The English department provides ample opportunity to utilize and hone my Creative Writing skills. Below is a selection of writing in Poetry, Fiction, non-Fiction. Some of the pieces are from my blog and the body of work spans several years. I hope to continue adding and editing this page to highlight my best work.
Norman Rockwell’s Self Portrait
APRIL 10, 2015 | Journal 3: The Impossible Memory
Well why not?
If the world must remember me,
let them remember me like this.
I’ll show them what I’d do if
I were to draw myself. I’ll show people
how everyone wants to be remembered;
young and handsome. But I’ll also show
truth. I am not young, although some yet
complement my charm, but I know
how I’ve grown. I’ve created over three
hundred Post covers and painted the
American spirit. I keep pictures of the greats
tacked to my easel, least I forget how they wanted
to be remembered. Gogh wished to go in swirls and soft
colors. Durer sits poised in black and white, an odd little
striped hat upon his long curly hair. Rembrandt, the grumpy
looking fellow, chose to preserve his image as mostly that,
from what I can tell. And lastly, good old Picasso. I chose one of his
more colorful pieces to draw from.
Well I remember them how they wanted to be
remembered. I don’t always want to be thought of as
serious or wearing a funny striped hat. No, I want to show
me so that is what I did.
I painted myself old,
I painted myself young,
I painted who I am.
Her Blink
APRIL 5, 2015 BY SASHA | Journal 2: Strange Everyday Subjects
Eyelashes curl from her eyes.
I’ve noticed many times how the long
black threads join briefly before,
like star crossed lovers,
must ultimately separate.
They separate to allow her, seemingly,
rainbow iris watches the world around her.
I’m wounded each time her fated lovers
must meet and prevent her from seeing me.
I enjoy knowing I am a cause for
her lovers meeting more frequently.
When she notices my gaze,
hers drifts down and her lovers
teasing at a caress; they almost touch.
I revel when we kiss,
her eyes maybe hidden,
but all her lovers are joined.
Bernini’s Apollo & Daphne
APRIL 5, 2015
Leaves form from her
fingertips. Hair flies over
one shoulder from her sudden stop.
She looks back towards
Him. He thought he could capture
her heart; the only part of her he can
now reach are her eternal laurel leaves.
His hand grasps her changing waist;
he can already feel bark cocooning her.
Branches form between them leaving
the God of the sun without her light.
She was to be his wife but instead
became his tree.
She wished to be free but instead
became rooted.
She ran in disgust from him;
He ran in love for her;
I ran to see them,
frozen in one marble moment,
Together.
Mask
MARCH 30, 2015
Much of my life has been spent
on a wall. There are rare occasions when
my body has been brought down for show.
My owner treasures me;
she wipes the dust from my surface
and spends hours looking.
We used to have fun together.
We’d go to parties to
dance and drink,
she’d remain a mystery behind me.
Sometimes she will stroke my
feathered hair, or run a finger along the
curve of my beak.
Her deep purple earrings,
the ones she has to match mine,
lay in a box somewhere. They
match the lipstick she threw
away years ago.
I wish she would wear me again,
so I could see myself
one more time in the mirror.
To remember the free bird I used to be.
Noise
MARCH 27, 2015 | Journal 1
I look over my glasses, around the girl talking,
at the door that guarantees escape.
I should be listening to her, it’s probably
important, but I can’t find it in me to care.
“Nat!” I’m spurred from indifference
when Nick calls from behind. I turn to his
mischievous eyes and a simple excuse. He
begs the girl for my attention, for “the situation
is dire” and “she was needed hours ago”.
She leaves with a polite, confused
face. Once behind the safety of our door,
although it’s kept open,
we jest. He imitates her befuddled expression
and causes me to smile.
I look to our latest project, half on my table,
half on his. Moving through our daily routine,
I turn on the irons while he finds measurements
of numerous actresses. He hums a simple tune
before reaching for the radio knowing I can’t
live in silence.
He asked me once,
just once,
why I began to sew.
He hadn’t asked the several years
previously. I answered in spurts,
a comment here and there, sometimes not for days.
Silence, I had told him.
I began to sew because of the
Silence.
Silence in my home,
Silence in my family,
Silence in my heart.
The silence of my existence.
My parents cared less when I moved
away and didn’t return. They sent money
without love or thoughts of safety.
They just couldn’t let their only
baby girl be Poor.
I found nothing for a long time.
The bottle couldn’t rouse my tired mind.
On a whim I bought a machine
with empty ambitions of designing clothes,
that’s what other rich girls did when
billboards were tired of their face.
So I sat down with a sketch book
one night. I drew nothing for hours.
For hours I sat and couldn’t think of anything.
The silence was back and it was blinding.
I sat in the silence and cried,
empty sobs carried me to the machine
in attempt to find my meaning.
I threaded the needle and stitched.
The machine listened to my silence.
It was the only one who ever had;
it wasn’t even alive but it heard.
The next few years I got better.
I began working, refused the guilt
money fed to me from parents who
didn’t know anything but the silence.
I found the noise I needed,
I found joy and I embraced it.
I smile remembering his acceptance,
of me,
my machine and
my noise.
Mothers Wave
MARCH 23, 2015
The sun looms above
deep water. They inch from the
crowded shade of the boat, the waves
beckoning. Prodded, they fumble with foreign
supplies and forgotten instruction. Assisted, they
rise unsteady. Timidly, they plunge.
Plunge into the water. You forget where
you are; oceans embrace breathtaking. Like a
mother, she rocks gently, back and forth, back
and forth. She cools the suns burning
kiss and silences the winds salty whisper.
She had looked daunting.
Unknown, she was feared,
now known, she is treasured They
spin, watching her inhabitants swim freely,
unrestricted. Their colorful scales mock
bland flesh. They parade in groups
around their homes, envied by those who watch.
Time’s forgotten until the steel on their
backs remembers,
it cannot provide air.
She watches as they leave her,
settling for the night.
They will visit again;
she is confident.
Maybe not
tomorrow,
but one day,
they will return.
She knows they will.
So she waits, rocking back
and forth, waving,
she anticipates their return.
Life’s Call
FEBRUARY 23, 2015
I rub my eyes to groggily see my clock read around one am. I let my head fall into my pillow and wonder why I woke up. I hear a beep and someone begins speaking. Well, if it’s one am and someone’s calling, I should see who it is. I reluctantly push myself up from the warmth of my covers and Mark’s arms. I wince stepping from my bed onto my cold carpet and quickly shuffle to the phone.
“I hope you get this before-”
I pick up the phone before my brother finishes talking, “Robert?” I scratch my head and adjust my tank top. “Why are you calling at one in the morning?”
“Didn’t you hear my message?”
“No, you just woke me up. Now what’s up?”
“Rose,” he’s so quiet I look at the phone to make sure the battery isn’t low. “Ro, mom’s,” he pauses and sniffles “mom’s in the hospital again.”
“Alright,” I hear Mark get up from the bed “I’ll come first thing in the morning.”
“No,” Rob doesn’t bother to hold back his wavering voice “the doctors, God, the doctors, fuck,”
“Robert Edward!” I snap into the phone.
“Sorry, but,” he stops and I hear someone else “no, I’ve got-”
“Honey,” my mother’s soft voice replaces Robert’s. “Hun, the doctors don’t think I’ll make it that long.”
“But nothing’s wrong with you!”
“They think something went wrong during the surgery today.”
“But how?” I feel Mark wrap his arms around my waist as I begin to shake.
“It’s just my time hun. God has a plan and it’s my time.” She says it confidently but I can hear her voice waver.
“But why right now?” I try to keep my voice steady as tears gush down my cheeks.
“I don’t know. Hun, I don’t know but it’s gonna happen even if you’re not here and I want to see you before I go.”
“Oka,y Mommy,” I choke out “I’m coming.” I end the call and place the phone down.
“What happened?” Mark asks into my shoulder.
“Get dressed.” I say while wiping my tears away with the palm of my hand. Mark leaves me to grab last night’s discarded clothes from the floor. My body feels numb as Mark pulls me into the bedroom to get dressed. Once he hands me my clothes, I can’t seem to put them on fast enough. I scurry around the room grabbing things and shoving them in a small purse. Mark has already run down stairs and has the car started and waiting when I get there.
I don’t talk to Mark other than to direct him to the hospital. He’s to calm and that makes me furious. I start to fume in the passenger seat and start to yell at traffic lights that aren’t turning green quickly enough. We find a parking space and I open the door before Mark’s even put it in park.
I rush into the lobby surprising the security guard who was almost asleep. I ignore him and find the night nurse. I rush to explain and trip up to many words before Robert finds me. He almost knocks me down when he runs to give me a hug.
“Robert.” I hug his shaking frame while he cries on my shoulder. He straightens as I wipe his tears away. “I’m here, it’s okay.”
I see mom in the hospital bed. She looks fragile in the stale room but nowhere near weak. I find myself sitting on the bed at her hip and struggling to keep my mouth still. She reaches one hand up to cradle my cheek and I lean into the feeling of her.
“My little girl,” she says and I break down. I cry into her chest and just feel her. She lifts my face and wipes my tears with soft thumbs. I weakly hold her hands on my face so that later I can remember what she feels like, what she looks like, the smell of her, her everything.
“Stay strong for me, baby girl. I want to see you smiling.” She smiles at me and I muster a laugh through my tears. “See, I love your smile. You’re beautiful.” She reaches out to Robert and pulls him down on the bed with the both of us. She rubs Robert’s face like she did mine and he’s crying again.
She grabs one of our hands in the two of ours and kisses them. “You’re both so beautiful.” I squeeze her hand and she squeezes back in reply. “Stay strong. Don’t fight too much and know that I will always love you both.”
“Say hi to Daddy for us.” I struggle to keep my eyes open in my attempts not to cry.
“I will princess.” Tears drip down both her cheeks. “I will.”
Painted Clearly
FEBRUARY 16, 2015
Prompt 1: A woman sits on the floor of her flat, surrounded by dusty unopened, moving cartons packed seventeen months ago. Moonbeams, the only light, spill in the window.
She sits on the cold floor and cries for the disappearing memories. His shirts are losing the smell of him and she can’t keep the image of his smiling face in her mind. She folds the dusty box closed again in an attempt to preserve his memory, his presence, him. Already, she’s beginning to forget him and it hasn’t even been two years.
She looks around at the life they almost shared. Just one more day, he said. She stands and reaches for a coffee mug on the counter. She begins to throw it in her anger but realizes it was his. She lowers her arm and cradles the mug to her chest. The lettering is faded and difficult to read in the ghostly moon light but she knows it used to say Protect and Serve. She used to love the moon’s light, it was the only real time she saw him. She used to give him a hug and a kiss before he left for work.
She gently puts down his mug and goes to make a cup of tea. He hated tea so she always made him hot chocolate instead. She realizes she is pulling out the milk to make him a cup when she remembers he won’t be coming home to drink it. She starts to cry once more but quickly scolds herself. He wouldn’t want her to be crying, he’d want her to keep living. So she does.
She dumps the half steeped tea down the sink drain before grabbing a coat to leave the house. The clock by the front door says it’s a little past ten at night but she isn’t worried, it’ll still be open. She walks to an art gallery; the bell rings as she opens the door. A man inside the gallery smiles and nods at her before returning his attention to a customer. She walks up a set of stairs hidden by a large painting of a beach and sadly smiles at the serenity the painting attempts to bring her.
She’s an artist because of him. Ten years ago he encouraged her to try selling one of her pieces. She brought a painting of a forest into this gallery and it was sold almost instantly. The owner of the gallery, Joe, begged her to work for him. She walks into the workspace he gave her and turns on the lights. Dropping her jacket on a chair by the door she searches for a blank canvas to work on.
He loved her paintings so she paints for him now. She finds a brush and paints blindly. She doesn’t hear Joe come up to the studio but she notices when he sets a cup of tea next to her. She pauses to wash off a brush and he pulls her away. He tells her to take a break, just for one moment, and she reluctantly pulls away from her work.
She looks at the canvas while cradling the tea. She’s greeted by the image of a child’s bed room. A toddler’s cradle sits at one end of the room with toy trains and cars scattered around the floor. Her eyes drift across the warm colors until they land on a blue shirt. A baby sits on the right side of the canvas, his arms up and face radiating glee. She looks into the baby’s eyes and sees that, unknowingly, she painted her son.
Accident
FEBRUARY 9, 2015
“Just tell me what happened.”
“Okay. It started off a normal night, but then she just, and I got so mad. We were celebrating her acceptance to grad school. Just the two of us, we were hanging out like normal and I convinced her to have a few drinks. We’re both over 21 so it was no big deal, right? So I got her to drink with me. Neither of us realized I kept putting more alcohol in our drinks as the night went on.
We just kept drinking and after a while I put in a movie. I figured if I was distracted, I wouldn’t drink so much. So I put in a cheesy romance movie and towards the end, she started crying. I asked her what was wrong. She told me her boyfriend had just broken up with her. She balled on my shoulder and half drunk, I didn’t understand why she was upset. I hugged her for a while until I got tired of her crying. I got annoyed so I lightly slapped her. Just to get her to stop, you know? So obviously that didn’t go very well. She ended up slapping me right back, but a lot harder. Before I could get over the shock, she locked herself in my bathroom.
Well I was pretty mad. I tried to bust open the door, but look at me, I’m not strong. I didn’t do anything to the door. When I got tired of trying to open the door and not being able to, I went back to the living room couch. I picked up a bottle and started drinking again. I don’t really remember what it was at that point, what I was drinking, I mean.
So, yeah, I’m not a very good drunk. I don’t always remember everything that happens. I’m only going form half memory now. I think we both calmed down a little and maybe we both came out? I’m not too sure about anything after this. I think we both drank more and were peaceful for a while. We got started talking about past relationships to make her feel better. I started with some of my worst exes to make her feel better about her new ex. I was talking about an ex I broke up with before college started. It was a bad break up. Neither of us took it well but we did end up apart for the summer. When I was talking about him, she started blush big time. I asked her about it and she confessed to sleeping with him. I was okay with that. And that’s what I said. I was okay with it until she slipped up and told me she slept with him while we were dating.
I went into a blind rage after that, I think. The next thing I knew, I woke up in the police station. They still haven’t told me what happened to her. Is she okay? I mean, when I woke up, there was blood all over my hands and clothes and hair and everything! Can you tell me what happened?”
“Your friend is gone hun. I hate to be the one to tell you, but she’s dead. I’ll try to get you off easy. You were clearly both drunk, I just don’t know how easy I can get you off. I’ll be back soon so we can talk.”
Stuck for Life
JANUARY 30, 2015
Prompt 2:
So I was walking through a parking lot one day and saw a bumper sticker that read:
A man can never have too much red wine, too many books, or too much ammunition.
The sticker was placed under and to the right of the license plate sitting on a black pickup truck. According to the decals on the side, the truck is a Dodge Ram 2500 from 2001 and judging by the monstrous leap from pavement to door, I could infer that it had a lift kit on it too. The truck was covered in light brown dirt that’s still a little wet to the touch. What could be seen of the truck under the mud, looked like it was in really good condition to.
I opened the driver’s door to reveal black leather seats, custom floor mats and mud over almost all of it. Not entirely masked by the smell of fresh wet mud baking in the sun, in a black truck, with black seats, I could smell sweat and hey. So this truck wasn’t only for fun, but it was a work truck for a farm too.
I looked around the cab and saw a sheath knife next to the seat belt clicker thingy in the driver’s seat. The symbol on it was small and looked like a tick but I was actually familiar with the brand and knew it was a Spyderco blade. I rolled my eyes and kept looking around spotting a few empty bottles of beer littering the floor. I shrugged not really finding it uncommon for the country. Depending on the area people do actually leave their cars unlocked cuz they know no one’s gonna take anything. My eyes drifted to the back seat where I saw a dull colored blanket covering a large bulge. Curious, I lifted up the blanket slightly and discovered a shotgun case. If the bumper sticker was any kind of warning, the case was not empty.
I was about to leave the truck when my eyes focused on something else. It was a discarded napkin but there was nothing special about the napkin, it was the drawing that made me un-wrinkle the brown scratchy square. Drawn in pen was a near perfect skull. I whistled quietly in awe before finding several more napkins with more drawings of skeletons, animals, trucks and even people. How someone could discard these, I had no clue.
I decided to wait for the owner and as I was falling out of the truck, I saw a man walking closer. He looked like a farmer, plaid shirt, blue jeans, and tan work boots that were stained various darker colors. He raised an eyebrow at me and I smiled.
“Hey, I was just lookin at your truck.” I said.
“Man I wish that were my truck.” He shrugged smiling. “I’m just taggin along for groceries today.”
“Whose truck is it? Oh,” I remembered the napkins I was still holding in one hand, “and whose are these?” I asked moving aside before showing him the skull drawing as he opened the back door of the truck to put the shopping bags away.
“Mine.” I heard confidently from behind me. I saw the man smile before I turned to see a tall, well-built woman. She had curling blond hair that burst from under her white cowboy hat down to her (also plaid) shoulders. Her pants and boots were similar to the man’s and I later learned they were siblings. She smiled at me, tossed her groceries in the back of the truck with the others and we shook hands. “Hey, I’m Nikki.”
“And that,” I tell my teen son and daughter “is how I met your mother.”