creativewriting

Touching her hand sent a shiver down my spine. It was so cold, I had heard of people’s hands being cold when they were nearing the end of their life, but I never expected this type of chill. It was not just cold, it was lifeless. Lifeless. Guess that was the whole point though wasn’t it? For her body to be lifeless. That’s what she was aiming for. She wanted her body to be left in the ground, to become food for the earth and all the creatures that live in the dirt. She wanted her soul to be free from its entrapment, at least that’s how she’d put it. Looking down on her pale face, all I want is for her to tell me what to do.

Feels stupid thinking like that, she clearly didn’t want to spend the rest of her life comforting me, that statement was made apparent when I walked in the bathroom and there she was, in a pool of her own vomit, empty pill bottles strewn across the floor; I wasn’t enough for her. I’ve been told by so many different people, my dad, my teachers, the shrink they all made me see, that I can’t think like that either, that my mom was sick, that this “illness” had taken over her and she would do things that she didn’t mean. Staring at her, with the blood drained from her face, tubes sticking out of each crevice, all I can think is that they are all wrong; she clearly meant exactly what she did. I have always had a hard time believing my mother’s depression was some sort of “illness” that she couldn’t control or that came out of the blue from nothing, she just was prone to be “depressive”. No, bullshit. Life is what got to her. She never wanted to be married, she never wanted kids. I knew that from the beginning. Not that I believe she didn’t love me, I’m sure in her own way she did, but she never planned me that’s for sure. She never wanted to be the one I came crying to when blood was dripping down my knee from falling of my Barbie bike. She didn’t want to be the one who had to drive me to and from dance class every Tuesday night. And she most definitely never wanted to be the one who had to at 3 a.m. in the morning come pick up her daughter, at some strangers house, drunk, and having to talk to the police, assuring them this wouldn’t happen again.

Maybe I could have tried harder. Maybe I could have been a better daughter, but there’s a part of me, located somewhere between my heart and my gut, that tells me none of it would have mattered. At some point in my life I would still be in this stuffy, grey, hospital room looking down at my mom, with a breathing mask over her face, and the only sign of her existence being the slight beeps on a monitor.

That monitor, the tank of oxygen, the only things keeping my mom between this world, and the one she really wants to be in. I almost physically kick myself for the thought that just entered my mind, the thought of giving her, her wish right now, releasing her from her own mind. Her own prison.

“Mom you once told me, I swear the only good thing you ever said to me, that I should never let anyone ever make me feel like I don’t deserve what I want, well mom you deserve exactly what you want, so here’s my last gift to you,” I say out loud to her mostly dead body.

Then flatline. The plug pulled.

“You have reached Melissa Hendricks’ residence; please leave your name and number at the beep, thank you.”

“Hi Miss Hendricks this is Bill Parsons from Parsons and Brown Law firm, I am calling on behalf of your Uncle Charles who has passed away. Please come by my Chicago office on Wednesday at 10 a.m. for a reading of the will. If you have any questions please call me at 312-455-3956. Thank you and have a good day.”

Wednesday, 8 a.m.

I hate today. I can’t go, I can’t. Why should I anyways? I don’t care about him, I don’t care that his body is now rotting in a morgue somewhere, with some intern probing his body to see if it was suicide or an accident. Personally I hope it was an accident, he didn’t deserve to have control over when he dies. Plus, the whole family loves him and if it was suicide they would probably make him into some martyr, and that would make me sick. Uncle Charlie. Bet you didn’t even leave me in your will anyways didn’t you? Bet you forgot all about me, it would definitely follow your character pattern. You sick bastard I am glad you’re dead.

“Cut it out Melissa, clear your head,” I say to myself as I lay in bed, the alarm clock still blaring in my ear. I don’t want to turn it off, because if I turn it off then the day has to start, and this is not a day I want to start. I can feel the weight of my body creating a snug divot in my mattress. No muscle in my body was moving. I lay there, in my bed, frozen, trying to distract my mind from all the thoughts and memories flooding it. These kinds of thoughts and memories always flooded my mind whenever I had to be reminded of my Uncle Charlie, in life, and now in death. Memories of when he stayed with my family, during my middle school years. Memories of “family nights”, where he cheated at monopoly, and followed me to my room to hug me goodnight.  Memories of his robust silhouette in my door frame, me turning over to avoid his gaze, pressing my hands together till the bones were crushing each other, praying he wouldn’t come in. My mouth going dry from frantic pleas to anyone watching over me that the pain wouldn’t come back, that the gross weight of his body on top of my frail body, breaking it inside and out with his vile touch would end.

A long shiver rolls down my spine and I gag slightly. I hate being reminded of those memories. My mind and body actually reject them. For years after he had lived with us, I would throw up when the slightest smell or sound reminded me of those torturing nights. My mom thought I had ulcers for a while; I tried to explain to her so many times what haunted me, what had happened, and why I seemed to be sick constantly. She didn’t understand. She thought I was I misunderstanding my uncle, because of course there’s no way precious, kind hearted Charlie could have done anything wrong. Even now I shake with fury at her lack of understanding, her choosing of him over me, her own daughter, even if I was too young and too embarrassed to articulate exactly what had transpired. I gave up being angry years ago, however, being indifferent seemed to yield more of a pained response. That was the method of handling today I had chosen. Go in, act indifferent, maybe say hi to my two brothers, shake hands, and go out, saying goodbye to Charles Barnes’ pathetic life. I bet I won’t even be mentioned, even if I am, no way I would accept it. I could barely look at whatever he gave me without gagging, I am sure.

As I shower and brush my teeth I try and focus my brain on each step, distracting it from the day. The mint smell from the toothpaste, dripping off my chin. The damp spot on the back of my pajama shirt making goose bumps rise, from my dripping hair. The soft snug feeling of cotton on my naked torso, as I slip my t-shirt on soothes me. The casual sense I get from hopping into my flare torn jeans. I don’t care how I look to this lawyer; I don’t feel like respecting anyone who respected my uncle.  I leave with a slam of the door.

The office is stuffy and littered with file folders and form papers. My two brothers are eyeing me and my outfit as if I represent everything detestable in this world. I hear my one brother whisper to my other “he didn’t even like her, why is she here?” Indifference Melissa, indifference hurts more than a punch in the face.

“Well I am glad you all came today, this shouldn’t take too long your uncle didn’t have too many stipulations.” He then began to name the items I already knew were going to be bequeathed such as his gold watch, old civil war musket, and his old cherry bookcase that was passed down from his father. All went to the boys of course. A few more things were named, a few more minutes, all to the boys. I begin to seriously twiddle my thumbs, this was pointless.

“And for you Miss Melissa, he left his Gibson guitar, said you play? Pretty well, according to him.”

I almost didn’t even hear him, I was zoning out so much. I couldn’t believe it when it did enter my consciousness. The guitar? The guitar? I had eyed that guitar since I was 11, when I first began to play. It was the perfect combination of wood and metal I had ever seen. Once I played on it and it was like there wasn’t a guitar and musician, they were one in the same.

Yet, even after I retrieved the guitar it took me years to play it. I would stare at it for hours on end, wanting to play, but hating wanting. When I finally did play it, it was three years after his death, and the first lyrics that came were “you are the black crow always circling me.”

Pg 180 Recall an experience that changed you. Write about it with one of the traditional openings of story: Let me tell you a story………..

Let me tell you a story about my brother, me, and a particularly large bully. Now when I use the word bully, one often thinks of the elementary school boys who always wore a grimace and stole your lunch money. Well this guy did have the grimace, but this was high school, junior year for me and senior year for my brother, and lunch money was not on his mind.  Every day after school, if he remembered, my brother would drive me home since he had his license already. Now, my brother is not a normal teenage boy, never has been “normal”. I sometimes wonder if my dominating influence on him is what made him so sensitive and have a strong affinity for chick flicks, but if you knew my mother and father, you would probably say it was genetics. Either way, my brother has the biggest heart I have ever experienced, and has the biggest fear of conflict that I have ever known. Thus, it was often that he would come home from school and my heart would fall to my stomach while he told us of his day and how mean even his friends were to him. People love picking on John, mainly because they know he won’t do anything, so they have a personalized punching bag to take out the emotional baggage on. Well ever since I was three and pushed a kid off a banana slide at the mall because he was mean to John, I have always stuck up for him when people became hurtful.

So one day, a particularly annoying day for me, a large bully decided to mess with my brother again. I was walking out of the school, pissed off at my teacher who decided to talk to me for an eon before she told me the one piece of information I needed to know. I wanted to get home so badly. Yet, I see sitting on top of my car, a robust mass of sweat and pasty flesh. That was Ed Norris, 6’7 ft, wide and mean as an abused Pitbull. That’s it, now he’s personally offending me. So I walk up where he was perched and said “Get off my car.” He acted as if my voice was just the wind in his ear. So I repeated, “Get off my car now.”  Finally he turned his head, eyes blazing with anger and said in what was supposed to be an intimidating voice but really sounded pathetic “Ask nicely.”

So I said, “GET OFF MY CAR, please.” At this he thudded off the car and stood right in my face.

“Ask nicely! I have family problems girl and you don’t know what I can do,” he said, hot spit flying from his mouth.

“I don’t give a damn about your problems, I just want your ass off my car,” I replied. At this his chest rose all the way to his chin, and I saw him debate his next move. He took one step forward trying to get me to walk back, when I didn’t he was the one who walked away.  Taking a breath of relief I climbed into the car. My brother’s face was drained of color. He didn’t talk to me until we were at dinner and my parents forced him too. My dad was proud, my mom was scared, but I was just worried about John. When finally he did say something all that came out was a whisper of “He could have hurt you,” and then he did something rare, even for John, and began to cry. “He could have hurt you, and I did nothing, why didn’t I do anything,” he said.

It wasn’t about me anymore, it was about John, and all the fears inside him, and how scared he was that he let them control him. From then on, I was more conscious of how my actions, though good intentioned would affect my brother or anyone else involved, because for some people it hurts more to see someone they love in danger then for them to be taken advantage of.

1.       Trapped, in an elevator, alone with a person you would walk across the street to avoid. Write a dialogue.

Skeletons

“Shoot, I am late so late,” Julia muttered to herself. “Ugh where is my other heel?”. She frantically searches the bin next to her front door, tossing each wrong shoe behind her.

“Ah here you are,” she said. Half putting on her shoe, and half walking out the door, she heads down the hallway to the elevator. Limping slightly while trying to shove the rest of her right foot into the shoe, she presses the down button.

“Come on come on,” she whispers to herself, pounding the side of her thigh with her right hand out of nervous habit. The doors slide open, she bounds in and presses the 1 button. The doors start to slide closed, when a small, pasty white arm slides through, forcing the doors to open again.

Her heart falls, past the pit of her stomach, down to the floor and down the elevator shaft. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. She thinks to herself. Not her not her not her. A woman around the same age, with lightening colored hair, a large nose, and thin long legs, dressed in a well-made pant suit walks in. Immediately the woman recognizes Julia, and a sly smile grin creeps up her face.

“Well hello there Julia,” the woman said.

“Hi Kat, I heard you moved here, small world huh?”

“Too small,” said Kat, then gives a girlish giggle to try and lighten the very obvious pointed comment.

“Yeah I guess….so how’s life? Did you actually become a political consultant?,” Julia asks not truly out of interest, but because she hopes that possibly Kat Bailey didn’t succeed in everything as she so often boasted about in high school. But, before Kat can reply that she did in fact become a political consultant for a local news station in New York City, the elevator shakes and comes to an abrupt halt.

“Oh my god no!” shouts both the ladies. They turn to look at each other, a mixture of horror and disdain on their faces.

“Uh yeah so never been in this situation, what do we do?” Julia asks reluctantly.

“Oh well I think, we um, we…….I have no idea. Shit,” Kat replies.

“Well then, I wonder if this emergency button does anything?” said Julia. She moves to press it, but it’s stuck, she presses harder, and harder, crinkling her eyebrows closer and closer to the valley between her eyes.

“Well there goes that,” said Kat. Julia pivots to face her, trying to keep her face as stoic as possible.

“Well this sucks, I have a job interview in 30 minutes,” immediately after saying this, Julia curses herself under her breath for indirectly letting Kat know she is interviewing for a better job than the one she has, “thank god she doesn’t know that I am waitressing at the diner on 47^th street” she says inside her head.

“Oh that’s no good, you’re working at that coffee shop across from the latin market right?” asks Kat.

Dammit. “Actually it’s a diner, but yes I do, you know waitresses can make out pretty well on a good night” she says, cursing herself underneath her breath again; the lie was obvious in her voice tone.

“Well that’s nice,” replied Kat. The anger and jealousy flows into Julia, almost to the point where hues of green and red enter her hazel eyes.

“Yeah well, it is what it is,” said Julia. She looks down at her feet, trying not to show her true emotion at the blonde who has always provoked powerful stirrings of competition in her mind. She wants to tell her, wants to rub in her face the one thing she won over Kat Bailey, the one thing she beat her at, but she made a promise to herself long ago not to ever let this pretentious insufferable snob ever be that hurt by something she caused. She knows that no one deserves, no matter how irritating they are, to feel that kind of degrading hurt.

Just in that moment the elevator starts working again with a jolt.

“Oh thank god,” exclaims Julia.

“Hope your interview goes well then,” said Kat.

“Yeah thanks, um take care Kat, guess I will see you around,” Julia adds.

Kat heads towards the doors which have just opened up, yet turns around with one leg out and one in, and faces Julia.

“By the way, I knew even before we broke up about you and Lucas, just know you don’t stay with someone for four years if you didn’t love them at some point in time, so I still win. Slut,” said Kat.

The doors slide closed, Julia still frozen inside the elevator.

by Katie Redmiles

Katie Redmiles

E302A

Journal 1

3/26/12

Prompt: pg 36 Burroway, Write a paragraph about a thrilling or anguishing incident from your childhood or adolescence. Evoke emotion you felt and images of all five senses, how the scene (perhaps in including your own body) looked to you, sounded, felt, smelled, tasted. Allow yourself whatever personification, metaphor, or simile, occurs to you, no matter how extreme.

     The cafeteria reeked of mildew and sour milk. My heart was pounding in nervous heat, my palms getting clammy, all the signs that rage was building in every vein of my body. I hate petty fights, and stupid people who think it’s fun to make life into soap opera charged with exaggerated and entitled characters. As Diane rattles on and on about how wrong I am about Hunter and his reputation for treating women like they are trophies, I can feel the enraged thoughts fly through my mind in white heat. God, what has happened to us? I never used to feel this way with her, but lately all its been is boiling anger and the distinct sense that I have become nothing more than a raggedy Anne doll to her.  But my mom always told me that even with our best friends we don’t know what might be going in their life so always be understanding and patient.

“I don’t feel like we are on the same page anymore”, said Diane

“Um, well what page is that? About Hunter? Because sorry Diane I just have your best interest at heart here”, I replied.

“No about our friendship”

“I’m not following,” I said.

“Katie, I don’t want to be friends anymore”.

The entire world stopped. My limbs somehow bend and straighten so that I find myself standing and turning to walk out of the lunchroom with all the other students heading back to class. Right. Left. Right. Left. My I can feel the heaviness of my size 8 foot hitting the tiled floor with every step. My heart rate has become hard fast beats as if its fighting to break free and see the scene unfolding for itself. The peeling white walls of the school are blending together in blur as I stare at them trying to avoid her gaze in our silent walk back to class. My mouth is hanging slightly open in fear, fear that what I just heard was true, that what just happened is real; the fear becomes a force field from the roof of my mouth to the bottom of my jaw, forcing it open as pained breaths pour out of it. I can feel the salty water building behind my eyes, I force my eyes to blink so that she can’t see how much this is effecting me. But my body knows, my body knows that those seven words have placed a concrete block on top of my heart causing it to be spread like too little butter over too much bread. I know I am running into other people in the crowding hall way because my eyes tell me so, but I can’t feel any of it, I can’t feel the sweaty beings pressing into me, stepping on my feet as they pass. I know I am going far slower than the current, but this is the pace my world has turned into. I look up for a second, I can see Diane’s mouth is moving, but my ears, thank god for my ears, have kicked into self-preservation mode and all hear now is a faint buzzing sound.

She’s looking at me for a response. I have none, I’m pretty sure if I did open my mouth all would come out is a weak croak, the impossible has happened, I have become speechless. Finally, we reach the class, I take my seat automatically, and place my hands delicately on top of each other, and my feet planted parallel on the floor, just like the “ideal student” poster I had seen in elementary school. My brain tells me to become a robot for just 30 more minutes then you can run to your bus and get to the safety of your home. So I sit, the chair feels cold and stiff. The bell rings, and I don’t even acknowledge that anyone is around me, I just automatically walk to my brother’s last class. I see him standing talking to a friend. The only thing permanent in this world is family.

“Sean please walk me to the bus”, I said.

He looks at me and that’s all it took. He doesn’t even say bye to his friend and walks me to the bus, I hug him, and explanations can come later. I sit on the longest bus ride I can remember, looking at the trees zooming by, and I hear my inner intuition whisper to me, “there goes the trust”.

Calloused toes crunch on the hardwood.

Up, turn, leap, jump, splice, sharp!

Heavy breathes fume out of my dry mouth.

5,6,7,8.

Heart pumps in nervous warmth.

Pointed leg, toes curled, remember to smile.

Look of disappointed flashes towards me as I miss a beat.

Again, from the top, remember to count!

“Confidence, confidence”, whispered to myself as I strain my aching muscles.

Solo part, remember to keep shoulders down.

One sharp breath and

Turn up.
Turn down.
Push against gravity.
Throw leg across.
Bend back leg.
Land.

Nailed it. Breathe. Smile.

All for the love of dance.

By Katie Redmiles

Jealousy is the opposite of love not hate.
It encircles the heart with its thorny vines,
leaving the golden warmth to suffocate.

Can I really control my own fate?
Scenarios possess my mind, and I know
jealousy is the opposite of love not hate.

Torturous contractions of my stomach, create
the seeping sensation that the emerald poison is
leaving the golden warmth to suffocate.

A glance, a shift, a nod, I begin to ruminate
on those whose stole your tantalizing wiles. Its true
jealousy is the opposite of love not hate.

It’s a disease! I cry to escape this state
of mind, that is a vice on my image of you,
leaving the golden warmth to suffocate.

This parasite threatens to dominate
my love for you, I already feel it slipping,
leaving the golden warmth to suffocate, and that’s it,
jealousy is the opposite of love not hate.

By Katie Redmiles

Mona Lisa’s Secret

The oil paint fumes filled
my nostrils, drifting up
to the valley between my
eyes, making me
subtly dizzy.

His face is crinkled
in deep concentration,
I can see with every
brush stroke that
his delicate fingers
are creating a master piece
of refined mystery.

Every so often his
sharp blue eyes
dart to my face,
searching me for
clues to what
his paintbrush will
accomplish next.

I wonder if his
brush can depict
my chest rising
and falling in
nervous heat.

My palms are damp
from laying on top of
each other, insulating
all the clammy heat from
my body.

For I sit stiff upon
this wooden bench,
every nerve alive with
the unnatural stillness
of my body.

His eyes look back up
at me, reflected in them
I see the image of what he
plans for this portrait.

What the portrait will not portray,
however,
is that my heart is attached to the
man behind the oil
smeared canvas.

I hold his gaze for a moment,
and attempt to smile.

But,  what comes out is the slight curve of lips sealed.
A secret caged in a frame.

By Katie Redmiles

The Cherry-wood of
the instrument gleams
with fingerprints
uncleaned.

In its hollowness
you strum out
songs of eloquent depth
through simple sounds.

To its neck
you cling,
pressing down each
chord as if the relationship between your fingers and the metal
is the connection between body and soul.

The divot in the
body fits snug against
your arched torso, as if the melody
binds the two together.

With every jagged movement
of your pick, you
beat your hand onto
the guitar’s base.

You try to suppress the
knowledge of who gave you
this wooden instrument that
with its rusted strings and
empty core brings
you an escape from
the memories of
his twisted betrayal.

But, just as in life as in
your music,
your father is always there.

By Katie Redmiles