I have thrived in creative writing only when I have been in supporting groups.
This has mostly been classes- college, high school, even that one 4th grade class.
I am not a student anymore in a traditional sense but I am still learning.
I have a vision for a collection of stories I want to write, but I need fuel.
I need other people to help inspire me. And to gear each other toward creativity in their craft.
If you live in the northern VA area (preferably around Loudoun), please let me know if you would like to become part of the writing group I'll be starting.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Georgie Lover
This was published in my alma mater's literary journal two years ago. I haven't written much, short story wise since then, but after re-discovering this, I want to get back to it.
Mr. Brissenden has stepped out. As usual, Georgie is sunk down in the corner of room, her squinting eyes concentrating very hard on her wooden race car. Everyone in the class knows, though, that she isn’t one to give a damn about a race car. Wood shop is not her thing. We don’t know what that thing is; she is the slowest kid in gym class (even though she isn’t that fat). She gets in daily disputes about her math homework with Ms. Fishbond. And even though she is supposedly good at writing, she refuses to participate in English class. One time, Mrs. Lampert asked us to write about which animal we would be. A pretty retarded assignment, if you ask me. Everyone had to get up and read their essay. Georgie stared down at her desk until Mrs. Lampert called her out to go. Normal to Georgie, she slowly raised her drooping body up, her baggy pants sagging to the ground, and her wild hair hanging over her eyes, and read her essay as fast as she could and sat down, almost crashing into her chair. Mrs. Lampert was not pleased, and asked her to read it one more time, slowly. She reluctantly obliged and stood back up. Her voice is slighted by a lisp, but she suddenly read her story out theatrically, placing emphasis on certain words. The class, at one minute giggling in the background was suddenly silent. I couldn’t believe she wanted to be a lion, out of all animals. This precious moment needed to broken up. “RAWR!” I exclaimed, cackling. “Georgie, let us hear you roar for Jesus!” Everyone roared in laughter.
The car is disassembled in its different pieces. She doesn’t touch her tools, or the pieces, just ponders them through her goggle-like glasses, probably making up some elaborate, but altogether pathetic, metaphor about them. The cars were supposed to be assembled two days ago. We are now painting them. Completely done, I take mine on a spin on the race track. Seizing his opportunity, Ricky Evans makes his way over to Georgie, with a glint of glee in his eyes. I know that glint. But I reject my first instinct is to join in on the effort. She doesn’t look up and keeps staring at her mound of rubble, her long thick hair draping over the chaos. It doesn’t bother anyone that Georgie looks so sullen. Especially not Ricky. He stares at her.
“You definitely stuff your bra.”
Her eyes do not stray from the broken car.
“Trying to ignore me, now? Look at me! What makes you think you will get any boy by stuffing your bra? You still look like a butt-ugly man. You think that any guy will like you for stuffing your bra?”
“Shut up, Ricky. Just leave me alone for one day.”
“Don’t tell me to shut up, George. It’s clear you stuff your bra, so why don’t you go ahead and tell everyone you do. You don’t have any friends to lose. It won’t make a difference, except we’d at least respect you more.”
“Yes I do.”
“Name one. See? You can’t name one. You buck-toothed bitch.”
He nudges me, “Dave, would you take this bitch to the school dance?”
It’s been a long-running joke. On a bet, in the 6th grade I asked Georgie to go to the dance. She scrunched her nose at me and informed me that she was too pretty to go to the dance with me. I laughed in her face, and told her no boy would ever go to the dance with a buck-toothed bitch, and she might as well give up on liking any guys, because no one would ever like her. Unless it was Norton Smith, who poops his pants.
Think fast. I have to say something, or I’ll be a Georgie Lover.
I snicker. “No way, man.” I sneer at Georgie, looking at her up and down.
Ricky is satisfied enough with that response. “Yeah, you hear that, Georgie? You’re not too pretty for anyone. No one wants to feel the tissue in your bra.”
“Shut up!”
“BITCH. I bet your mom and dad regret having you. You are a waste of space. You reject—
“SHUT UP!” Georgie’s high-pitched yell pierces the ears of everyone sitting in wood shop. Tears quickly flood her eyes. I remember yesterday, and I feel a sharp pang as she flees the classroom.
The class erupts in a gallant cheer. Ricky stands back up to take a bow. For once, I wonder if I should go comfort her. I don’t. Ricky, for once, is hailed king. He made Georgie cry. We try many different methods- we imitate her, ridicule her, spit in her face, stick blow pops in her grizzly hair, call her out in class, make her do things in front of the class for everyone’s enjoyment. Georgie hasn’t cried, though, since the end of sixth grade.
Just as many of us don’t like Ricky and his jiggling stomach bouncing back and forth with each pound of his foot. He used the boob thing I started, even though it’s old. Georgie has had boobs ever since the fifth grade. One time at the end of a day while we were all reading under the desks, I caught eye of her cleavage hanging out of her v-neck shirt. I was like, “Ew” and mortified she sat up and put her jacket on. She and everyone else knew they were real. To us guys, they are her one good attribute. To her, it’s more torment. The girls accused her of showing off. Whenever we play “Act like Georgie,” we’d sassay down the halls, sticking our chests out. I about peed my pants when Dan Sapp introduced that game.
---
I sit in woodshop, quiet for the first time ever in that class. I think about what happened yesterday and why I can’t enjoy Georgie’s reaction.
I caught the Brians and Daryl in time to catch the bus. Georgie was not there. I was disappointed that I had no one to throw spit balls at. Daryl always protested, anyway. I informed him that going to youth group with some loser was no reason to be best friends for life. He nudged me, hard, in the stomach. It was mid-afternoon and for January, the sun was bright and ferocious, straining our faces as we made it to the Henley House.
Daryl’s house was always the place we went after school to play video games. When we got in, Mrs. Henley, was in the kitchen speaking, urgently, on the phone. “Oh. I see… I can’t believe something could happen like that…so young…I’ll be praying for them. I can’t believe it.”
We couldn’t make out her somber voice. She hung up the phone and looked carefully at us. Her glance seemed to be directed at me. She knew full well the sort of relationship I had with Georgie.
“You remember Greg, right? He’s Georgia’s older brother. He got in a car accident last night. They’re saying he won’t make it.”
Daryl was stone-faced. The Brians held their eyes tightly. Brian C. looked to be choking back tears, as best he could.
“When did that happen?” I managed to mumble.
“Sometime last night.”
All of us stayed for dinner and were very quiet around the table. We ate with Daryl’s parents, rather than pile in Daryl’s room to discuss some all-important topic, like who will win the Mets/Yankees game and our scores in fantasy baseball. A thick air hung over us as we tried to eat our ravioli. The taste seemed sour. We weren’t eating or talking. I stared at my bowl, squishing the ravioli with my fork and swishing the cheese filling around the blood red sauce.
After dinner, Mr. Henley disrupted the silence by turning on Halo. It was the most dead game we every played. I remembered Greg. He babysat me when I was 8. He was smart, had a sweet jump shot, and plenty of girlfriends. He was nothing like his sister. I wondered how she became so strange. We didn’t talk or attempt Ms. Fishbond’s math problems last night. We just kept playing.
---
No one in woodshop is aware of what has happened. Even when Georgie came late to class, no one suspected a thing. She always looks for ways to miss school, for at least part of the day. Ricky had his fun with her. She left class crying. Now I sit wondering if I should go talk to her. Before I have the chance to humiliate myself, she comes back to class shortly still wiping tears from her eyes. Why did she come to school today? I give her a hand cutting things during woodshop. She doesn’t show any expression of gratitude nor hate for my help. Just another bully patronizing her work. She does not object, though. She just stands there, breathing deeply over my shoulder. I finally decide to say something.
“I heard about your brother. I’m sorry.”
Georgie looks at me, with her typical puzzled face. “About what?”
“Mrs. Henley told me he’s dying.”
“He’s going to live,” she retorts defiantly.
“OK.” I don’t know what to say.
“He did get in an accident. But it’s OK. It appears worse now than it is.
“OK.”
“It’s really no big deal.” Tears begin to fill her eyes, again.
“OK, fine.”
She walks away. She will not give me the satisfaction to see her cry again. I keep working on her car, remembering Mrs. Henley describing the respirator controversy. Being a veg, they said they’re going to disconnect him. A few guys help me construct her car, because they think I’m just showing off my woodshop skills.
---
She’s absent from class. Only a few people miss her, but that’s because they have to find someone else to complete their English exercises. On her fourth day missing, our homeroom teacher finally dishes out the news: Greg got disconnected.
Georgia is back. Everyone is particularly nice to her. Even Ricky turns his eyes back when they go towards her blouse. People stop calling her Georgie or George. Both nicknames she absolutely hates.
Whenever I pass her in the hallways, I don’t know what to do. She doesn’t acknowledge my friendly waves. She doesn’t even acknowledge anyone’s insults.
---
I finally go to youth group with the Henleys. They’ve been trying for ages to get me to go. Now, they’re hesitant to bring me. “Georgia is very sensitive right now. I don’t want anything to go wrong.” Mrs. Henley has been her mentor and knows all of Georgia’s disputes with me. When I go through the church doors, something looks plain out wrong. Georgia is running around the room, sometimes taking giant leaps and singing out songs, loud and horribly out of key, with her two best friends. I didn’t know she had friends. But there they are, and they’re pretty with American Eagle tees, straight long hair, and straight shining teeth. When she takes notice of me, she starts to sing the loudest out of all three of them. I even see the younger girls copying them. Mrs. Henley blows her whistle to get together a game of soccer. To my surprise and dismay, Georgia joins in. In gym class she forgets to dress out on purpose and never willingly participates in recess games. One time, when Ms. Deterow had enough of Georgie’s laziness, she directed her to start playing basketball or get detention. Georgie blew up and cried uncontrollably. She was escorted out of class, and her mom picked her up to bring her to the doctor.
And now she wants to play soccer!? And she’s the fourth person picked! I try to keep myself from reverting back to my same old self but this is too much to take in! She plays defense hard, willing to thrust her flabby body in front of the ball. She aggressively trips me as she steals the ball from me the third time. The Brian B. and Brian C. laugh. “You just can’t keep control of the ball can you, Dave?”
It’s clear that she is the hot shot of this youth group. And I can’t figure it out. Has she always been this way? Why isn’t she mourning her brother?
---
The game is over. Through the window, we notice snow falling on the ground and cheer in hopes the county will call school off tomorrow. Georgia’s smile turns to a glare and she walks outside directly to Mrs. Henley’s car, without a coat. Her parents are apparently unable to pick her up. It’s strange riding back in the same car with her, but I try to treat it like the school bus, where you don’t have to talk to anyone. Daryl, the Brians and I are silent, which is a bad idea when you have someone who talks as much as Mrs. Henley. She talks to all of us about general things but then turns her attention to the girl.
“Georgia.”
“Yeah?” Georgia raises her face from the window.
“How are you holding up?”
“I’m OK,” she says almost defensively, squinting her bushy eyebrows down to her eyes.
“You had fun tonight.”
“I did,” she smiles, her blue eyes gleaming.
“I’m glad. Aren’t you guys glad?” We all bob our heads up and down.
“Thank you.” She turns to us. “I can’t wait to play soccer again, next week.”
“Just be easy on Dave!” cracks Daryl. He starts to snicker at me. Georgia, Mrs. Henley and the Brians all join in, their laughter almost to turn to tears. I sit with my arms crossed.
“Lighten up, Dave!” says Brian C. nudging me playfully in my gut.
I can’t stand it any longer. “Why don’t you act that way at school?”
The laughter is disrupted. She stares at me. Her gleaming eyes turn dark.
“I can’t!”
“What’s the big deal?—”
“David!” Mrs. Henley’s sharp voice warns me.
“At church I have friends. At school my own “friends” laugh at me. But at church people laugh with me!”
“Georgia’s life has turned completely upside down, Dave. You can’t expect her to act any way. And Georgia, don’t try to be anything but yourself in any situation. God made you beautiful just as you are.”
Georgie’s face turns bright red and she nods. I would probably do the same if someone told me God made me beautiful. More embarrassed than comforted. This comforting gesture – I could use against her! Sneer my nose into her face in the hallway and mimic Mrs. Henley’s words, “God made you beautiful!” Take a snapshot of her reaction and pin copies of it all over the school. Yes, this is great stuff.
I take a moment and relish in my wicked thought until I notice the snow has turned to ice. It slams the roof of the car with the greatest wrath to any thought I could have made. I shove my vileness away.
“Yeah” I agree grinning towards myself. “God made us all the same.” I hope the ice will go away now. Georgia lowers her eyebrows back down to her eyes and stares at me in bewilderment.
“Life is changing fast,” Mrs. Henley chimes in.
---
We get three days off from school. Georgie’s face does not droop as she walks the halls on our first day back. She doesn’t acknowledge anyone either, just stares straight ahead. She doesn’t notice anything. A few huge, rowdy kids get in a fight in the middle of the hallway. One kid is pushed right into Georgie, who doesn’t even notice the fight. She gets knocked down with the other kid. Everyone laughs or asks if she’s OK. She just gets up and pretends nothing happened. That’s the kind of girl she is now.
Mr. Brissenden has stepped out. As usual, Georgie is sunk down in the corner of room, her squinting eyes concentrating very hard on her wooden race car. Everyone in the class knows, though, that she isn’t one to give a damn about a race car. Wood shop is not her thing. We don’t know what that thing is; she is the slowest kid in gym class (even though she isn’t that fat). She gets in daily disputes about her math homework with Ms. Fishbond. And even though she is supposedly good at writing, she refuses to participate in English class. One time, Mrs. Lampert asked us to write about which animal we would be. A pretty retarded assignment, if you ask me. Everyone had to get up and read their essay. Georgie stared down at her desk until Mrs. Lampert called her out to go. Normal to Georgie, she slowly raised her drooping body up, her baggy pants sagging to the ground, and her wild hair hanging over her eyes, and read her essay as fast as she could and sat down, almost crashing into her chair. Mrs. Lampert was not pleased, and asked her to read it one more time, slowly. She reluctantly obliged and stood back up. Her voice is slighted by a lisp, but she suddenly read her story out theatrically, placing emphasis on certain words. The class, at one minute giggling in the background was suddenly silent. I couldn’t believe she wanted to be a lion, out of all animals. This precious moment needed to broken up. “RAWR!” I exclaimed, cackling. “Georgie, let us hear you roar for Jesus!” Everyone roared in laughter.
The car is disassembled in its different pieces. She doesn’t touch her tools, or the pieces, just ponders them through her goggle-like glasses, probably making up some elaborate, but altogether pathetic, metaphor about them. The cars were supposed to be assembled two days ago. We are now painting them. Completely done, I take mine on a spin on the race track. Seizing his opportunity, Ricky Evans makes his way over to Georgie, with a glint of glee in his eyes. I know that glint. But I reject my first instinct is to join in on the effort. She doesn’t look up and keeps staring at her mound of rubble, her long thick hair draping over the chaos. It doesn’t bother anyone that Georgie looks so sullen. Especially not Ricky. He stares at her.
“You definitely stuff your bra.”
Her eyes do not stray from the broken car.
“Trying to ignore me, now? Look at me! What makes you think you will get any boy by stuffing your bra? You still look like a butt-ugly man. You think that any guy will like you for stuffing your bra?”
“Shut up, Ricky. Just leave me alone for one day.”
“Don’t tell me to shut up, George. It’s clear you stuff your bra, so why don’t you go ahead and tell everyone you do. You don’t have any friends to lose. It won’t make a difference, except we’d at least respect you more.”
“Yes I do.”
“Name one. See? You can’t name one. You buck-toothed bitch.”
He nudges me, “Dave, would you take this bitch to the school dance?”
It’s been a long-running joke. On a bet, in the 6th grade I asked Georgie to go to the dance. She scrunched her nose at me and informed me that she was too pretty to go to the dance with me. I laughed in her face, and told her no boy would ever go to the dance with a buck-toothed bitch, and she might as well give up on liking any guys, because no one would ever like her. Unless it was Norton Smith, who poops his pants.
Think fast. I have to say something, or I’ll be a Georgie Lover.
I snicker. “No way, man.” I sneer at Georgie, looking at her up and down.
Ricky is satisfied enough with that response. “Yeah, you hear that, Georgie? You’re not too pretty for anyone. No one wants to feel the tissue in your bra.”
“Shut up!”
“BITCH. I bet your mom and dad regret having you. You are a waste of space. You reject—
“SHUT UP!” Georgie’s high-pitched yell pierces the ears of everyone sitting in wood shop. Tears quickly flood her eyes. I remember yesterday, and I feel a sharp pang as she flees the classroom.
The class erupts in a gallant cheer. Ricky stands back up to take a bow. For once, I wonder if I should go comfort her. I don’t. Ricky, for once, is hailed king. He made Georgie cry. We try many different methods- we imitate her, ridicule her, spit in her face, stick blow pops in her grizzly hair, call her out in class, make her do things in front of the class for everyone’s enjoyment. Georgie hasn’t cried, though, since the end of sixth grade.
Just as many of us don’t like Ricky and his jiggling stomach bouncing back and forth with each pound of his foot. He used the boob thing I started, even though it’s old. Georgie has had boobs ever since the fifth grade. One time at the end of a day while we were all reading under the desks, I caught eye of her cleavage hanging out of her v-neck shirt. I was like, “Ew” and mortified she sat up and put her jacket on. She and everyone else knew they were real. To us guys, they are her one good attribute. To her, it’s more torment. The girls accused her of showing off. Whenever we play “Act like Georgie,” we’d sassay down the halls, sticking our chests out. I about peed my pants when Dan Sapp introduced that game.
---
I sit in woodshop, quiet for the first time ever in that class. I think about what happened yesterday and why I can’t enjoy Georgie’s reaction.
I caught the Brians and Daryl in time to catch the bus. Georgie was not there. I was disappointed that I had no one to throw spit balls at. Daryl always protested, anyway. I informed him that going to youth group with some loser was no reason to be best friends for life. He nudged me, hard, in the stomach. It was mid-afternoon and for January, the sun was bright and ferocious, straining our faces as we made it to the Henley House.
Daryl’s house was always the place we went after school to play video games. When we got in, Mrs. Henley, was in the kitchen speaking, urgently, on the phone. “Oh. I see… I can’t believe something could happen like that…so young…I’ll be praying for them. I can’t believe it.”
We couldn’t make out her somber voice. She hung up the phone and looked carefully at us. Her glance seemed to be directed at me. She knew full well the sort of relationship I had with Georgie.
“You remember Greg, right? He’s Georgia’s older brother. He got in a car accident last night. They’re saying he won’t make it.”
Daryl was stone-faced. The Brians held their eyes tightly. Brian C. looked to be choking back tears, as best he could.
“When did that happen?” I managed to mumble.
“Sometime last night.”
All of us stayed for dinner and were very quiet around the table. We ate with Daryl’s parents, rather than pile in Daryl’s room to discuss some all-important topic, like who will win the Mets/Yankees game and our scores in fantasy baseball. A thick air hung over us as we tried to eat our ravioli. The taste seemed sour. We weren’t eating or talking. I stared at my bowl, squishing the ravioli with my fork and swishing the cheese filling around the blood red sauce.
After dinner, Mr. Henley disrupted the silence by turning on Halo. It was the most dead game we every played. I remembered Greg. He babysat me when I was 8. He was smart, had a sweet jump shot, and plenty of girlfriends. He was nothing like his sister. I wondered how she became so strange. We didn’t talk or attempt Ms. Fishbond’s math problems last night. We just kept playing.
---
No one in woodshop is aware of what has happened. Even when Georgie came late to class, no one suspected a thing. She always looks for ways to miss school, for at least part of the day. Ricky had his fun with her. She left class crying. Now I sit wondering if I should go talk to her. Before I have the chance to humiliate myself, she comes back to class shortly still wiping tears from her eyes. Why did she come to school today? I give her a hand cutting things during woodshop. She doesn’t show any expression of gratitude nor hate for my help. Just another bully patronizing her work. She does not object, though. She just stands there, breathing deeply over my shoulder. I finally decide to say something.
“I heard about your brother. I’m sorry.”
Georgie looks at me, with her typical puzzled face. “About what?”
“Mrs. Henley told me he’s dying.”
“He’s going to live,” she retorts defiantly.
“OK.” I don’t know what to say.
“He did get in an accident. But it’s OK. It appears worse now than it is.
“OK.”
“It’s really no big deal.” Tears begin to fill her eyes, again.
“OK, fine.”
She walks away. She will not give me the satisfaction to see her cry again. I keep working on her car, remembering Mrs. Henley describing the respirator controversy. Being a veg, they said they’re going to disconnect him. A few guys help me construct her car, because they think I’m just showing off my woodshop skills.
---
She’s absent from class. Only a few people miss her, but that’s because they have to find someone else to complete their English exercises. On her fourth day missing, our homeroom teacher finally dishes out the news: Greg got disconnected.
Georgia is back. Everyone is particularly nice to her. Even Ricky turns his eyes back when they go towards her blouse. People stop calling her Georgie or George. Both nicknames she absolutely hates.
Whenever I pass her in the hallways, I don’t know what to do. She doesn’t acknowledge my friendly waves. She doesn’t even acknowledge anyone’s insults.
---
I finally go to youth group with the Henleys. They’ve been trying for ages to get me to go. Now, they’re hesitant to bring me. “Georgia is very sensitive right now. I don’t want anything to go wrong.” Mrs. Henley has been her mentor and knows all of Georgia’s disputes with me. When I go through the church doors, something looks plain out wrong. Georgia is running around the room, sometimes taking giant leaps and singing out songs, loud and horribly out of key, with her two best friends. I didn’t know she had friends. But there they are, and they’re pretty with American Eagle tees, straight long hair, and straight shining teeth. When she takes notice of me, she starts to sing the loudest out of all three of them. I even see the younger girls copying them. Mrs. Henley blows her whistle to get together a game of soccer. To my surprise and dismay, Georgia joins in. In gym class she forgets to dress out on purpose and never willingly participates in recess games. One time, when Ms. Deterow had enough of Georgie’s laziness, she directed her to start playing basketball or get detention. Georgie blew up and cried uncontrollably. She was escorted out of class, and her mom picked her up to bring her to the doctor.
And now she wants to play soccer!? And she’s the fourth person picked! I try to keep myself from reverting back to my same old self but this is too much to take in! She plays defense hard, willing to thrust her flabby body in front of the ball. She aggressively trips me as she steals the ball from me the third time. The Brian B. and Brian C. laugh. “You just can’t keep control of the ball can you, Dave?”
It’s clear that she is the hot shot of this youth group. And I can’t figure it out. Has she always been this way? Why isn’t she mourning her brother?
---
The game is over. Through the window, we notice snow falling on the ground and cheer in hopes the county will call school off tomorrow. Georgia’s smile turns to a glare and she walks outside directly to Mrs. Henley’s car, without a coat. Her parents are apparently unable to pick her up. It’s strange riding back in the same car with her, but I try to treat it like the school bus, where you don’t have to talk to anyone. Daryl, the Brians and I are silent, which is a bad idea when you have someone who talks as much as Mrs. Henley. She talks to all of us about general things but then turns her attention to the girl.
“Georgia.”
“Yeah?” Georgia raises her face from the window.
“How are you holding up?”
“I’m OK,” she says almost defensively, squinting her bushy eyebrows down to her eyes.
“You had fun tonight.”
“I did,” she smiles, her blue eyes gleaming.
“I’m glad. Aren’t you guys glad?” We all bob our heads up and down.
“Thank you.” She turns to us. “I can’t wait to play soccer again, next week.”
“Just be easy on Dave!” cracks Daryl. He starts to snicker at me. Georgia, Mrs. Henley and the Brians all join in, their laughter almost to turn to tears. I sit with my arms crossed.
“Lighten up, Dave!” says Brian C. nudging me playfully in my gut.
I can’t stand it any longer. “Why don’t you act that way at school?”
The laughter is disrupted. She stares at me. Her gleaming eyes turn dark.
“I can’t!”
“What’s the big deal?—”
“David!” Mrs. Henley’s sharp voice warns me.
“At church I have friends. At school my own “friends” laugh at me. But at church people laugh with me!”
“Georgia’s life has turned completely upside down, Dave. You can’t expect her to act any way. And Georgia, don’t try to be anything but yourself in any situation. God made you beautiful just as you are.”
Georgie’s face turns bright red and she nods. I would probably do the same if someone told me God made me beautiful. More embarrassed than comforted. This comforting gesture – I could use against her! Sneer my nose into her face in the hallway and mimic Mrs. Henley’s words, “God made you beautiful!” Take a snapshot of her reaction and pin copies of it all over the school. Yes, this is great stuff.
I take a moment and relish in my wicked thought until I notice the snow has turned to ice. It slams the roof of the car with the greatest wrath to any thought I could have made. I shove my vileness away.
“Yeah” I agree grinning towards myself. “God made us all the same.” I hope the ice will go away now. Georgia lowers her eyebrows back down to her eyes and stares at me in bewilderment.
“Life is changing fast,” Mrs. Henley chimes in.
---
We get three days off from school. Georgie’s face does not droop as she walks the halls on our first day back. She doesn’t acknowledge anyone either, just stares straight ahead. She doesn’t notice anything. A few huge, rowdy kids get in a fight in the middle of the hallway. One kid is pushed right into Georgie, who doesn’t even notice the fight. She gets knocked down with the other kid. Everyone laughs or asks if she’s OK. She just gets up and pretends nothing happened. That’s the kind of girl she is now.
Monday, December 7, 2009
inspirations
Hi everyone,
I need to get back into creative writing on a consistent basis, but I don't have much imagination right now. It's caused a major block in my writing process. What I want to do is establish a collaborative writing project and invite friends, family and acquaintances to join in.
Here are several things you can do. You can pick one or any:
1) Offer up a photograph. It cannot just be a picture of a flower; something needs to be going on.
2) Had a vivid dream lately? Share it with me. Write me a paragraph about the dream.
3) What is going on in your life? Any interesting events? Quirky mishaps. Write me a few paragraphs about it.
4)What memories have been on your mind? Share briefly about it. 1-3 paragraphs.
I do not know what I will do with these prompts...a poem, short story, one-act play could come out of it. Even a lot more, if it leads there. I can change names and specific details, and of course my stories will bounce off of yours. It could take on new shapes and forms. But if I use your prompt, I will certainly credit you in future blog postings or even publishings.
Please comment below or send me an e-mail at janelloespo@gmail.com
Thank you for any help you can offer,
Janelle
Monday, October 12, 2009
neighborhood starbucks: picture 2
Please keep in mind that these poems posted recently are only 2nd drafts and so are in their mold phase of their evolutionary process. Thank you.
A tiny man- barely there, except
Out of him exutes a loud, raspy shout.
The voice is still small- but boisterous.
It seems to carry an echo
Like a voice marred by 50 years of smoking
But still won’t notice his inability to talk
Everything he says comes out in this same
Raspy, friendly yell.
He bounces around as he walks-
A joy and restlessness to his stride—
A wanting to be liked
By younger co-workers and customers.
As he cracks out a dirty joke.
He greets you cheerfully—
With a rough gleam in that tiny voice.
And serves coffee heartfully,
He tells you he’s been there 8 years.
But neglects to ask “Room for cream?”
You take your seat at a window bar booth-
But through the reflection—you see the
Employees jostling, cleaning
He jokingly cries—
“you’re fired!”
As he picks up a heavy black matt
And wriggles off the water as if to
Prove something about his capacity—
He can do it. He can do anything.
The congenial supervisor sees him along—
Afterall, the smokeman is off at 10.
He sweeps the café,
Shuffling chairs around like cards
With their legs uneccessarily scraping the floor—
He sweeps, and then mops,
Through all the curves and nooks,
Careful not to intude on a reading or chatting customer.
After 8 years, he still cares by the way
He pushes the bar stools far back, so
He can sweep the
Coffee cake crumbles,
Straw wrappers, and
Smooshed Splenda packets.
From your position you hear
A sudden grunt! An exclamation!
He must be displeased by the mess
the customer unthinkingly leaves.
He works steadily and then notices you
Before he leaves. He says goodbye—
And re-inroduces himself.
“I’m ANDY! Are you single?”
You grin and say “Yes I am.”
“You’re beautiful!!” he exclaims “Like a model!”
“Maybe we should get together!” He moves his
arms in a suggestive way. You just laugh.
Aside from the dirty suggestion, that’s the
Nicest thing a single person has said
To you since you moved back 2 years ago.
He puts his bomber thrift jacket on,
Nods his head,
And then leaves the store, in his
Bouncy, cheerful stride.
neighborhood starbucks: picture 1
Watching a father and
a daughter—down syndrome?
The father gingerly orders his drink
While the daughter chooses a spot—
Right next to me—
I felt flattered by her choosing,
But then again,
She was unaware of my general presence
She took a seat at the couch-like booth
Crossing her legs and taking off her shoes
Which expose her bare, chubby feet
And puts them on the window sill—
This makes me silently giggle.
The father laughs and tells her,
Unseriously, to put them back on
He takes a sip of his coffee-
As she takes from her bag
From next door,
A dunkin donuts glazed
Crumbs go everywhere
As she delightly devours it
I enjoy watching them interact
They speak so intimately
So tenderly, like they had
Ten thousand inside jokes
I wish I talked to my loved ones like that.
After eating, they re-locate to a bar booth,
As if they were bothering my reading,
After returning from the restroom,
He laughs and gives her tiny nose
A gentle kiss.
And my eyes water, for just a bit-
Realizing this was not just any picture
Of a Father who loves me more than this.
Monday, December 8, 2008
first poem in awhile
I wear brokenness around my neck –
It's a green scarf with stripes- tattered but still fashionable.
I hide myself in it to keep from sudden exposure
To the crashing sky that breathes
Heavy, knockyaover winds
I carry brokenness with me
Slung upon one aching shoulder
- a quilted bag, each patch telling
stories of a place once strange to me.
stories I have chosen to forget.
I punch brokenness through the holes in my body
The black and white half moons dangle,
dragging my ears down with their weight
But vain beauty keeps them there all day.
My brokenness attracts other people.
The vivid colors, intricate patterns
Sometimes begs the question-
"Where did you get it?"
I am hesitant to reply. I don't want to brag.
As I stutter the place's name I still sound
Exotic. Lovely. Noble.
I am not those things.
I do not know why I choose to wear these pieces.
Especially when it relates to a place I'd care not
To re-visit. Perhaps because I can only be
At least a shadow of the girl I once was. But each
Accessory has brought the demise of that form of me.
I can't look back. Not even with the reminders.
I wear my brokenness as novelty now-
paraded with pride, people mistaking it with loveliness.
In private, I notice the scheme but
It's the only way it will fit.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Etches- first draft
I’m writing things on my hand
To help me remember what I need
‘Let go’ is the most commonly written proverb
on the flat surface adjacent to my thumb
I like to write in black ink
Blue ink just cheapens
The tree chronically
Etched my wrist
I rarely write a to-do
Or a phone number –
I waste receipt backs for such
Menial things
I write ‘victory’ on the front of my hand
Things fade quicker from the sweat
Condensed from the back.
My fingers curl into a fist too often
There are only certain places on my small
hand I can write anything long-winded -
The upper palm, exposed, flat down, near the edge
I quote a scripture- one which speaks of no shame
My hands are for me to see as I write and do things.
I go, unaware, that other people are exposed to them.
My boss- an elderly woman in a floral frock-
Asks condescendingly “why do you write on yourself?”,
as if it were akin to cutting.
I hold my hands up to see what was so important,
And explain: “See I’m a Christian and…”
“I’m a Christian too!” she interjects
“but I don’t write on myself!”
“And I like to write reminders to myself
of who I am” I finish in defense.
she scrunches her face in confusion,
but continues to explain the new system.
I don’t wash the good words off on purpose
They always just fade
Just like any positive thought-
present in an instance-
And then gone.
To help me remember what I need
‘Let go’ is the most commonly written proverb
on the flat surface adjacent to my thumb
I like to write in black ink
Blue ink just cheapens
The tree chronically
Etched my wrist
I rarely write a to-do
Or a phone number –
I waste receipt backs for such
Menial things
I write ‘victory’ on the front of my hand
Things fade quicker from the sweat
Condensed from the back.
My fingers curl into a fist too often
There are only certain places on my small
hand I can write anything long-winded -
The upper palm, exposed, flat down, near the edge
I quote a scripture- one which speaks of no shame
My hands are for me to see as I write and do things.
I go, unaware, that other people are exposed to them.
My boss- an elderly woman in a floral frock-
Asks condescendingly “why do you write on yourself?”,
as if it were akin to cutting.
I hold my hands up to see what was so important,
And explain: “See I’m a Christian and…”
“I’m a Christian too!” she interjects
“but I don’t write on myself!”
“And I like to write reminders to myself
of who I am” I finish in defense.
she scrunches her face in confusion,
but continues to explain the new system.
I don’t wash the good words off on purpose
They always just fade
Just like any positive thought-
present in an instance-
And then gone.
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