Creative Writing: Old Work Found

After cleaning out all my bookmarks, I came across a site that I haven't visited in years... Elfwood. Elfwood is a writing and art community geared towards science fiction fantasy. I used to write a lot of short stories in the scifi fantasy genre, and I received Moderator's choice for four of my stories! (Moderator's choice is an award given for stories or art "that go above and beyond expectations, to promote unique, creative and high quality.")

So if you feel like reading stuff I wrote in early high school, visit my Elfwood Library !

Yay, go SciFi Fantasy!

Howling Cupcakes

My friend Travis loves wolves and he is moving to Las Vegas so for a going away party, I decided to make wolf cupcakes =)


The snout and the ears were made of marshmallows. For the red mouth, I used a strawberry fruit roll up and the teeth are just white frosting.


The noses are jelly beans and the eyes are York Peppermint Patty pieces (instead of using M&Ms)The extra cupcakes are "full moon" cupcakes, made out of sliced marshmallows.


When they are all put together, its a pack of wolves howling at the moon!

Creative Writing: Walking Photographs

Work in progress ... dedicated to my grandmother

I fear that my knowledge of my grandmother is incomplete. During holidays, her name rarely comes up anymore, as if her death signaled the exsanguination of her whole existence. Once a full blooded human being, she has now been reduced to dry remarks and yellowing photographs. She died when I was young; my only memories of her generally involve a small crystal bowl filled with hard candy. I do not remember what happened when she died, I only recall sitting in the hallway of the hospital on a stack of mattress like in “The Princess and the Pea.” I had no feeling of discomfort or awareness that my grandmother was dying; I couldn’t feel that pea under the mattresses.

All of her things were packed up into boxes and moved into our basement. Photographs, letters, jewelry, fine china, and books were shoved against the concrete walls, entombed with all the other things we keep hidden from the rest of the house. Most of them were not even labeled. I've always hated the basement. The cement floor is riddled with cracks and dangerous to bare feet. In one corner, there are three work benches, cluttered with tools with no hint of organization. In another corner, there is the washer and dryer and beside that is a large round table which became the home for anything left in the pockets of clothes. Change, receipts, make-up, buttons, cough drops. The rest of the room was filled with boxes.

Sometimes I would bring up a tea cup I found in one of the boxes and place it upstairs. Later that day, the cup would find its way back into the box it came from, back to its resting place beneath the earth. I also brought up old photographs and my father smiled, telling small stories about each photo. He said that we need to get them framed but they sat on the table for months, mail and newspapers piling on top of them until they were, once again, moved out of sight.

I would hear the occasional story about her. My father laughed as he reminisced about his childhood with his sister and three brothers. He grinned when he said that they weren’t always the most well behaved children and when they got in trouble, Grandma would pick up whatever was the closest to her and swing. “Whatever she could get her hands on” he chuckled. Since she spent most of the time in the kitchen, the available weapons included pots, pans, spoons, and cords from electrical appliances. If the child was innocent, she would smartly reply “Then that’s for the time you didn’t get caught!”

Sometimes I imagine her things jumping out of the boxes. Her silver spoons scoop at the thin concrete floor until they hit earth. The tea cups detach from their saucers and move the dirt into a corner. As the hole gets deeper, her necklaces bind together and lift the teacups from the hole, like a bucket from a well, and dump the soil. A spot of sunlight breaks through and the fine china start to chatter gleefully. Books flutter their bindings in excitement and jump into the tunnel, forming a staircase. The legs in the photographs pop out of the paper and walk down the book steps, my grandmother’s wedding photo leading the parade. An embroidered handkerchief sticks to an old piece of tape on the back of the wedding photo, assuming the position of the veil. The other photographs tread lightly but they are all smiling at the bride.

The light passes over the photo as she emerges; her cheeks flush red and her chestnut brown hair shines. She rises and grows, peeling from the photograph, the yellowing paper shrinking behind her like dry skin. I see her in the backyard through my window, walking amongst the garden with her bouquet in full bloom. A procession of her belongings march behind her and lift her delicate veil off the grass. She pauses and turns toward me with a petite smile before disappearing behind the forsythia bushes. Not all of her should remain buried.

Retail: Hurricane Irene and Last-Minute-Mommies

Saturday's are generally busy in the book store. It is a day of rest for the normal 9 to 5 workers who seek refuge from their jobs in a new book. It is also a say when parents don't want to pay someone to watch their children so they unclasp the leashes and let them run wild in the children's department. This Saturday was different because of two things: Hurricane Irene and Summer Reading. While most parents come in with their children for their school books in late July, a majority wait until a week, or even days, before classes start.

It might be cruel, but I love to tell the last-minute-mommies that their child's book is sold out. I like to see the look on their face, complete shock and a mixture of anger. With a dash of hostility, they are off ... running their mouths asking why the book is not in stock, is this not a book store? Now, this is the sweet part, the creme de la creme; I smile and say "I'm sorry, we have had our summer reading out for the last four months and since there is only a few days left until school starts, we are running very thin. Most students came in early." MmmmMmmm, sweeter than honey. And that mother's face! She is angry, but I am okay because she is not angry with me, she is angry at her kid or herself.

The mother's usually bite back with "Well I wish I knew it wasn't here before I dragged myself into traffic." I smile again, sweetly, and pass them a business card, "You can always call ahead to see what we have in stock and we can also order it for you over the phone. Or if you prefer, if you log into our website you can look up the book and hit the 'Pick Me Up' button and it will send a reservation to the store of your choice." It is when they let out a heavy sigh that I suppress a giggle, because this is the moment where they ask if there is anything else they can do to get the book. I apologize, suggesting to order it and explain to the teacher that their child was unable to get the book in time .... because those few months were just not enough! This conversation happens at least 20 times a day or more as school begins.

Now, Hurricane Irene sent in these last-minute-mommies AND those who sought to get their shopping done before Saugus becomes oceanfront property. Mix that with a full moon and the bookstore starts to take a turn for the worst. People forget author's names and titles of books that they are looking for. Only a blurry picture stands out in their mind of what the book cover looks like but the picture they describe is just an inkblot to us, different interpretations. The rain starts to come down and everyone storms the registers, because they know if the lights go out, they can't buy their books. So there are 15+ people in line with only one cashier, we all run up to help but then... the phones start to ring. "What are your hours?" I hate this questions because their is an automated machine that tells the hours of operation before the phone even rings for us. I am tempted to say, call back and listen to the automated message before hanging up but I refrain.

I can't leave on time because we had a call out and the store was still packed as if we were selling bottled water and canned foods before a 2 year ice age. I saw my scheduled end time pass by until finally, the crowd calmed. I knew it was only the eye of the storm, it would only take one lightning bolt and a loud boom of thunder to drive people off route 1 and to seek shelter in a bookstore. Freedom, I can almost taste it. The day didn't go that bad, I dealt with the same questions and the same situations that I have been for 5 years. But there is always one person... one person who just throws you off completely.

"Excuse me, Miss. Are the writers and authors separated in the store? Because my daughter has this list and they are all names but there are two columns. So I think the authors are on the left and the writers are on the right. Is that right?"

Speechless.

Creative Writing: Bleach and Revenge

Bleach, such a wonderful concoction. It boasts to remove any stain, disinfect any surface, and eliminate any unfavorable odors. My house alone always has two gallons on hand for the laundry and typical cleaning duties. It is the answer to every question. How do I get this grass stain out? Bleach. The wine bottle left a ring on the kitchen counter, what should I use? Bleach. The cat pissed on the … Bleach goddamnit!

The scent of bleach, I find, is indescribable because it is different for everyone. Odors are so tied into memory that you do not simply smell bleach, you are inhaling a moment. Whenever the strong cure-all wafts beneath my nostrils, mixed with steaming hot water, I think of turtles. Growing up, my mother promoted us to keep pets so once I had collected the normal domestic animals, I moved to the more exotic. I brought home my first turtle, a red-eared slider whom I named Revenge. I loved to see her sunning on her floating rock and swimming endlessly in the corner, as if she thought the glass would expand and give way to a new place to roam. Her webbed feet would stretch and scratch on the tank as she pushed her large shell forward, only to bump back to her original position.

Being young, I thought nothing of the future so I was surprised when the time came to clean the tank. I placed Revenge in the bathroom sink and brought the tank into the kitchen. The smell wasn’t bad, until a removed the filter and ran it under hot water. The rank odor clung to my nose hairs and pulled fiercely, causing my eyes to water. I gagged involuntarily, my stomach heaving and the back of my throat attempting an emergency escape. My mind raced to identify the horrific smell and settled on over ripe pumpkins and decaying fish. It was so strong that it stuck to the roof of my mouth like peanut butter, thick and layered.

What will get rid of this smell? Bleach. I grabbed the bottle and practically emptied it into the tank. The scent of the bleach swam with decayed stench, but instead of eliminating it, it merely added to it. It still had the same smell, but it gave it more power, more range. Bleach carried the horrid stench on it’s back and paraded it around the other rooms. Once I finished scrubbing, making sure that everything was clean and safe for Revenge, I refilled the tank and placed her in it. She swam straight to the corner, pushing her webbed feet against the glass.

I cleaned the tank once a week for three years before I donated Revenge to a local school for a class pet. She got a brand new filter and a larger tank, it seems her pushing and pulling at the corners finally enlarged her world. It has been years since I last cleaned the tank but whenever I use bleach, I think of that first moment. Before, bleach never really smelled like anything. Now it smells like over ripe pumpkins and decaying fish. For a product that is supposed to remove a stain and make it as if it had never occurred, it is strange that it creates an irremovable memory that was worse than the stain.

Poetry: The Acorn

Early August the first acorn fell

“Too early” I whispered to myself

As the young soldier rolled to my feet

Retail : What Matters

After my 6 month Hiatus from work, I returned and reclaimed my rightful name as The Bookseller. I was admittedly nervous my first day back, considering that stress from school and work had caused my breakdown that forced me to leave work. My first customer stepped up to the the register and without missing a beat, I put on my pleasant smile and recited the greeting that had been apart of me for so many years, "Hi, how are you doing? Do you have a member card to save 10% today?" And with that one phrase, the 6 months I was gone literally disappeared.

I could still type the 13 digit ISBN number into the keypad with unusual speed that I was sure that I lost. I could still find everything anyone was looking for in the store without looking it up in the computer. I still remembered all the regulars names and phone numbers for their member cards. Why is it that I remember all this but always forget the model, make, and year of my car or where I left my keys last? Why is it that I remember the phone numbers of customers I only know by name and face and not the phone number of my own sister?

Why, you ask? Because I am the Bookseller, and books are all that matter. Here's to more of the same...

Poetry: Adopt A Highway

Years pass and your appeal begins to fade

Your skin sags and cracks and no band aid

Will fix the neglect shed upon you

And no one is there to help

Your pockmarked body, so fragile, easy to harm,

Like when you were first laid in the crook of my arm

Can no longer be healed with quick fixes

But they don’t see that

You are kept barely alive, slowly degrading

Weathered and worn, with colors fading

But they just paint over you to keep you

Looking healthy on the surface

But Underneath the facade is internal decay

Holes and tunnels caused by age eating away

At what was once a steady foundation beneath

Baby soft skin that everyone adored.

You have been abandoned, there are newer roads

Leading to the same direction, carrying heavier loads

Without life lessons or years of experience

On your loquacious, littered highway

But it all comes down to the money and the budget

And if you will survive another cut, they just let

You rot away for a few more years

Until you are no longer their problem

And when you are finally dead and buried under

Gravel and dirt, you’ll be replaced by another

With the same hopeless future beginning with

Baby soft skin that everyone adores.

Creative Writing: Bisquick Tears

The first installment of when my father taught me, or failed to teach me, how to make pancakes.

I grew up in a household that lived off of Bisquick. Primarily, it was used for pancakes and still is to this day. Every Saturday and Sunday, I am awakened by my father shuffling with the pots and pans because the skillet that he needs is the one in the very back of the cabinet. While we have multiple skillets and at least eight different sizes of pots and pans, we only ever use two of them: the pancake skillet and the medium sauce pan. The only function of the other pans is to make loud, useless noises to signal my mother and me to wake up.

One Sunday morning when I was 11 years old, my father decided it was time for me to learn to make pancakes. He came into my room around 9am to wake me. While most people are woken up with a gentle shake, I was flipped violently from my mattress. The motion echoed those seen in action movies when a bomb is about to go off and the hero flips over a table for cover. I tumbled off the side of the bed, tangled in my blankets, with my cheek resting right next to my father’s shoe. Had this happened to a normal person, they would think “Earthquake” but my instant thought was, “Crap, what does dad want me to do now?” If I ever find myself in the middle of an earthquake, I will surely roll over while mumbling, “Five more minutes, dad.”

I flopped down the stairs without even lifting my feet while my father lunged and kicked up his heels. Morning was his prime time. I expected to sit down to start eating pancakes and just assumed that I had missed the opening number of the skillet shuffle wake up call. But there were no pancakes, just an empty stainless steel bowl, a wooden spoon, a spatula, and that bright yellow box of Bisquick. I immediately panicked; my father was planning to teach me how to do something. My father loves to teach me things and says that I will be more prepared than other people because of his lessons. I think he does it because he likes to see me cry. My father has gaps in his lessons where he assumes that I can read his mind and know what to do next. When I do not use my unknown gift of telepathy, he yells until I cry. When I decide to act before he tells me to do so, he yells until I cry. I always make it a point to stay well hydrated in preparation for these lessons.

I looked at the yellow box. Yellow is such a happy color that gives your eyes a vibrant handshake. And there is no sorrow in pancakes. No one eats pancakes angrily; they are eaten with a secret smile that savors the half melted butter swirling with the maple syrup. Every crumb is devoured and the leftover syrup is scooped up with a fork, even though most of it runs through the tines and dribbles on your chin. As a last ditch effort, you lick the plate not caring about what social implications will follow. These are pancakes! Everything about them oozes happiness.

And my father was going to beat the joy out of that innocent, fluffy breakfast choice.

To be resumed…

Creative Writing: Weed the Weeds

Weed the Weeds

“There you are, with your thumb in your ass and your mind in neutral!”

That was my father’s favorite phrase when he saw me sitting around doing nothing. He would see watching TV as chewing gum for the mind and would urge me to sit down and read book instead. When I began devour books day after day, he would then point out the window.

“It’s a beautiful day! Get your thumb outta your ass and go outside! Grab a rake for god’s sake, the lawn is a disaster.”

Yard work had always been my most hated chore. My father would watch my every move, pointing out to lift with my legs, not my back. I held the rake incorrectly, I raked too soft so that nothing was accomplished, then I raked too hard to the point where I pulled out the grass. Nothing was ever right and he was positive I was doing it on purpose. In the back of my mind I wondered why he made me do it if I did it wrong.

“Kathleen, this is character building, stop whining,” he said.

Whenever he turned his back I would drop the rake and run in the house. I would disappear until I heard his loud voice screaming “Kathleen Anne Casey,” from the backyard. Something about the way he stretched the syllables in my name made my stomach churn. My mother once told me that they picked out my name by screaming it down the stairs and out into the backyard to see what combination of names would sound the most severe. The harsher the pronunciation and tone, the more likely a child will learn its place and become obedient. I was born to be yelled at, cursed by a name that sounded foreboding when bellowed.

I would return to my small pathetic pile, rake in hand, hoping for a helpful gust of wind to blow the leaves into the wheelbarrow. I would lean against a tree, watching the lawn people cleaning up all the neighborhood yards. Our house was the only house in the neighborhood that took care of our own lawn.

On hot summer days, I would push the old rusted lawnmower up and down the steep slopes of grass. The sun burned through my skin and heated my bones until my body boiled over and sweat poured from my skin. Every few minutes I would have to empty the bag of the heavy grass clippings and clean off the blade. Next door, the hired lawn guys would be on lawnmower tractors, riding around with cold bottles of water and sandwiches. I would drool and pray that when I tried to start the lawn mower again, it would stutter then cough its way into death just for the chance to hide inside. But it always roared to life, held together with spit, duct tape, and fear of my father.

I learned to enjoy yard work and gardening. Suddenly, without being told, I would head out back to mow the lawn or weed the garden. I would rake in the fall then rake in the early spring to clean up the area before planting. I carved out a piece of my own and planted my own vegetable and flower garden. Still, my father would walk by and inspect what I did, pointing out that my rock wall wasn’t straight or that I didn’t plant the tomatoes deep enough. Neighbors would smile and wave while saying, “I wish my son would help out like you do.”

“See dad, the neighbors appreciate me and what I do,” I said while digging a deeper hole for the tomato plant.

“Well maybe if you got that thumb outta your ass and got your mind outta neutral, I would too,” he scoffed. “That plant aint gonna grow if you don’t pay attention, Kathleen. It needs space, it needs to have room for its roots to spread. When are you gonna pull out all these weeds, it can’t grow with all this shit in the way!”

I roll my eyes, my sunburned face squinting in pain.

“Go put on some sunscreen. Your face is as red as cherry tomato!”