girl herself. Through my narrations of our conversations it is my understanding that Rebecca merely became entangled in jealous feelings for my newly cultivated friendship because previous to meeting Angela, Rebecca was my closest friend and perhaps she’d lost some territory at the boarding school. In retrospect I can understand her misery-a suitemate should be a bosom friend and I must admit that I became preoccupied to an extreme degree. Thus was my passion for Angela’s friendship.
*My admiration for her also permeated the academic arena of my life. Although our conversations were academic to an extreme degree, the marks that I had consistently held began to slip from exemplary to questionable. Constantly exhausted, I spent my sparse free time sleeping deeply, almost to the degree where Rebecca thought me dead. Dreams metamorphosed from pleasant and peaceful, much like the smooth mirrored glass of a placid lake to black, white and grey storm-tossed nightmares. My sleep was to such a depth that, in my dreams, no matter how I struggled to wake, the horrid monsters, zombie like and blood-stained fangs chased me ‘round rain-slicked streets, until I awoke, heaving and screaming, calling for Angela to comfort me.
*She always came, and held me until the horrors passed and looking back, it was almost as though Angela had a peculiar hold over me, and I was nothing but a helpless fly trapped in a web of madness. But it makes no difference now. It is all over now. As for the memory of better days then…
*For almost six months, Angela and I remained bosom friends in what seemed like a symbiotic relationship, each growing stronger in the light of the other. We spoke often throughout the days and stayed up many evenings relating with one another the trials and even minute matters of our lives. Soon it became the holiday season, and as November was ushered in by an explosion of leaves into a myriad of magnificent colors, it became time to arrange a holiday home in order to be with my dear family for the holiday months.
*My mind exhausted itself with thoughts of excitement with the impending season of glowing candles, family and warmth, my heart also ached with the thought of leaving school and Angela for a month or more. As the time drew to within a fortnight of my departure, I was sitting in the cavernous study, cuddled with my feet tucked beneath me, the warmth and glow of the fireplace to warm me as I devoured Shelley’s Frankenstein. It was nearing midnight, as I recall, when the heavy oaken door to the study creaked ominously open. Into the dimly lit room stepped the diminutive and yet imposing figure of the headmistress, but her stern expression of discipline with typically clouded her features was replaced by one of apprehension and sorrows. My heart fell immediately as I scrambled out of the leather armchair and to my feet: I was the only soul in the study, so instinctively I knew the news was for me.
*The headmistress stepped into the dimly lit room, carefully closing the heavy door behind her. She looked about the room quite nervously, as though hoping someone else had miraculously come to deliver the news, sparing her from the task. I merely stood silently on wobbly knees and I clutched the back of the warm leather chair with one hand and with the other I clutched the book to my heaving chest. At the very second that I felt certain my knees would buckle beneath me, the headmistress spoke.
*“Miss Grey, I am afraid that I have some difficult news for you. It seems that your family, well, has contracted the fever. They will all be quarantined until further notice.” She halted, and in an uncharacteristic gesture, seemed to be gathering her wits. She moved closer to me, gesturing for me to sit as she entreated me further. “I took the liberty of writing to Miss Black’s father so that he may ask you to stay with them for the holidays. It is only the two of them, you know, as Mrs. Black died during Angela’s birth. O dear, look at me babbling on like a sack of monkeys.” She patted my knee. “Chin up Isabel. All will be well.” And with that miserly assurance, she stood straight as a ramrod and marched quietly from the room, leaving me alone in the dark, empty room.
*The darkness and damp of the empty room matched my somber and desperate mood as I waited and worried for my family. Luckily I had escaped with my health as almost everyone in my burrow became ill with the fever. And through this tragic turn of events, the invitation was extended for me to spend many weeks with my dearest friend at such a magical time of year.
*And still I was a bit apprehensive at the thought of a wonderful vacation while my family was suffering and, to a more extreme degree, perhaps dying. But what choice did I really have in the matter? The thought of going home was simply out of the question and I could not tolerate staying at the school for weeks by myself. The only viable option was in fact to go to Angela’s home and enjoy my stay with her and her chemist father, Dorian. I remembered that the headmistress had let slip that Angela was an only child and that her mother was dead, so when our carriage came upon a long driveway lined with dismally dormant, grey and ice coated trees that, in summer, would be positively magnificent, but now against a steel grey sky, the twisted and gnarled limbs jutted out at odd and unsightly angles that it struck an ominous fear into my heart that I could not explain. I felt an impending and desperate sense of gloom, to such a degree that I could scarcely catch my breath, but with Angela’s pale but reassuring countenance next to me, I felt sure that my mind was simply overwrought due to the stress that I had been under with regards to my family’s precarious situation.
*As we drew nearer to the property, my fear was put swiftly aside. The house itself was a singularly beautiful sight, even in the gloom and starkness of winter. It was a three story masterpiece, stark white against the ominous grey sky. Four large and broad pillars were evenly spaced on the front of the house and between the second and third pillars, a grand red door, at least three times the size of an average front door stood in cheerful greeting. On the massive front porch, an extensive arrangement of shrubberies and plants, obviously out of season, but beautiful all the same, sat in tasteful elegance. In my delighted state, I turned to Angela in full expectation of a similar expression because were this my home, I would try my absolute best to never have to leave! Such a wonderful home I had never seen!
*My own was of course beautiful, given my family’s status and rank within Boston, but we lived in the city, surrounded by other affluent families and their regal homes. Our residence did not have a large yard, nor were there so many trees or the proper space to raise them. And here, there was so much to explore, between the grounds and the immense house itself. In my excitement, I searched Angela’s face for some sign of happiness but found none.
*In place of ecstasy, apprehension reigned. “Angela, why do you have such a look in your eyes? I should think you would be happy to return to such a beautiful home. Whatever could be the matter?” I asked, waiting patiently for a reply, but she only turned to look out the carriage’s window. More than a few moments passed in uncomfortable silence before Angela finally spoke again.
*“You know, it has been so long since I have been home. I’m not quite sure what to expect after a year of being away. My father is a scientist. He works many hours, sometimes for days before he sleeps. He’s a very driven man, and because of his career choice I was never most important in his life. I spent my childhood in the presence of nannies and governesses and tutors. I saw my father at dinner, and every year that passed, he aged. Not just aged in years but in sanity as well. He’s not a crazy man, mind you. He does, however, become more and more engrossed in his work, some type of psychology, the maintenance of the mind-” She stopped, tore her pale green eyes from the window and bore them strangely into mine. “The mind is a dangerous arena, Isabel. My father is stepping heavily where only a light touch is necessary and I am afraid that your stay here will not be as pleasant as you might expect.” And with that, silence enshrouded us.
*Stepping out of carriage where our boots crunched into the snow, we were helped from the carriage by a gaunt and ashen-faced man in a dusty grey suit. His name was Frederick Riley and he had been the family’s butler for decades, but there was absolutely no indication of relationship between Angela and Mr. Riley. In fact, I may have only perceived that perhaps there was an air of resentment between the two, and the sensation left as quickly as it came, but a remnant of some strange feeling remained. Our group solemnly walked to the pretty red door, and it opened seemingly of its own volition just before we reached it. But behind the door stood a matronly older woman wearing a dress of faded vermillion, accented with a long white apron and cap. Silver hair bounded from underneath the cap even though I suspected that the lady had tried strenuously to tame it while two emerald green eyes twinkled merrily as she smiled broadly at us and welcomed in the trio. “For Heaven’s sake, do get in here before you turn into icicles where you stand. We have been waiting for you for hours, but naturally I assumed you had been delayed by the inclement weather. All of the papers have said that an ice and snow storm will be coming in this evening after sundown, so I was getting worried about you!”
The lively woman named Elizabeth ushered us into the parlor where Angela and I parted from Mr. Riley. We removed our overcoats and stepped further into the house and into a lushly decorated sitting area. I sat down next to Angela on a plush velvet sofa in deep scarlet velvet, and while we waited for tea, I pressed her further regarding her thoughts on her father and his career because I was in need of reassurance that these next few weeks would pass rather smoothly.
*“Angela, you are my bosom friend and I feel we can share anything with each other, and I was curious if you would expound on your father’s career, I think I would be comforted extremely. In fact, you gave me an awful sense of fear during the ride here. I’m hoping you could offer some relief.” I looked into her eyes and awaited a response. Angela looked more pale and ill than before as she glanced over at me. It seemed as though the house was making Angela ill, but she smiled broadly, and patted my hand as she said, “I am sorry for being overly dramatic while we rode in the carriage. I’m afraid that I was in an overly somber and dramatic mood due to the fact that I haven’t been here in such a long time. I had mixed feelings, and I chose to show you the absolute worst of them. I am sorry.” She bestowed upon me such a loving and enthusiastic smile that I could not help but to be reassured, and with my best friend by my side and weeks to explore this wondrous house and lush grounds, my heart absolutely floated within my chest.
*Angela and I spent the next little while touring the house and meeting the staff. She took the liberty of introducing me to the entire household which consisted of two maids, a butler, two chefs and a groundskeeper. Their names, I swore I would never be able to remember, but they all shared the same characteristic, except of course for Elizabeth, whom I had met previously. All of the household staff looked as though they had been dead for years but unable to give up the motions of life. All had grey, sallow skin and sunken eyes which contained vacant expressions. Their hair had a dull grey tint which hung limply down to their dusty and rumpled uniforms, which all of course were colored in a dull and sickly shade of grey. In short, the entire staff moved and lived as though they had continued on through a life that they had left long ago.
*Angela and I continued our tour and she herself showed me to my room, which conveniently stood just across the hall from her own. It was a very expansive and beautiful room that contained highly varnished wooden floors with Persian rugs and tasteful paintings, all in different shades of red. The large four poster bed stood in the center of the room, an island unto itself, hooded by a red velvet canopy, but as I peeled back the curtains, a lush pile of bright white bedding layered onto the bed seemed to invite me to jump in and wallow around in them. Such a luxurious bed I hadn’t even seen in my home, but manners prevented me from doing so.
*I had quite a bit of time before we were to be called to dinner, so I leisurely unpacked my toiletries as Mr. Riley had given my clothes a home while Angela and I were exploring the house. During the exploration, Angela had alerted me to the grand library in the house’s west wing so in lieu of jumping into the luxurious bed with the possibility of never lifting myself out, I decided that I should explore that luxurious library. I finished putting my things into their proper places, changed out of my riding clothes and into a dress befitting a guest. I knocked on Angela’s door, but she was not in her room, so assuming that she had gone to find her father since, after all, it had been almost half a year since the two had come face to face. Innocently I assumed that they were having a private family reunion, so I quietly let myself into the small, cozy library and wandered among the books and periodicals.
*This room, however incongruous to the staff, was spotless in its cleanliness and life. The books seemed to absolutely breathe with verve and hum with excitement. Such a library I had never seen! It was very small, to be sure, but with every book I opened, a new spell had been put on me. I found a particularly exciting book that I had previously begun to read, but for some reason or another, put it aside. It was the terrifying tale called The Portrait of Dorian Gray, and I was very excited to learn that I had remembered just where I left off within the novel, so I ventured back through the crowded shelves and sat myself down by the fireplace and pass a few hours in the company of a positively excellent book. I had decided that I would stay out of Angela and Dorian’s way in order for them to become reacquainted with one another, although it did seem odd to me that he did not greet us at the door as one would expect from their hosts, speaking nothing of Dorian being the father of my companion. Odd, indeed! Pushing that thought aside, however, I began to devour the sumptuous details of Oscar Wilde’s most fantastical and horrifying work. I do not know how much time had passed from the time I sat down and the time that I was assaulted with a kerchief filled with some type of hypnotic poison, but I do know this: how I got when I awoke from an ill-gotten state of unconsciousness, tied to a bed not unlike the sumptuous one in my guest chamber.
*The difference, however, was that I was chained like a dog onto the bed which lay in the center of a damp and windowless room somewhere within the belly of the house. I was fully clothed, mind you. Please put that thought from your mind. Everything about my confinement was proper if anyone can say that about their false imprisonment and be serious about it, but to be perfectly truthful, I was under an extreme fear that I was to be held here against my will and used for some sort of madman’s toy. I was not thinking coherently, however, having just been awakened and finding myself in such a predicament but no matter how I worked myself up, I felt nothing but anger tinged with slight morbid curiosity. I only struggled mildly, knowing that regardless of how I fought, I would merely suffer from exhaustion added to whatever distress may befall me.
*Angela, who had previously been missing from this disastrous scene, came through the door, carrying some concoction or another in a ceramic bowl. The steam rose menacingly from it as she smiled grimly down on me. In my helpless state, I asked, “Angela, bosom friend of mine, why is this happening to me?” She merely laughed softly, deeply to herself with almost a twinge of pleasure dancing around the corners of her lips as she dipped her naked hands into the bowl of steaming juices. Without a word, she wrung out several long, heavy cloths and laid them over my chest, my arms and legs. I screamed in wild agony. Angela burned me with some agent or another that seemed as though it would burn right through my flesh and begin to gnaw at the very bone at any second! I writhed in pain, trying desperately to loosen myself from the fetters of my captors. Angela, in her ghostly way, reached out a slim and surprisingly unmarred hand into the potion and, having pulled it out, brushed against my burning cheek. My chest heaved with agony and fear. “Angela, why are you doing this to me? What have I done to deserve such torture?” I cried, my voice reaching a hysterical pitch. She, however, must have been immune to my desperate pleas because as she burned my cheek with her own hand, she continued in her sad way to comfort me, repeating, “Poor girl, it will all be okay. Shh, now, it is all okay but you have to trust in me, Isabel. This is for your own good. I know it hurts, and oh! how your skin must burn, but I promise you, it will all be okay.”
* What nonsense! Exactly what was she playing at? Was this a trap, an elaborate scheme all along? I did not know, but just at the moment where I think I would have given it all up for lost, the heavy door to my prison chamber opened, and in walked a very tall, salt and pepper haired gentleman with a kind disposition and a gentle manner. My rescuer had come to save me from Angela’s demented torture! He walked straight to me without hesitation, and, sitting in the spot that Angela had just vacated whispered to her, “Honey, go rest please. You have done enough here, and I will take over for you.”
*“But Father, I don’t want to leave now, I-”
*“Angela, go and rest, please. We have a long time to go before everything is settled.” Without another word, Angela left the cell and disappeared from sight. I was alone with the madman.
*“You must be Dorian Black. Can you please tell me why I am here? I am sure my family will want to know where I am, so if you please, just-” and before I could finish, Dorian the Chemist took over the job where his daughter-his protégé-had left off. He rolled up his shirtsleeves and dipped his hands into the steaming liquid, began to coat my face and chest with it. I screamed again and again writhed in severe agony! My face, what possibly could be left of my face? Dorian Black continued to bathe my arms and face in this poison, obviously unaffected by my pleas of mercy and screams of pain, for he did not stop for what seemed like hours until I blacked out into oblivion. The last I remember is my torturer saying, “Isabel, be strong and fight. Be strong, fight, and the worst will become like nothing at all.”
*When I awoke again, I was alone in a dark and damp chamber, wrapped in blankets like a mummy and still chained to a bed. What on earth would have possessed the Blacks to kidnap and torture me? What could I possibly have done to warrant such horrors? A servant lit a small fire across the room, and I could not even bear to bring myself to look at him because he must have been a monster too, like them. As he stalked away, however, my focus became my body. I felt angry red lesions and blisters running the length of my torso, and by the state of the gauze in which I was bound so tightly, I could tell that I had been tortured most violently. The lesions that I could not see left their evidence as they seeped through the gauzy material; my torso was bleeding and seeping in small patches that ran up to my chest. I could see no closer nor farther than my chest and stomach, but just by feel did I understand that my body had been injured significantly.
*Days must have passed, because some of the patches were dry, and new ones cropped up in their places. How long would they keep me here, in this chamber? Until I succumbed to death, madness, or both? I knew that in order to save myself, I had to find a way out!
*I’ll not bore you with the details of how I managed to loosen the bonds that held me; of how for hours upon hours while my captors thought I slept, that I rubbed my wrists against the bonds until there was no longer any skin left that might hinder my escape. I won’t tell you how, though bloody and exhausted, I managed to slip out of the bonds undetected in order to hunt down a weapon-a dagger, in fact-and replace myself exactly how I had been before I had so cleverly found a way to escape.
*The gory details of how, when Angela and Dorian returned in their calm and clever ways, I reached out for Dorian and cut him neatly about the neck before he even knew what had happened would horrify you if I told you, as would how, after murdering her father, and her teacher, Angela begged for her own life after she had so carelessly toyed with mine! She begged just as I had, pleaded for her life as she crouched in a corner of the dark and damp room, but I ended it all the same. I murdered her in the same manner as I had murdered her father. They tortured me for days, and I murdered them. They thought they would get away with kidnap and desecration of my body, but indeed, I turned the tables on them! But before I could gather my wits completely, I again fell into a state of black oblivion.
*When I awoke, however, I was back at the Delacroix School, and in my own bed. The room was awash with sunlight, and it positively streamed into the windows of my chamber. I yawned broadly and stretched my dormant limbs, and as I did, the nightmare came flooding back into my memory. I laughed nervously to myself, as if to shake away remnants of a horrible memory. It had only been a nightmare. Angela and I had not even left the school and it must have simply been my mind’s way of dramatizing a chain of uneasy events.
*I made a move to throw the down covers from my bed, but something stopped my arm from reaching out properly.
*A chain!
*"And that, gentlemen, is when I knew that I had not been dreaming.” Every gruesome sequence that I thought had been a mere imaginative tool for my discomfort was the truth, and actual happening, and to my horror a part of my life forever.
*It was only when I snapped out of my terrific revelry that I looked about me. In my bedchamber sat two armed guards and my pastor, all with grim looks of dread creeping across their stony faces.
*“Why have I been chained here like an animal? I was the victim of some horrific experiment by Dorian Black and his daughter! I was lured there by some elaborate scheme and I beat them at their own sick game! Why am I in chains?” I fairly screamed as tears of angst streamed down my face.
*And that is when I learned the truth.
*The official furthest from me was a tall, lean man with merely a fringe of hair and stooping shoulders. His eyes were of the dreary color of gray that I remembered so well in the Black household that I shrank from him as he spoke.
*“Isabel Grey, you have had a horrific chain of events befall you. And if you will be patient, I will tell you everything that I know. We have pieced together what is likely to have happened, and if you will please listen, I think that we can get to the bottom of this. Your family came down with Scarlet Fever, and the Blacks invited you to stay with them for the holiday season, correct?”
*“Yes, of course.”
*“And at some point or another, you yourself came in contact with the disease. During the carriage ride from this school to the Black house, you were overcome by the fever, and in your delirium, the Blacks rushed you to their home where you passed out in the library. Mr. Black tried to revive you with a cool cloth to the face, and you woke momentarily, and then slipped back into oblivion.”
*“That cannot possibly be! I was drugged with some concoction or another!” I yelled in a panic. “They held me captive day and night and tortured me by dousing me with a liquid that made my skin blister! Look at me; I am the proof that what I am saying is true!” I felt weak and helpless because if what this man was saying was the truth, I had-NO! Impossible! Surely Angela was in the next room, perhaps recovering herself; or perhaps in prison.
*The man pressed on. “The Blacks took you to a lower level room where you might be cooler. You kept an extremely high fever for days which caused your skin to blister and lesions to open and bleed. You were tied to the bed because according to the staff, you were delusional, and becoming increasingly violent. You broke free and murdered your best friend and her father.” This man sat next to me now, and patted my shoulder. The other two people in the room, guards as it was, glanced away from me as my priest told me the remainder. “Although you were in a state of delusion, you are to be hanged for your actions. Immediately. ” He made the sign of the cross about my chest, and added, “May God have mercy upon your soul.”
*My family recovered fully from their own illnesses, but made no attempt to contact me in the days before my hanging. I was not bothered though, because of my preoccupation with Angela and her father. Dreams became nightmares, and in my mind, every night, they walked behind me, in front of me, in a slow and deathlike march, as though leading me to the hell that I would know for all eternity. My mind became the torturer, and I the victim.
*On the predetermined day of my death, I welcomed the rough and thick rope that slid about my neck in such a way that I knew my life had come to an end. I welcomed it, and as the floor beneath me dropped, a thousand demons reached up from the depths to take me home.
The Handshake
True story. Read, enjoy, and know that I have related a true scenario which makes the story even more classic.
The Handshake
Like every woman, I strive to have a little romance mixed in among the books, papers, and overall trauma of collegiate life. I am picky with romance, too, and tend to choose the wrong men.
Who doesn’t at some point or another?
But what hasn’t happened to me (that I know of, that is) is a secret crush. Nobody has ever admitted that they have had a thing for me but was too shy to say anything. Until way too late, of course.
So imagine my shock when Coffee Boy randomly asked me out on an impromptu date. There I was taking shelter in the regular gathering place, minding my own business and –BAM! I’m caught totally off guard, and next thing I know, I’m plopped onto a barstool talking to Coffee Boy, his apple-green eyes sparkling in the dim flicker of candle light. I never noticed those eyes before but they are electric tonight.
Our conversation sparks and catches fire; there’s nothing we don’t talk about, and we laugh a lot. We talk about everything from the hilarious to the nitty-gritty details of everyday life . . . you know, the things one never talks about on a first date. Ever.
And while the two of us sat perched on our stools and dangling beers in our hands, I realize this is that moment. This is that lean-in-for-your-first-electric-kiss moment, and as if the puppet master pulled both our strings simultaneously, we kissed.
You’re expecting me to say, “And it was electric!”
Nope. It was much more than that. Usually (and many can identify) a first kiss is more like a medical evaluation than an enjoyable experience that goes something like this:
Judge #1: A little spitty. Could have used a bit less drool. Oh my GOD! Get your tongue out of my throat. I finally found the next member of Kiss but I - can’t - BREATHE!
It wasn’t like that, either. It was peaceful and fluid and curious. It was calm, peaceful and definitely warranted a swoon-worthy sigh. I think I did gaze into those apple-green eyes and sigh. It couldn’t be helped, really.
So what went wrong?
Well! That’s a loaded question, isn’t it? Fast forward to one week later where Coffee Boy and I met up again, apparently expecting lightning to strike twice. Sitting among a group of 8-10 people, I felt isolated and spotlighted. Things were just weird, and no amount of draft beer would fix that. So after many attempted and failed starts at conversation, Coffee Boy walked me to my car.
STOP!
And ask yourself, ‘what would Jessie do?’ Personally, standing under the soft glow of moonlight with an attractive and interesting person, I would have either hugged them or placed a kiss on his cheek. But not Coffee Boy!
He stared down at his shoes, and then as though resolute in his decision, he reached out and shook my hand. And the message couldn’t have been clearer.
Umm, OUCH. It was as though he had reached into his pocked and dragged out a bucked of ice, dumped it on my head and proceeded to pat me on the back and say, “See ya around buddy”.
Luckily the strangeness of the night rubbed goodwill on me, because instead of going straight home to reevaluate my sex appeal with a bottle of Blanc, I decided instead to laugh. And laugh. And laugh some more.
Really, who shakes a girl’s hand?
The Handshake
Like every woman, I strive to have a little romance mixed in among the books, papers, and overall trauma of collegiate life. I am picky with romance, too, and tend to choose the wrong men.
Who doesn’t at some point or another?
But what hasn’t happened to me (that I know of, that is) is a secret crush. Nobody has ever admitted that they have had a thing for me but was too shy to say anything. Until way too late, of course.
So imagine my shock when Coffee Boy randomly asked me out on an impromptu date. There I was taking shelter in the regular gathering place, minding my own business and –BAM! I’m caught totally off guard, and next thing I know, I’m plopped onto a barstool talking to Coffee Boy, his apple-green eyes sparkling in the dim flicker of candle light. I never noticed those eyes before but they are electric tonight.
Our conversation sparks and catches fire; there’s nothing we don’t talk about, and we laugh a lot. We talk about everything from the hilarious to the nitty-gritty details of everyday life . . . you know, the things one never talks about on a first date. Ever.
And while the two of us sat perched on our stools and dangling beers in our hands, I realize this is that moment. This is that lean-in-for-your-first-electric-kiss moment, and as if the puppet master pulled both our strings simultaneously, we kissed.
You’re expecting me to say, “And it was electric!”
Nope. It was much more than that. Usually (and many can identify) a first kiss is more like a medical evaluation than an enjoyable experience that goes something like this:
Judge #1: A little spitty. Could have used a bit less drool. Oh my GOD! Get your tongue out of my throat. I finally found the next member of Kiss but I - can’t - BREATHE!
It wasn’t like that, either. It was peaceful and fluid and curious. It was calm, peaceful and definitely warranted a swoon-worthy sigh. I think I did gaze into those apple-green eyes and sigh. It couldn’t be helped, really.
So what went wrong?
Well! That’s a loaded question, isn’t it? Fast forward to one week later where Coffee Boy and I met up again, apparently expecting lightning to strike twice. Sitting among a group of 8-10 people, I felt isolated and spotlighted. Things were just weird, and no amount of draft beer would fix that. So after many attempted and failed starts at conversation, Coffee Boy walked me to my car.
STOP!
And ask yourself, ‘what would Jessie do?’ Personally, standing under the soft glow of moonlight with an attractive and interesting person, I would have either hugged them or placed a kiss on his cheek. But not Coffee Boy!
He stared down at his shoes, and then as though resolute in his decision, he reached out and shook my hand. And the message couldn’t have been clearer.
Umm, OUCH. It was as though he had reached into his pocked and dragged out a bucked of ice, dumped it on my head and proceeded to pat me on the back and say, “See ya around buddy”.
Luckily the strangeness of the night rubbed goodwill on me, because instead of going straight home to reevaluate my sex appeal with a bottle of Blanc, I decided instead to laugh. And laugh. And laugh some more.
Really, who shakes a girl’s hand?
The World Around Us?
We had to observe the spaces in which we write. I happen to love this piece.
Observations
I write in solitude; I write in isolation. At times, in the darkness of isolation, honesty flows like black honey. Oil, ink, memories. Thoughts can flow in a climate of isolation when I’m feeling dark, when I’m feeling about writing about past things, shapeless shadows that have shaped the becoming of who it is that I am right now sitting in the solitude of my living room. The television is on, some football game is buzzing – crowds booing and cheering, old windbags blathering over the din, but generally I ignore it all, tuning into what’s really important. Ideas are floating around inside me with such immediacy and urgency that it just won’t wait until tomorrow. That’s what is important right now. And what’s more important is writing in my peaceful place; my tree house, hidden behind trees and safe from other people. This is a haven, a place of Zen-like tranquility.
Wooden floors creak and Foster’s paws swish and scrape as he sashays his way to my cozy bedroom to take flight, landing gracefully on the fluff of a winter comforter. I don’t mind the black fur that sprinkles not only my bedroom comforter, but my entire life; it serves as a reminder of my love for him and that he has made an impossibly large paw print on my heart and difference in my life. But there are times, in the middle of these silent, peaceful days that I notice that he’s not as fast as he used to be; he is getting a little grey around his muzzle. Automatically, I revert back to when he was a puppy, jet black with only a lolling pink tongue to break the shadow. Now, at least I can see his face when I take his picture, I think to myself. Knowing he’s rapidly falling asleep, safe from the outside world, breathing deeply and peacefully in a cadence like slow summer rain gives me peace. Though snow is falling now, blanketing the earth and my tree house, the house breathes with me, holding its breath while I write. Perhaps the house is waiting to see what I’ll come up with next, or perhaps it is simply entertained by having a writer in its womb. So many people have lived here, come and gone, and I the writer am transient as well. I think of the house as a bemused parent, watching and cradling me inside itself in an attitude of entertainment.
In the white, mint-freshness of winter mornings, a white, fluffy, impossibly soft robe swishes around my ankles as I stumble into the ceramic-tile floored kitchen to start the coffee brewing. It’s my own blend, lovingly crafted for my own pleasure, and occasionally for that of my guests as well. Add two heaping tablespoons, ten cups of water (hot or cold), and the red Kitchen-Aid life-giver bubbles and steams its way to completion. There is a sign adorning my kitchen cupboard that reads Instant Writer, Just Add Coffee. Well, that sign doesn’t physically exist, but I imagine it to be there while I drum my fingers on the counter, chin in the other hand, eyes trained on the brown steaming liquid of the gods dripping into a clear glass decanter. What sadistic bastard invented this machine? Probably a decaf tea drinker. Just like a man probably invented tampons, I laugh to myself, still waiting. It’s dripping so slowly, like molasses in a winter storm, and I like fast forward. But in this place, in my tree house full of white space, light, peaceful textures and cozy spaces, fast-forward is only for coffee.
In this space, time stands still and the house breathes with me, supporting and cradling my creativity. Tall slender windows let in early morning sunlight, bathing wooden furniture in its rays and shimmering over Foster’s fur as he gulps down his breakfast. Forward ticks the rooster clock in the kitchen, dancing away the time. Finally I sit on the sofa and cover myself from toes to shoulders in a chocolate and vanilla blanket that I made myself. It was my first blanket attempt, and I think I did quite well. It is eight feet long and double-thick for maximum fleece comfort, and my hand reaches out to seize a red jumbo coffee cup and I burn the tip of my tongue with its contents. I drink anyway, and the cup giggles and splashes back at me until I set it down. It’s okay, I say to the steaming cup. You and I will tango again soon. Until that time, though, my fingers seem to fly across the keyboard without my conscious self really knowing about it. Ten digits have a direct line to my brain, and that’s quite all right by me. I step outside myself sometimes when I write, and the best things seem to come out when I am not present for the party. “I” have checked out, but my fingers and the house help with saying what I have to say.
A wood, wrought iron and stone coffee table holds the red coffee cup, a coven of candles, and a selection of twelve books held captive between two bronze owls. These owls are two incredibly wise sentinels, standing erect on their own sets of bronze books, balancing on their own secret knowledge. Sometimes I wonder what they are thinking, staring into opposite directions, bronze backs against paperbacks.
Do they communicate with each other? Perhaps through the books that they hold erect between their bodies? Isn’t that the way a lot of us communicate? Through books, and through knowledge passed down generation to generation, so ingrained in us that we don’t even know we are merely repeating ideas from our ancestors. That’s a comforting thought for the most part, but when I sit down by my computer, attempting to write in a fresh new way, it can be frustrating to know that my ancestors, like the two bronze owls, are guarding ancient knowledge, amused at my vain attempts.
The books themselves are a conglomeration of different interests, a synopsis of my interests. Books on grammar and style; books on stock market investing; a thesaurus; fiction for pleasure; fiction for class. The distinction between the last two is a fine and yet blurry line. Anathem by Neal Stephenson is a book I would never have picked up for pleasure reading, but When the Wind Blows by James Patterson is a pleasure read that sits collecting dust, patiently waiting for my free time. Reading Lolita in Tehran by Azar Nafisi is a delightful combination of duty and pleasure. Regardless of their relative importance, all of the titles glow and flicker in candlelight, set off by the trio of Yankee candles, all flickering, emitting scent and light. The sparkling flames serve another purpose, though. They hypnotize, keep me from thinking too much and taking myself out of writing what I feel. Do you remember, in the dark of a summer or autumn night, watching a campfire? The entire group of people sitting around it suddenly become silent - hypnotized by the rhythmically dancing flames and their pet sparks that shoot up and pop like fireworks, spraying against the night sky like refugees from the fire. These flaming candlewicks are the miniature fire, producing the same effect.
They clear the mind, organize my thoughts and prepare my mind for focusing on the writing task at hand. The hypnosis only serves to calm the windstorm inside my head, settling the miscellaneous dust and debris of peripheral ideas but leaving the ripe necessities suspended in mid-air where they’ll be plucked and explored in detail. Thoughts now ordered and ready to be explored, I settle back into the double-deep, soft green sofa. The color reminds me of spring softness – fresh and yet somehow muted, as if the volume of color hasn’t yet been turned up to full blast. The color simply whispers of peace and comfort, and the sofa is accented by equally muted pillows shaded of gold and green. Nature patterns on the pillows bring the outside inside, and gives an aura of being in nature, even though I am suspended on the second story my tree house.
The paintings on parchment colored walls differ, though. Far from being patterns and colors found in nature, these boldly colored dancers radiate drama. Bold reds, oranges, blues and purples swim on canvas as the men and women dance a sultry Samba or the vivid Tango. There is spice and heat between dancers, and I am just peeking in on the show: dark wooden frames seem more like windows or lenses of a camera, and I am invited to peek into their private dances, invited to watch the raw grace and sexual attraction between the couples. Though my house is silent and quiet, when I look at the paintings, I can feel the breeze ruffle my hair and hot summer air on my naked back. Music permeates that summer air, mixing with it and becoming one so that the beat becomes me; I become the beat. I breathe it in, and exhale music back into the air, fueling the dancers’ delight and passion. They are dancing freely, moving their bodies with abandon of constraint, and I connect with them because I write with abandon of constraint. Just as their bodies flow freely, so do the words from my brain to my fingertips. I understand the dancers; they understand me. It’s a beautiful symbiosis, and they spur me on to further exploration. Sometimes I wonder who the artist’s muse was, because it seems that the woman’s writhing body is the same in every painting. Was she the artist’s lover? What does she look like now? Youth slips away so quickly, I have begun to notice whenever I look into a mirror, but grace seems to last much longer. Is she someone’s grandmother now? I don’t know.
My mind wanders away from the task at hand. But the conscious mind can only explore so much, even when the unconscious is at the helm. The “rational”, conscious mind seems to act as a filter, siphoning out all of the thoughts and ideas that may be nonsensical or uncomfortable. Sometimes that filter sensors what I really mean when I am trying like hell to get to the heart of something, scraping away layers of superfluous detail in an attempt to get at the truth of the matter. It seems to me that these matters only clarify themselves in the middle of the night, when the business side of my brain is asleep, leaving the naughty child of unconscious to run rampant. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night by a thought that slaps me on the inside of my head.
In the darkness of my nighttime room, comfort and function avail themselves to me. Foster is asleep nudged up against my legs so that I can only roll to one side – this happens every night, so I wonder why I am perennially surprised that the right side of my body is stiff every morning. Sometimes I nudge his furry black butt over, but tonight I think I’ll just curl up around him and breathe in his scent.
There, on the right side sits my lamp atop a beautiful oak nightstand, and I slide my hand down the cool, slim cord to find the switch to turn it on, bathing my bedroom in a soft, orangey glow. Some nights the light seems romantic; on other nights, it seems garish and a little spooky, depending on what type of thought or dream has yanked me out of oblivion. Regardless, an idea has knocked me conscious. Next to the orangey, glowing lamp is an old, ugly mug filled to the point of bursting with pens and pencils. Though the mug is what I would think of as ‘ugly’, it holds a plethora of memories. It’s the mug I received upon my high school graduation, and on it there is a list of the names of all of my classmates. Some have moved away, been lost in the shuffle, and some have died too early. Because of these memories, and these people who have put a thumbprint on my life, I keep the mug as a vigil there at my bedside, sometimes gliding sleepy fingers over their names. When I do, memories flood back in waves of sadness or laughter, depending on the memory that pops up. That mug holds a prominent place, regardless of its looks. The white mug with ornate blue writing means something to me, and it holds the pens and pencils, the tools of my passion. It has earned its place close to me. It will be there until the end – whatever end that may be.
I prefer pencil, but in the middle of the night my hand closes around whatever writing utensil it finds. My hand is not picky when it is tired. Next to the pen of pencils (that’s a pun if you please), lies a stack of small notebooks, Post-It pads, and index cards among contact solution, eyeglasses, a water bottle, lip balm, another set of candles, and brown sugar & fig lotion – more comfort items that keep me from having to get out of bed during the night. Everything that sits there, waiting for me on this nightstand, is there for a purpose. The type of clutter and disarray in my room may seem somewhat disquieting to the untrained eye, but everything is in place for me. During the day the objects sit quietly, unobtrusively basking in the sunlight. But at night, when I lie in my bed, vainly attempting to quiet the noise in my head, they watch me, comforting me to sleep. At night, everything is perfectly placed for me to reach it, keeping me from the inconvenience of having to move, possibly scaring my thoughts back into their hiding places.
Even this bed has been tailored around my needs: three blankets cover the electric one so that when I slip between the covers, I am immediately cocooned in a mini oven. The top cover is dark green fleece – washable and dog proof. This is important stuff, because comfort is of the utmost importance to a sleeping writer.
Why? I find that the ideas that deem themselves important enough to wake the conscious mind are worth writing down, and they are like a precious gift to myself when I wake up in the morning, stretch, and look over to my nightstand only to see my own handwriting smiling back at me with the knowledge that they behold something magical, something from my unconscious, untamed mind. These ideas are free from restraint, written in a semi-conscious and unfiltered state. In fact, some of the best ideas I have had began with a note left to myself in the middle of the night, surrounded by darkness and written in a child-like scrawl.
It doesn’t matter, though, if the handwriting of my unconscious self looks childish. I wake up in the morning, put on my white, fluffy, impossibly soft robe that swishes around my ankles as I stumble into the ceramic-tile floored kitchen to start the coffee brewing. It seems as though the fairy dust that covered my eyes and invaded my thoughts, dousing them with magic as I slept, left some remnants in my eyes in the morning. It seems that the romance of dreams, and the thoughts that wake me from sleep leave their mark on me, clinging to the back of my impossibly soft robe first thing in the morning. If I close my eyes and breathe in the scent of the coffee while it bubbles and brews, I can imagine the sparkling fairy dust of my dreams inching its way to my brain, stirring up old thoughts that have been left over from the night. Sometimes they make it to their destination, tickling thoughts back to the forefront of my mind; other times, I sit at my kitchen table, swinging my feet, brushing my legs against my luxurious robe, frustrated that these brilliant thoughts have escaped, leaving me trying in vain to sweep up the scattered sparkly remnants.
So goes everything, I tell myself, waiting for the frustration to pass. It seems that the moment you stop hunting for something is just the moment when it decides to cross your path, circling back into your arms. So the less I worry about the brilliance of last night’s ideas, the sooner they’ll come back to me in one form or another. The transience of my world is sharp; it shimmers around me like I am walking through a dream. So what remains? What is permanent? I don’t have an answer, but the thought of that both frightens and excites me. I am afraid to lose these thoughts, afraid to lose the momentum of writing when I am holding onto an idea so tightly. But these are minor losses, and as I glance down at Foster, I wonder when a true loss might throw this transience into perspective. I shudder, and hope against the odds that I never lose him. But for now I brush that thought away, as his freshly-ruffled fur floats suspended in mid-air, and focus on the sparkling remnants of dreams, working vainly to flesh them out before they evaporate.
When the sparkles fade away, melting into the glowing morning air, I shrug, hoping that perhaps they’ll visit me again the next night. Until then, I start all over again in my place of solitude and comfort, knowing that my thoughts are kept safe, here in my tree house, with Foster sleeping by my side as I write.
Observations
I write in solitude; I write in isolation. At times, in the darkness of isolation, honesty flows like black honey. Oil, ink, memories. Thoughts can flow in a climate of isolation when I’m feeling dark, when I’m feeling about writing about past things, shapeless shadows that have shaped the becoming of who it is that I am right now sitting in the solitude of my living room. The television is on, some football game is buzzing – crowds booing and cheering, old windbags blathering over the din, but generally I ignore it all, tuning into what’s really important. Ideas are floating around inside me with such immediacy and urgency that it just won’t wait until tomorrow. That’s what is important right now. And what’s more important is writing in my peaceful place; my tree house, hidden behind trees and safe from other people. This is a haven, a place of Zen-like tranquility.
Wooden floors creak and Foster’s paws swish and scrape as he sashays his way to my cozy bedroom to take flight, landing gracefully on the fluff of a winter comforter. I don’t mind the black fur that sprinkles not only my bedroom comforter, but my entire life; it serves as a reminder of my love for him and that he has made an impossibly large paw print on my heart and difference in my life. But there are times, in the middle of these silent, peaceful days that I notice that he’s not as fast as he used to be; he is getting a little grey around his muzzle. Automatically, I revert back to when he was a puppy, jet black with only a lolling pink tongue to break the shadow. Now, at least I can see his face when I take his picture, I think to myself. Knowing he’s rapidly falling asleep, safe from the outside world, breathing deeply and peacefully in a cadence like slow summer rain gives me peace. Though snow is falling now, blanketing the earth and my tree house, the house breathes with me, holding its breath while I write. Perhaps the house is waiting to see what I’ll come up with next, or perhaps it is simply entertained by having a writer in its womb. So many people have lived here, come and gone, and I the writer am transient as well. I think of the house as a bemused parent, watching and cradling me inside itself in an attitude of entertainment.
In the white, mint-freshness of winter mornings, a white, fluffy, impossibly soft robe swishes around my ankles as I stumble into the ceramic-tile floored kitchen to start the coffee brewing. It’s my own blend, lovingly crafted for my own pleasure, and occasionally for that of my guests as well. Add two heaping tablespoons, ten cups of water (hot or cold), and the red Kitchen-Aid life-giver bubbles and steams its way to completion. There is a sign adorning my kitchen cupboard that reads Instant Writer, Just Add Coffee. Well, that sign doesn’t physically exist, but I imagine it to be there while I drum my fingers on the counter, chin in the other hand, eyes trained on the brown steaming liquid of the gods dripping into a clear glass decanter. What sadistic bastard invented this machine? Probably a decaf tea drinker. Just like a man probably invented tampons, I laugh to myself, still waiting. It’s dripping so slowly, like molasses in a winter storm, and I like fast forward. But in this place, in my tree house full of white space, light, peaceful textures and cozy spaces, fast-forward is only for coffee.
In this space, time stands still and the house breathes with me, supporting and cradling my creativity. Tall slender windows let in early morning sunlight, bathing wooden furniture in its rays and shimmering over Foster’s fur as he gulps down his breakfast. Forward ticks the rooster clock in the kitchen, dancing away the time. Finally I sit on the sofa and cover myself from toes to shoulders in a chocolate and vanilla blanket that I made myself. It was my first blanket attempt, and I think I did quite well. It is eight feet long and double-thick for maximum fleece comfort, and my hand reaches out to seize a red jumbo coffee cup and I burn the tip of my tongue with its contents. I drink anyway, and the cup giggles and splashes back at me until I set it down. It’s okay, I say to the steaming cup. You and I will tango again soon. Until that time, though, my fingers seem to fly across the keyboard without my conscious self really knowing about it. Ten digits have a direct line to my brain, and that’s quite all right by me. I step outside myself sometimes when I write, and the best things seem to come out when I am not present for the party. “I” have checked out, but my fingers and the house help with saying what I have to say.
A wood, wrought iron and stone coffee table holds the red coffee cup, a coven of candles, and a selection of twelve books held captive between two bronze owls. These owls are two incredibly wise sentinels, standing erect on their own sets of bronze books, balancing on their own secret knowledge. Sometimes I wonder what they are thinking, staring into opposite directions, bronze backs against paperbacks.
Do they communicate with each other? Perhaps through the books that they hold erect between their bodies? Isn’t that the way a lot of us communicate? Through books, and through knowledge passed down generation to generation, so ingrained in us that we don’t even know we are merely repeating ideas from our ancestors. That’s a comforting thought for the most part, but when I sit down by my computer, attempting to write in a fresh new way, it can be frustrating to know that my ancestors, like the two bronze owls, are guarding ancient knowledge, amused at my vain attempts.
The books themselves are a conglomeration of different interests, a synopsis of my interests. Books on grammar and style; books on stock market investing; a thesaurus; fiction for pleasure; fiction for class. The distinction between the last two is a fine and yet blurry line. Anathem by Neal Stephenson is a book I would never have picked up for pleasure reading, but When the Wind Blows by James Patterson is a pleasure read that sits collecting dust, patiently waiting for my free time. Reading Lolita in Tehran by Azar Nafisi is a delightful combination of duty and pleasure. Regardless of their relative importance, all of the titles glow and flicker in candlelight, set off by the trio of Yankee candles, all flickering, emitting scent and light. The sparkling flames serve another purpose, though. They hypnotize, keep me from thinking too much and taking myself out of writing what I feel. Do you remember, in the dark of a summer or autumn night, watching a campfire? The entire group of people sitting around it suddenly become silent - hypnotized by the rhythmically dancing flames and their pet sparks that shoot up and pop like fireworks, spraying against the night sky like refugees from the fire. These flaming candlewicks are the miniature fire, producing the same effect.
They clear the mind, organize my thoughts and prepare my mind for focusing on the writing task at hand. The hypnosis only serves to calm the windstorm inside my head, settling the miscellaneous dust and debris of peripheral ideas but leaving the ripe necessities suspended in mid-air where they’ll be plucked and explored in detail. Thoughts now ordered and ready to be explored, I settle back into the double-deep, soft green sofa. The color reminds me of spring softness – fresh and yet somehow muted, as if the volume of color hasn’t yet been turned up to full blast. The color simply whispers of peace and comfort, and the sofa is accented by equally muted pillows shaded of gold and green. Nature patterns on the pillows bring the outside inside, and gives an aura of being in nature, even though I am suspended on the second story my tree house.
The paintings on parchment colored walls differ, though. Far from being patterns and colors found in nature, these boldly colored dancers radiate drama. Bold reds, oranges, blues and purples swim on canvas as the men and women dance a sultry Samba or the vivid Tango. There is spice and heat between dancers, and I am just peeking in on the show: dark wooden frames seem more like windows or lenses of a camera, and I am invited to peek into their private dances, invited to watch the raw grace and sexual attraction between the couples. Though my house is silent and quiet, when I look at the paintings, I can feel the breeze ruffle my hair and hot summer air on my naked back. Music permeates that summer air, mixing with it and becoming one so that the beat becomes me; I become the beat. I breathe it in, and exhale music back into the air, fueling the dancers’ delight and passion. They are dancing freely, moving their bodies with abandon of constraint, and I connect with them because I write with abandon of constraint. Just as their bodies flow freely, so do the words from my brain to my fingertips. I understand the dancers; they understand me. It’s a beautiful symbiosis, and they spur me on to further exploration. Sometimes I wonder who the artist’s muse was, because it seems that the woman’s writhing body is the same in every painting. Was she the artist’s lover? What does she look like now? Youth slips away so quickly, I have begun to notice whenever I look into a mirror, but grace seems to last much longer. Is she someone’s grandmother now? I don’t know.
My mind wanders away from the task at hand. But the conscious mind can only explore so much, even when the unconscious is at the helm. The “rational”, conscious mind seems to act as a filter, siphoning out all of the thoughts and ideas that may be nonsensical or uncomfortable. Sometimes that filter sensors what I really mean when I am trying like hell to get to the heart of something, scraping away layers of superfluous detail in an attempt to get at the truth of the matter. It seems to me that these matters only clarify themselves in the middle of the night, when the business side of my brain is asleep, leaving the naughty child of unconscious to run rampant. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night by a thought that slaps me on the inside of my head.
In the darkness of my nighttime room, comfort and function avail themselves to me. Foster is asleep nudged up against my legs so that I can only roll to one side – this happens every night, so I wonder why I am perennially surprised that the right side of my body is stiff every morning. Sometimes I nudge his furry black butt over, but tonight I think I’ll just curl up around him and breathe in his scent.
There, on the right side sits my lamp atop a beautiful oak nightstand, and I slide my hand down the cool, slim cord to find the switch to turn it on, bathing my bedroom in a soft, orangey glow. Some nights the light seems romantic; on other nights, it seems garish and a little spooky, depending on what type of thought or dream has yanked me out of oblivion. Regardless, an idea has knocked me conscious. Next to the orangey, glowing lamp is an old, ugly mug filled to the point of bursting with pens and pencils. Though the mug is what I would think of as ‘ugly’, it holds a plethora of memories. It’s the mug I received upon my high school graduation, and on it there is a list of the names of all of my classmates. Some have moved away, been lost in the shuffle, and some have died too early. Because of these memories, and these people who have put a thumbprint on my life, I keep the mug as a vigil there at my bedside, sometimes gliding sleepy fingers over their names. When I do, memories flood back in waves of sadness or laughter, depending on the memory that pops up. That mug holds a prominent place, regardless of its looks. The white mug with ornate blue writing means something to me, and it holds the pens and pencils, the tools of my passion. It has earned its place close to me. It will be there until the end – whatever end that may be.
I prefer pencil, but in the middle of the night my hand closes around whatever writing utensil it finds. My hand is not picky when it is tired. Next to the pen of pencils (that’s a pun if you please), lies a stack of small notebooks, Post-It pads, and index cards among contact solution, eyeglasses, a water bottle, lip balm, another set of candles, and brown sugar & fig lotion – more comfort items that keep me from having to get out of bed during the night. Everything that sits there, waiting for me on this nightstand, is there for a purpose. The type of clutter and disarray in my room may seem somewhat disquieting to the untrained eye, but everything is in place for me. During the day the objects sit quietly, unobtrusively basking in the sunlight. But at night, when I lie in my bed, vainly attempting to quiet the noise in my head, they watch me, comforting me to sleep. At night, everything is perfectly placed for me to reach it, keeping me from the inconvenience of having to move, possibly scaring my thoughts back into their hiding places.
Even this bed has been tailored around my needs: three blankets cover the electric one so that when I slip between the covers, I am immediately cocooned in a mini oven. The top cover is dark green fleece – washable and dog proof. This is important stuff, because comfort is of the utmost importance to a sleeping writer.
Why? I find that the ideas that deem themselves important enough to wake the conscious mind are worth writing down, and they are like a precious gift to myself when I wake up in the morning, stretch, and look over to my nightstand only to see my own handwriting smiling back at me with the knowledge that they behold something magical, something from my unconscious, untamed mind. These ideas are free from restraint, written in a semi-conscious and unfiltered state. In fact, some of the best ideas I have had began with a note left to myself in the middle of the night, surrounded by darkness and written in a child-like scrawl.
It doesn’t matter, though, if the handwriting of my unconscious self looks childish. I wake up in the morning, put on my white, fluffy, impossibly soft robe that swishes around my ankles as I stumble into the ceramic-tile floored kitchen to start the coffee brewing. It seems as though the fairy dust that covered my eyes and invaded my thoughts, dousing them with magic as I slept, left some remnants in my eyes in the morning. It seems that the romance of dreams, and the thoughts that wake me from sleep leave their mark on me, clinging to the back of my impossibly soft robe first thing in the morning. If I close my eyes and breathe in the scent of the coffee while it bubbles and brews, I can imagine the sparkling fairy dust of my dreams inching its way to my brain, stirring up old thoughts that have been left over from the night. Sometimes they make it to their destination, tickling thoughts back to the forefront of my mind; other times, I sit at my kitchen table, swinging my feet, brushing my legs against my luxurious robe, frustrated that these brilliant thoughts have escaped, leaving me trying in vain to sweep up the scattered sparkly remnants.
So goes everything, I tell myself, waiting for the frustration to pass. It seems that the moment you stop hunting for something is just the moment when it decides to cross your path, circling back into your arms. So the less I worry about the brilliance of last night’s ideas, the sooner they’ll come back to me in one form or another. The transience of my world is sharp; it shimmers around me like I am walking through a dream. So what remains? What is permanent? I don’t have an answer, but the thought of that both frightens and excites me. I am afraid to lose these thoughts, afraid to lose the momentum of writing when I am holding onto an idea so tightly. But these are minor losses, and as I glance down at Foster, I wonder when a true loss might throw this transience into perspective. I shudder, and hope against the odds that I never lose him. But for now I brush that thought away, as his freshly-ruffled fur floats suspended in mid-air, and focus on the sparkling remnants of dreams, working vainly to flesh them out before they evaporate.
When the sparkles fade away, melting into the glowing morning air, I shrug, hoping that perhaps they’ll visit me again the next night. Until then, I start all over again in my place of solitude and comfort, knowing that my thoughts are kept safe, here in my tree house, with Foster sleeping by my side as I write.
A Shortie, But Goodie
I still love this poem, especially the quick flashes of impression and the sparsity of language.
Second Date
Honey.
Dark
liquid
dangerous.
Flashes of white,
punches of lust
swift-kick me in the gut.
Suddenly red,
a flash of fire-
Whoosh!
I walk away, unsatisfied,
Intrigued.
Yes!
Second Date
Honey.
Dark
liquid
dangerous.
Flashes of white,
punches of lust
swift-kick me in the gut.
Suddenly red,
a flash of fire-
Whoosh!
I walk away, unsatisfied,
Intrigued.
Yes!
No Poetry Tonight
What the hell is this style called? I forget, and I'm too lazy to look it up at the moment. I remember feeling heartbroken about something, and so I chose to write about the feeling of desolation and loneliness that happens to all of us at some point or another.
No Poetry Tonight (Revised)
There is no poetry tonight,
I can’t compare it to day since
the skies have opened up to cry.
Tears leave me broken here to lie.
And no one stops to ask me why
there is no poetry tonight.
No matter since I can’t measure how
the heart lies and pain doesn’t stop.
My skies have opened up to cry.
Phantom warmth, I have lost my sight
Of what’s real. I just drop to kneel.
There is no poetry tonight.
My heart’s all gone, emptied of light.
My soul has dried and flown away;
the skies have opened up to cry.
It’s times like these I lie broken
ready as hell to walk – knowing
there is no poetry tonight.
My heart is broken, and I hide
Not whole, and yet not quite broken
There is no poetry tonight.
The skies have opened up to cry.
No Poetry Tonight (Revised)
There is no poetry tonight,
I can’t compare it to day since
the skies have opened up to cry.
Tears leave me broken here to lie.
And no one stops to ask me why
there is no poetry tonight.
No matter since I can’t measure how
the heart lies and pain doesn’t stop.
My skies have opened up to cry.
Phantom warmth, I have lost my sight
Of what’s real. I just drop to kneel.
There is no poetry tonight.
My heart’s all gone, emptied of light.
My soul has dried and flown away;
the skies have opened up to cry.
It’s times like these I lie broken
ready as hell to walk – knowing
there is no poetry tonight.
My heart is broken, and I hide
Not whole, and yet not quite broken
There is no poetry tonight.
The skies have opened up to cry.
Two Experiences, Two Model Poems
I worked in the rehab unit of a hospital for about 2 years before going to the New Life Center, and then finally the ER (the pinnacle of hospital work). On the rehab unit, we took care of people who had brain injuries, strokes, amputations, etc. This patient we had for about 6 months, and he was fucked from a meth lab gone bad. He had a cardiac arrest and his friends propped him up in a corner for 45 minutes, blue, while they cleaned up the meth lab. Then they called an ambulance. Oxygen deprivation like that strips a human of everything but his most raw, core self. This patient wasn't a good guy, and he and I went toe-to-toe many times. So poem 1 is my experience with him. Poem 2 is a re-write from his niece's point of view. Interesting.
In the style of “Meeting Bill” by Bob Hicok
Jessie Ruckman
Jason
Meeting Jason I thought
Jesus. You’re on meth.
Long, flowing hair gave
the god-like impression.
And like god, he
held breath and took 45
in the corner,
blue while his friends
ridded house of lab.
Then carefully dialed 9-1-1. His brain
was fried like the contents in the teaspoon
held over a candle and cooked. But
deprivation like Jason’s showed
only the most intuitive parts of man.
And as I stood eye to eye
With Meth Personified,
daring him to lunge – another
part of man peeked out from hiding –
Coward.
Jason, Revisited
Meeting Uncle Jason again I thought
You look different. You look sad, and I am
afraid,
Afraid of the new Uncle Jason. Mama says
You look like Jesus.
“Long, flowing hair gives
the god-like impression,” Mama says.
But I just see you. Well, someone kinda like you.
Mama said, “His brain
was fried like the contents in the teaspoon
held over a candle and cooked.”
Were you in a cooking accident?
I wonder, but I am too afraid to ask. What
happened to your face? Did you get into a fight?
Your face is all scratchy and red. I don’t want to kiss
the new Uncle Jason good night. But you don’t want
to kiss me either, I think. Because
as I stand looking up to the new Uncle Jason
daring him to love me – another
part of New Jason peeked out from hiding –
Coward.
In the style of “Meeting Bill” by Bob Hicok
Jessie Ruckman
Jason
Meeting Jason I thought
Jesus. You’re on meth.
Long, flowing hair gave
the god-like impression.
And like god, he
held breath and took 45
in the corner,
blue while his friends
ridded house of lab.
Then carefully dialed 9-1-1. His brain
was fried like the contents in the teaspoon
held over a candle and cooked. But
deprivation like Jason’s showed
only the most intuitive parts of man.
And as I stood eye to eye
With Meth Personified,
daring him to lunge – another
part of man peeked out from hiding –
Coward.
Jason, Revisited
Meeting Uncle Jason again I thought
You look different. You look sad, and I am
afraid,
Afraid of the new Uncle Jason. Mama says
You look like Jesus.
“Long, flowing hair gives
the god-like impression,” Mama says.
But I just see you. Well, someone kinda like you.
Mama said, “His brain
was fried like the contents in the teaspoon
held over a candle and cooked.”
Were you in a cooking accident?
I wonder, but I am too afraid to ask. What
happened to your face? Did you get into a fight?
Your face is all scratchy and red. I don’t want to kiss
the new Uncle Jason good night. But you don’t want
to kiss me either, I think. Because
as I stand looking up to the new Uncle Jason
daring him to love me – another
part of New Jason peeked out from hiding –
Coward.
Sunday Morning
Sunday mornings are my favorite time of the week. I like to just sit somewhere and have coffee, reading the paper or a book. There's something so romantic about the day, but this is an experience I had working one Sunday morning in the ER. A little boy, 4 years old, came in unresponsive and we couldn't do anything for him. None of us were willing to quit, and I did CPR on him for about 30 minutes. Halfway through, I made the mistake of looking into his eyes. Needless to say, this poem is painful, but cathartic and wonderful. I still love Sunday mornings, though.
Sunday Morning
All over this frozen city, people
are lying in bed sipping
steaming coffee, clipping coupons,
or making love
to ward off the February chill.
Here I stand alone, drowning.
There is no Sunday romance for me
as I batter this little boy’s chest.
Reasoning, bargaining.
I sliced this baby’s jammies
off with my own cold
sterile steel in slow motion
as the world fast-forwards.
Poise.
Brace.
Pump.
That’s my job.
“Start CPR!”
“Push Epi!”
“Do it again, harder!”
“Make the beat count!”
Fiery tears threaten, recede
as I stare blankly at beeping screen.
Four years old, no life left.
Lying on a slab, blue
jammies flayed open.
“Stop CPR.”
Breath heaving from the effort, I glance down-
look at his face. Warm mahogany
irises watch, done.
And I touch a gloved hand to soft brown hair.
Baby, keep fighting. I’m fighting with you.
Monitors slow to a final halt,
Cold, silent.
I shut it down, roar inside.
The clock stopped softly, 10 a.m.
I ran - knelt, rocked
alone in a sterile bathroom-
Screamed, shattered mirrors.
Because the funeral march breaks
Inside my head for the little
boy in sliced blue pajamas.
While all over this frozen city, people
are lying in bed sipping
steaming coffee, clipping coupons,
or making love
to ward off the February chill.
Sunday Morning
All over this frozen city, people
are lying in bed sipping
steaming coffee, clipping coupons,
or making love
to ward off the February chill.
Here I stand alone, drowning.
There is no Sunday romance for me
as I batter this little boy’s chest.
Reasoning, bargaining.
I sliced this baby’s jammies
off with my own cold
sterile steel in slow motion
as the world fast-forwards.
Poise.
Brace.
Pump.
That’s my job.
“Start CPR!”
“Push Epi!”
“Do it again, harder!”
“Make the beat count!”
Fiery tears threaten, recede
as I stare blankly at beeping screen.
Four years old, no life left.
Lying on a slab, blue
jammies flayed open.
“Stop CPR.”
Breath heaving from the effort, I glance down-
look at his face. Warm mahogany
irises watch, done.
And I touch a gloved hand to soft brown hair.
Baby, keep fighting. I’m fighting with you.
Monitors slow to a final halt,
Cold, silent.
I shut it down, roar inside.
The clock stopped softly, 10 a.m.
I ran - knelt, rocked
alone in a sterile bathroom-
Screamed, shattered mirrors.
Because the funeral march breaks
Inside my head for the little
boy in sliced blue pajamas.
While all over this frozen city, people
are lying in bed sipping
steaming coffee, clipping coupons,
or making love
to ward off the February chill.
Grandpa Joe
Freestyle, in the style of Kim Addonizio. The subject is my great grandfather's passing, and the bond he shared especially with my cousin Hayley and myself. Hayley and I resemble each other quite a bit, and once Alzheimer's took over, he called us both Rosie. This is one of the most special moments of my life, and I wish I could express it better somehow.
Grandpa Joe
They were gathered in a single room furthest from the nurse’s station, all collect around a man who had not uttered a coherent sentence in years. A man whose hands shook with age and dementia; who taught my sister to roll cigarettes at age seven; who always stopped my cousin and me (both tall, dark-haired ladies) to say “Rosie, you’re so beautiful.” Neither of us were Rosie, but we thanked him all the same. It had become our sad, private joke. A bond between the three of us, though only two of us remembered. But he still held court, like a decrepit king on a dilapidated throne. Some time during the slow-motion melee, Andy Joe, one of his many great grandchildren lovingly tucked his favorite teddy bear under Grandpa’s arm, enhancing the sweet agony of the final moments preceding his death. The end, much like the beginning. Bittersweet and filled with love. And surrounding so far away from the deathbed, generations chat quietly and cried softly, unsure of whether to be happy or morose. The younger ones played, as is their nature, but did so in a hushed, funereal way, as though intuition guided their young hearts. And Joe, at the end of a spectacular 89-year run, lay propped on anorexic pillows as well as the teddy, stared blankly up at the ceiling, not seeing or hearing the life surrounding him. Perhaps he had imagined this moment once in a romantic daydream, but as the machines were switched off and twenty people held their breath and each other, he exhaled, left go - the romance of life. And left us for there.
Grandpa Joe
They were gathered in a single room furthest from the nurse’s station, all collect around a man who had not uttered a coherent sentence in years. A man whose hands shook with age and dementia; who taught my sister to roll cigarettes at age seven; who always stopped my cousin and me (both tall, dark-haired ladies) to say “Rosie, you’re so beautiful.” Neither of us were Rosie, but we thanked him all the same. It had become our sad, private joke. A bond between the three of us, though only two of us remembered. But he still held court, like a decrepit king on a dilapidated throne. Some time during the slow-motion melee, Andy Joe, one of his many great grandchildren lovingly tucked his favorite teddy bear under Grandpa’s arm, enhancing the sweet agony of the final moments preceding his death. The end, much like the beginning. Bittersweet and filled with love. And surrounding so far away from the deathbed, generations chat quietly and cried softly, unsure of whether to be happy or morose. The younger ones played, as is their nature, but did so in a hushed, funereal way, as though intuition guided their young hearts. And Joe, at the end of a spectacular 89-year run, lay propped on anorexic pillows as well as the teddy, stared blankly up at the ceiling, not seeing or hearing the life surrounding him. Perhaps he had imagined this moment once in a romantic daydream, but as the machines were switched off and twenty people held their breath and each other, he exhaled, left go - the romance of life. And left us for there.
3 Part Poem
By far my favorite exercise in the poetry class. We worked in groups of 3, and chose words at random, then we had to add pronouns on our own. Finally, we got back to our groups and simply combined lines for something twisted and awesome! Love it!
Part I
Chugging soul,
Streaking fortress-
Shotgun wedding! Band-aid?
Wailing!
Hunting drugs-
Slap! Slap! Slap!
New York dash – stroll, crawl, chug
Twisting storm,
Dashing smoke
Slumber.
Part II
Chugging his soul,
Streaking my fortress.
Shotgun wedding –Band-aid or a real cure?
Wailing, what the hell have I done?
Hunting drugs, swinging from the rafters in
A dead run. Slap! Slap! Slap across his face, and I
Make a New York dash –strolling through park, crawl,
Chug fire to tame the burn of failure.
Twisting through the storm, burning
For an end. Run from disaster, dashing through smoke only
To fall in the end. From my padded cell I slumber-
Peacefully alone.
Part III
In an ancient cantina, we sat.
He – chugging away his soul in an attempt
To streak my fortress. So we decided
To shake the doldrums – shotgun wedding.
A Band-aid covers two of the lost hearts with
A faux marriage.
“Let the wailing begin!” bellows the ringmaster
of this farcical circus.
Hands slaps to my forehead – what
The hell have I done?
Another vain attempt streaks my mind, so
Hunting drugs, swinging from rafters I go
To dull the panic.
Slap! Slap! Slap! Tap my knuckles to
Veins, and I stroll, crawl chugging
Fire to tame the burn. I twist,
Writing in the storm, dashed out in smoke
Until finally I run down, tail biting me this time
And I fall under. Slumbering with my misery-
Alone again.
Part I
Chugging soul,
Streaking fortress-
Shotgun wedding! Band-aid?
Wailing!
Hunting drugs-
Slap! Slap! Slap!
New York dash – stroll, crawl, chug
Twisting storm,
Dashing smoke
Slumber.
Part II
Chugging his soul,
Streaking my fortress.
Shotgun wedding –Band-aid or a real cure?
Wailing, what the hell have I done?
Hunting drugs, swinging from the rafters in
A dead run. Slap! Slap! Slap across his face, and I
Make a New York dash –strolling through park, crawl,
Chug fire to tame the burn of failure.
Twisting through the storm, burning
For an end. Run from disaster, dashing through smoke only
To fall in the end. From my padded cell I slumber-
Peacefully alone.
Part III
In an ancient cantina, we sat.
He – chugging away his soul in an attempt
To streak my fortress. So we decided
To shake the doldrums – shotgun wedding.
A Band-aid covers two of the lost hearts with
A faux marriage.
“Let the wailing begin!” bellows the ringmaster
of this farcical circus.
Hands slaps to my forehead – what
The hell have I done?
Another vain attempt streaks my mind, so
Hunting drugs, swinging from rafters I go
To dull the panic.
Slap! Slap! Slap! Tap my knuckles to
Veins, and I stroll, crawl chugging
Fire to tame the burn. I twist,
Writing in the storm, dashed out in smoke
Until finally I run down, tail biting me this time
And I fall under. Slumbering with my misery-
Alone again.
Another Model Poem
I had to model after any poem I chose. I chose something short because, well, I'm not overly excited about writing in the footsteps of somebody else. This is by far the cheesiest one I wrote in that poetry class! Oh well . . .
Classical Rhapsody
Dreams, darting in and out of Fancy’s flight
White stars, shooting in the blackest of night.
Makes clear – inky depths of the sleeping mind.
It’s vital that we keep dreams to remind
Grave desires we desperately hide.
The truth will out – who are we to decide?
Brevity Rocks.
Classical Rhapsody
Dreams, darting in and out of Fancy’s flight
White stars, shooting in the blackest of night.
Makes clear – inky depths of the sleeping mind.
It’s vital that we keep dreams to remind
Grave desires we desperately hide.
The truth will out – who are we to decide?
Brevity Rocks.
What the hell?
I know I had to model a poem after another in our poetry book. This poem just cracks me up, because it's true and completely silly at the same time. Weird.
Water
There was a time when I believe
I was twelve and my sister was fourteen
I believe we were both swimming
On a hot July day
I believe we were at my aunt’s house
And while she was inside talking on the phone
I slipped into the deep end and although
I believe I couldn’t swim
My sister could, and she fished me out.
My aunt came running out of the house
Screaming
I believe she was scared that day that
She almost lost me but my sister
She saved my life as I spluttered up
Chlorinated water
(I still like to swim, though)
Water
There was a time when I believe
I was twelve and my sister was fourteen
I believe we were both swimming
On a hot July day
I believe we were at my aunt’s house
And while she was inside talking on the phone
I slipped into the deep end and although
I believe I couldn’t swim
My sister could, and she fished me out.
My aunt came running out of the house
Screaming
I believe she was scared that day that
She almost lost me but my sister
She saved my life as I spluttered up
Chlorinated water
(I still like to swim, though)
The Greysweater Poem . . .
So in this poetry class, I had a little crush on the guy who sat across from me. He used to wear this grey cable-knit sweater and derby hat. I got bored in class and wrote this poem for him. Then we dated for like 5 months. Score one for the Jess, lol.
Hmm.
Grey just doesn’t fit,
Though-
At first it did.
You sat quietly,
In that drab shade-
Faded.
Maybe you should be
Red Hair Guy.
That has much more flair-
But would you rather be
Defined by your hair?
Crazy.
Red, now there’s a theme!
Like a candle on slow burn-
(You’re so hot!)
You asked me to say it…
And so I did,
So now we’re square.
Right?
The more you talk,
The interestinger you become.
Meanwhile-
The more coffee I drink,
The retardeder I get.
Random.
So this is Greysweater;
A slow, steady leak
Revealing more every class-
It makes me think maybe
You’re a fine piece of-
Hmm.
See you next class.
Now play nice and let’s share
A bottle of red wine-
Your treat, of course,
Cuz I ain’t cheap,
Grey Sweater Guy.
Funny (I know…)
Hmm.
Grey just doesn’t fit,
Though-
At first it did.
You sat quietly,
In that drab shade-
Faded.
Maybe you should be
Red Hair Guy.
That has much more flair-
But would you rather be
Defined by your hair?
Crazy.
Red, now there’s a theme!
Like a candle on slow burn-
(You’re so hot!)
You asked me to say it…
And so I did,
So now we’re square.
Right?
The more you talk,
The interestinger you become.
Meanwhile-
The more coffee I drink,
The retardeder I get.
Random.
So this is Greysweater;
A slow, steady leak
Revealing more every class-
It makes me think maybe
You’re a fine piece of-
Hmm.
See you next class.
Now play nice and let’s share
A bottle of red wine-
Your treat, of course,
Cuz I ain’t cheap,
Grey Sweater Guy.
Funny (I know…)
The BOP
I took a poetry class a couple years ago, and we had to jump through all sorts of hoops (thanks to Curtis Crisler), and write in myriad styles. This poem style is called the BOP, and the main premise is that you have to use a song lyric for the refrain. I obviously wrote about the insanity of life, and chose Paolo Nutini's song entitled 'Last Request'. P.S. I never said I was good at poetry!
Heaving deep breath before I dunk my head and dive
Back under icy academic waters and steals my breath.
Write an article, edit this, run that, design page 1.
Perform CPR, I need and EKG – Jessie where are you?
Run! From the uneasy waking moment, diving
Back under water. Time to steal a breath? No.
But I’m no wiser than the fool that I was before.
Dashing wildly through, forget that
I am alive. School, work, school, sleep. Dive, breathe
Dive again. Slip under water, give my
Condolences to life, holding breath, world on
Pause while I strive for something better.
Holding breath, lungs exploding, learning begins
And I balance and
begin to breathe. Slowly, wearily.
But I’m no wiser than the fool that I was before.
And another day of stifled panic revealed
One thing about who I am is that,
Head under water, pushed to the point
Of break or become;
I’ll beg for the punishment of no sleep and no life.
All for that piece of graduated paper.
But I’m no wiser than the fool that I was before.
Heaving deep breath before I dunk my head and dive
Back under icy academic waters and steals my breath.
Write an article, edit this, run that, design page 1.
Perform CPR, I need and EKG – Jessie where are you?
Run! From the uneasy waking moment, diving
Back under water. Time to steal a breath? No.
But I’m no wiser than the fool that I was before.
Dashing wildly through, forget that
I am alive. School, work, school, sleep. Dive, breathe
Dive again. Slip under water, give my
Condolences to life, holding breath, world on
Pause while I strive for something better.
Holding breath, lungs exploding, learning begins
And I balance and
begin to breathe. Slowly, wearily.
But I’m no wiser than the fool that I was before.
And another day of stifled panic revealed
One thing about who I am is that,
Head under water, pushed to the point
Of break or become;
I’ll beg for the punishment of no sleep and no life.
All for that piece of graduated paper.
But I’m no wiser than the fool that I was before.
Life, At A Funeral
My grandpa's sister died in November a couple of years ago, and we buried her on a gloomy, rainy day - the day before Thanksgiving. My cousin's little girl flitted into the anteroom with her teddy bear and stole everybody's hearts. It seemed as though her tiny presence breathed new life-affirmation into everyone in the room. It really was an amazing experience, and something to see. The little poem I wrote on the back of her funeral announcement, and found it randomly one day this spring. Here goes:
Life at a Funeral
Dark, somber,
Howling wind and
crying rain.
I pass the body,
Laid out in pink
Sadness overwhelms me
Though
I barely knew her.
But then life, as it does
Tripped through the door,
Bundle of long curls and
Bright blue eyes –
Two feet tall perhaps
Clad in
pink
white dolly dangling
at her side.
Maybe the juxtaposition
Only occurs to me –
But I see it – the proof that
Life goes on.
Life, even at a funeral,
Prevails.
Life at a Funeral
Dark, somber,
Howling wind and
crying rain.
I pass the body,
Laid out in pink
Sadness overwhelms me
Though
I barely knew her.
But then life, as it does
Tripped through the door,
Bundle of long curls and
Bright blue eyes –
Two feet tall perhaps
Clad in
pink
white dolly dangling
at her side.
Maybe the juxtaposition
Only occurs to me –
But I see it – the proof that
Life goes on.
Life, even at a funeral,
Prevails.
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