6S ~ fairy tale.

Once upon a time, there was a fairy tale that didn’t have a happy ending. The prince was late to the ball, the princess picked a fight; he really did love her stepsister, who was kind and pretty and didn’t know they had ever had a fling before the princess left for school. They broke up amicably enough, but the pumpkin carriage wasn’t waiting, so she walked home by herself and spent her Friday night watching a movie with some girlfriends; read a book. The birds didn’t always chirp on key, the flowers in her garden sometimes wilted, her parents grounded her once; the dwarves got tired of always having to do the dishes and being called out for their character flaws and short stature and having to sleep in one too-small bed, so they moved out and get together for lunch every once in a while. The perfect shoes just didn’t come in her size; she didn’t buy them, even though they were on sale. And this tale was the fairest and most beautiful in all the land.

6S ~ places you shouldn't step

            My mother never walks under a fire escape. Even living in New York City, she avoids sidewalks and risks walking in busy streets just so she won’t have to step under them. “They could fall at any time, you know, right on your head—and it’s just plumb bad luck.” She refuses to ride elevators, doesn’t leave the house on the thirteenth of every month, screams at my father if he leaves his hat on the bed, searches for four leaf clovers but never plucks them. I step on cracks in the sidewalk, have a black cat, open my umbrella inside when it’s raining, check for heads-up pennies but flip over the tails. Say what you will, but I don’t think the apple falls so far from the tree.

6S ~ broken; fixed.

We exchanged an awkward glance when our eyes met in the mirror of the public restroom. I broke the eye contact, looked around, fixed the eye contact. Her mouth was opened wide and her nose scrunched up into her eyebrows and her tongue hanging out the left side of her mouth just a bit. She was flossing her teeth. I washed my hands slowly, trying not to look, or ask. “My father was a dentist,” she said as she walked out of the men’s restroom.

the way you walk, the way you talk.

It was around 3pm, so naturally everywhere in the town you could possibly want to go was closed. I was in Vasto, Italy in the incomparable August humidity that draped everything in a heavy, unwelcome blanket, and found myself again walking through the empty town square. Then, in the middle of Piazza Rossetti, I heard a loud, tinny laugh. I turned around to see Giuseppe Buono, a middle-aged Italian man who, along with his wife, Michela, ran the ceramics studio our study abroad group collaborated with on a community project. Giuseppe was leaning against the side of the door to the studio—the door still had the “chiuso”—closed—sign tacked up and it was clear that he had only come out to talk to me.

            “Ciao, Michelina, come va?” He greeted me and asked how “it” was going.

            “Va bene, e Lei?” I answered, telling him “it” was going well.

            “Perché cammini cosí tutto il tempo?” He asked.

            I didn’t know what to say, in Italian or in English. Pause. Nervous laugh. Who asks that? What is that supposed to mean? I thought to myself, annoyed that he had come outside just to have this weird and pointless conversation.

            “Che ne dice?” I asked what he meant, in response to his question: “Why do you always walk like that?”

            “Cosí rapido. A dove vieni?”

            Okay, now I really didn’t know what to say. He’d asked me why I walked so fast; where was I going? I was going back to our apartments. But that wasn’t what he meant. And it was kind of a low blow. I just stared back at him a little sheepishly, and he motioned for me to follow him into the studio.

            We sat down at one of the three wooden workbenches in the small shop, where the walls were covered with ceramic fish and sailboats made by Giuseppe, Michela, and children from all around Vasto. A bright and cheery little room, if a bit stuffy. “Michelina, vorrei dirti qualcosa”—Michelle, let me tell you something—Giuseppe said. I braced myself.

             “Your Italian is very good,” he told me, “It comes naturally to you, and if I didn’t know better, I would think you were a native based on how you speak.” (Cue warm and fuzzy feelings for the Romance Languages concentrator.) But Giuseppe had clearly mastered the two-part statement of breaking something harsh to someone: start with a compliment, and then follow up with what has to be said. So then came what had to be said, “But just from the way you walk, it’s so obvious that you’re American.”

            Ouch. An even lower blow. I know I’m from New York, I know I go to Harvard, and I know that I’m a go-go-go type of person, admittedly the type of person who would be in a hurry on a hot August day in a deserted Italian piazza, even when there was nowhere to go and no reason not to take a leisurely stroll through the beautiful square and take in my surroundings. I knew I was that type of person, but I guess it had just never hit me that the type of person I was, was in such a strong contrast to the type of person I want to be, and the cultures I study and so desperately want to belong to. I was walking so fast, it’s true, but, for once, it wasn’t enough to get ahead. 

acrostic.

I really don’t mind getting so little sleep. Really, what are

Nights for if not catching up on work, television, and reading?

So what if there’s really no one else around to talk to at that hour? I mean…

Oh, wait just one second there, buddy! There’s no need to point out the bags under my eyes.

Makeup can fix anything these days, after all. In any case,

Not getting enough sleep is hardly my biggest concern. There’s always something more important that

I need to get done, something I put off all day, something I can’t do with anyone else watching me, something I’ll only be able to tolerate doing when I’m drained to the point of exhaustion, when there’s absolutely nothing else better to do, when there’s finally no excuse not to. Something I certainly couldn’t do if I was

Asleep.

6S ~ English major.

Fine, I'll admit it: I don't like the real world. Everyone always teases me, chastises me, frowns at me - "What are you going to do with a degree in English?" And I quip back, "The same thing I did without it." They laugh and shake their heads, but they don't realize that I'm serious; I'm going to do the same thing I've always done: Ignore. Read, write, immerse myself into a world of my own creation; a fictitious world where pain ebbs away after a couple page turns and emotions can be re-shelved when you need a break. I'll put my English degree on that shelf, too.

6S ~ the empty glass.

Her hand shook slightly as she lifted it up to her lips, just a tremble, barely noticeable to anyone who wasn't looking for it. She tilted her head back, closed her eyes, and ... nothing. Empty. Not a drop left; an empty glass. She cursed and slammed it down, the glass making a hollow, empty sound as it hit atop the photograph on the counter, the curve of the glass distorting the faces, blurring the edges, hollowing the feelings. What would they think of me now?

prologue.

"Are you gonna stop me?” she asked, the words floating out of her thin lips, floating, floating so airily, as if they held no consequence, as if she was just making casual conversation. As if they wouldn’t haunt me every day for the rest of my life. “Casey…” I stammered, my voice catching in my throat. God, I can’t even begin to count how many times she’d asked me that in the ten years we’d been friends. But it wasn’t a question, really, it was a challenge, a dare- she just wanted to get in people’s heads, to see how they’d respond, to watch them squirm. It was her little way of judging their character. But my guess is as good as anyone’s at this point.

It had been the first thing she’d ever said to me, back when we were sixteen, and I’d spent the next ten years doing everything I could to “stop” her, but I never actually knew if that was what she wanted. Sometimes I wondered if she’d gone through life waiting for someone to care enough to stop her, or if she really just wanted someone to care enough to not stop her.

I guess I was both.

ode to collegeboard.

it's may again
it's that time of year:
ap season
is once again here.

oh college board,
why must you do this to me?
i've studied so hard,
for only a 3?

and just the nightmares
the thought of testing day brings-
heaven forbid
my cell phone should ring!

and now i must take 2 exams in one day?
oh well, i guess that's the price i must pay.
and i mean that literally, all those $86 checks
each one financing those crucial 3 hours of stress

but 3 hours is short compared to the SAT
that's around 5-
if you're lucky.

thank goodness,
i'm almost done with my ap review
what's that you say? now there's SAT IIs?!

#2 pencils, black or blue pen
when is it over?
when does testing end?!

ordinary people.

Oh God, he looks stressed. The way he’s scratching his head like that, is that normal? And his eyes, darting all across the room like that, what about that? Are these signs? They told us to look for the signs, but how do I know what the signs are? After all, I didn’t know last time.

It’s so weird how things can go downhill so quickly. He was always a good kid, that Jarrett boy, a good student. He was quiet but reliable and hard-working, not to mention a real natural with numbers. He never caused any problems in class, just did what he was told. Simple kid, it seemed. I always liked him for that. Heck, that’s what got me into math back in the day- the simplicity of it all. With math, you’re either right or you’re wrong; there’s no “but-if-you-look-at-it-from-this-angle” wiggle room or some broad “circle of interpretation.” Yes or no. Right or wrong. Pass or fail. Jarrett seemed to really understand that part of it. He was never one of those annoying kids who clicked their pens too loudly and tried to get their gum to stick to the ceiling while asking me obnoxious questions with no real answers. You know, the typical, “When are we ever gonna need to use this in life?” I know I’m supposed to feed them some line about being well-rounded and the power of learning, but I just can’t. I don’t know when they’ll use this in life. I just know the simple stuff: here’s the problem, here’s the formula to be used to solve the problem, here are the steps to use the formula, here’s the answer to the problem. Yes or no. Right or wrong. Pass or fail.

Jarrett never questioned me, not once. He just absorbed everything I taught, took it all at face value, and aced every test up until that one quiz on inverse functions right before Christmas break last year. It’s not like the rest of the class did well on it either; it was the only quiz that no one got 100 on. But there were still a few grades in the mid-90s, and many scored in the 80s. I got to Jarrett’s paper and felt relieved at what would be a surefire good grade. But he hadn’t answered a single question. Something was up then; that was a sign. I should’ve known. I should’ve done something.

Goddamn it, Simmons, don’t be stupid. Remember what they told you at that meeting. They called all the faculty members in early that first Monday after the break. “One of our students, a junior, Conrad Jarrett, attempted suicide last week.” Everyone was shocked; like I said, he was a good kid, had a solid reputation. The principal kept talking for a while, explaining how we were to handle the situation. It was a five step process, he said.

Step One: Do not avoid the issue if asked about it. Doing so will only facilitate rumors.

Step Two: Protect the Jarrett family’s privacy at all times. His mother specifically requested this. Say simply that Conrad is receiving medical treatment. Nothing more.

Step Three: Approach any student who seems particularly distressed, and ask if they would like to speak to a counselor. Counselors will be available for students and staff at all times throughout the day in the Guidance Office.

“The last two steps relate to all of you, especially those of you who have taught Conrad Jarrett,” the principal said, pausing for dramatic effect.

Step Four: Ask for help for yourself if necessary. As mentioned previously, counselors are here to work with you and help us all get through this.

Step Five: Do not blame yourself for this. It is our natural human inclination to do so, but none of us are at fault for this. Conrad Jarrett was a disturbed young man, and there is nothing you could have done to prevent this unfortunate incident. Do not overanalyze every interaction you had with Conrad for any “signs” you might have missed. It is not your fault.

But really, who took any of that to heart? There had to be signs. Everyone knows there were signs- when Jarrett came back to school this year, the principal warned us at another early-morning meeting to “beware of signs,” for crying out loud! God, when I gave that quiz back to Jarrett with Incomplete scribbled across the top and a request for him to see me after class… the kid looked crushed. I asked him what happened; I meant it light-heartedly, I know everyone’s entitled to an off day and it was a tough quiz. He mumbled something about the formulas not making any sense, something about how the numbers just didn’t make sense, about how nothing made sense. I thought he was going to start crying right then and there so I wrote him a pass and he left. I found out later that he cut the rest of the day. What if that’s when it all started? What if it was my fault? What if I pushed him too hard in class, or put too much pressure on him?

What if I was the one whose skills were Incomplete, and it was me who pushed him over the edge? I know I’ll never really know, but how am I supposed to live with that hanging over my head?

What was I thinking today, giving a pop quiz to his class?! Oh God, he really does look stressed. The way he’s scratching his head like that? It can’t be normal. And his eyes, darting all across the room like that? It can’t be right. Are these signs? ARE THEY?!

In a world where anything can be a sign if you obsess over it long enough… is anything ever really a sign?

God, Simmons. Snap out of it.

“Time’s up! Pass up your quizzes.”

crayons.

I'm gonna save up ALL my money so I can buy more crayons. One of those realllllllllllllly big boxes Mommy won't ever buy me from the toy store. Or maybe I'll need markers? It was very dark. It would take an awful lot of crayons... hm. But markers smell bad, and the boy didn't so it couldn't be those. It seemed kinda like paint, but when I asked Mommy why that boy was painted so dark, she told me to shhhhh and that I can't say things like that. So it must be crayons.


I wonder why my parents didn't color me. It's probably because Daddy doesn't like coloring. He'll never draw in my coloring books with me and I don't know why because it's fun to color even though it's hard to stay in the lines sometimes. I wonder if there were lines that the parents had to color in on that boy, you know, so they didn't color in his mouth or something like that. That'd be bad because I bit a crayon once and it tasted really bad.


But I still don't know why they would pick such a dark color. His Mommy and Daddy must have colored him because I don't think he could do it all on his own. One time I tried to paint my nails all by myself and I couldn't even do that. But grown-ups like those boring colors. Like my Mommy, she did our whole entire house in black and white. So I guess that's why they colored him so dark, 'cuz grown-ups are boring and it was their choice what color he got colored Because They Said So.


I like bright colors though- pink and purple and yellow- like Easter! Maybe if I get the reallllllllllllllllllly big box of crayons, I can color me all up like a big basket of Easter eggs! That would be SO pretty! That's it, I got it I got it I got it! I'll ask the Easter Bunny to bring me the crayons! The realllllllllllllly big box.


[prompt: writing from the point of view of a 5 year old after seeing a person of a different race for the first time]

6S ~ la vie n'est pas rose.

Startled, she bolts from her chair and spins around. Her back up against the wall now, perspiration from her palms bleeding into its yellow paint as shadows from her thin eyelashes bandage her fearful eyes, she waits. Footsteps pound on the stairs; she knows they are his and they are fast approaching - too fast, too fast, there is nowhere to hide - and then they are there, on the landing. Too fast, too fast - they are heading toward her, not so far away now, and his voice is calling thickly, "Honey, I'm home!" and there is nowhere to hide - they are before her, not two steps away now... and then they stop. She jolts away from the weight of his hand on her cheek; his hand, cupping her cheek gently and tilting her face up to his own, kissing her deeply with that distinct taste of his favorite chocolate-peppermint candies, sucking on her lower lip for just a second in that way that makes her knees buckle every single goddamn time as shadows from his thick eyelashes bandage his amorous eyes. Exactly what she feared.

[my first "six sentences" attempt of many, many to come]

thanksgiving.

Another autumn, another Thanksgiving. And you're not here. You know what I've always wondered? Why there are two words in the English language for this season- autumn and fall. Is it more special than the other three, which only have one word to represent them- winter, spring, summer? I doubt that. At least not for me. For me, it's just what it says: fall. And year after year, I do just that. The apples fall, the leaves fall, and I fall, down to my knees at your graveside. I miss you, you know. I really do, and that fall never gets easier for me.

I know you'd yell at me for this, but I feel guilty today. I've always gone to the cemetary alone before, and I know you probably liked that. You were always so secretive, would never tell me anything unless we were completely alone. But I really think you'd like him, Lily. And I know it sounds crazy, but I just... after you died, I never thought I'd have anything to be truly thankful for again. But I really am thankful for him. I'm thankful not to be alone anymore.

I still miss you, sis, and I'm sorry. I know you would hate that I feel guilty and that I still think about you so much, but I can't help it. And I know you would hate that I call it fall since you loved autumn and thought it was the most beautiful time of year. Remember how I used to rake all the leaves in the front yard into neat piles... and you used to jump in them and kick them all across the lawn? Even then I could never get mad at you. After all, "It's autumn, Molly, it's the greatest time of year! Just lighten up a bit!" God, I still laugh when I think about that. You were such an optimist, even at the end. But I'm not, never was. You always used to stick out your tongue and whine that I was "sooo pessishistic!" with that lisp it took you three years of speech classes to get over, even though you knew Dad would scold you. He always used the same line: "Molly's not a pessimist, she's just a realist, Lil." And that's why I call it fall. Because I'm "realistic" enough to know that we all do, all the time, all for our own reasons. And covering it up with a pretty name like autumn won't keep us from falling any more than my pleas kept you from running through my piles of leaves. Don't get me wrong though, Lil. I am thankful for fall, I really am. After all, falling is what brings me the closest to you these days.

i want my life back.

[another prompt from the writers' retreat...]

They say you can’t take things back- that what’s done is done and what’s gone is gone. But what do “they” know anyway? Do “they” know what it’s like to have lived in 12 states in the past 15 years? To have to change their name so many times they don’t know who they are anymore, and never stay in one place long enough to find out? Do “they” know what it’s like to see their front windows shattered by gunshots, even in the 3rd state they were relocated to during that first year? To nearly lose their husband to those gunshots, and then to only have him stick around because he’s trapped by a secret that keeps him close to you? How about how it feels to be told that you are “strongly encouraged” by the government to avoid getting pregnant, because kids would be too much of a risk to have around? I’ll sure as hell bet they don’t.

I’ll also bet they haven’t seen what I’ve seen, and I’ll save you – and myself - the trauma of relaying the details. 3 poor little girls, somebody’s little girls. A dark alley, late at night, the wrong side of town. It’s not my fault they died. It’s not, and I pray for their souls every day. But it’s still not my fault I stayed late at the office that night, missed my train, walked home that way, saw them like that. It’s not. I’d give anything to be able to take that night back for them. But to be entirely, humanly, selfishly honest… I’d give even more to be able to take that night back for myself.

“Janet,” Rich says, tension rippling his voice. “That was Mr. Holden on the phone. From Witness Protection.”

I look up at him. I know the drill by now, but that doesn’t mean it gets any easier. “Well?” I finally gather the strength to ask.

“Well, we’re going to Kentucky, Lula Mae.”

State number 13. Unlucky 13. I want my life back.

urban/suburban haikus.

[i am not a poet, and i know it]

haiku1~urban

city lights stop you
streep lamp on a dark corner
you are exposed here.

haiku2~suburb

charming house of white
picket fenced in laughter
American dream?

photo prompts.

[at the adelphi retreat, we were shown slides of photographs and given 5 minutes to find the story in them. i did a lot of experimentation with repetition in these] ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
photo1 ~ "we were on our way"

We were on our way. Coming straight from work at the cafe Papa had opened 20 years ago. On our way to a cafe so different from our own, all the way on the other side of town. The white part of town. We'd stay there all night if we had to. 'Til the egg yolks seeped through our hair and the milkshakes stained our starched white uniforms and the jeers haunted us for years to come. We'd stay there all night if we had to.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 
photo2 ~ New Orleans home destroyed by Hurricane Katrina.

To you, this is just space. Just stale air floating between rafters. To you, this is just sorrow. Pity. Sadness.
To me, this is not just space. To me, this is everything. This "space" here, this is where Mama's fine china used to sit. She was so proud of it; it was imported all the way from Japan as her wedding present, she used to boast. This "space" here, this is where my brother helped me with my math homework night after night after night. This "space" here, this is where Papa kept his shot glass collection. He was so proud of it; he had bought them in countries all over the world, he used to boast.
This "space" here, this is where I had my first kiss, that cool October night when I was 12 and didn't know what pain was. This "space" here, this is where Grandma took her final breath, when I was 15 and knew very well what pain was.
So yes, this was space, but it was never e m p t y. Not like this.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 
photo3 ~ portrait: "i sing because..."

I sing because it's the only thing that keeps me close to my mother. I sing because I remember those sweet, sad songs she used to lull me to sleep when I was a little girl. I sing because I remember her voice, and I sing because I never want to forget.
I sing because I miss her, and because Daddy tells me that I look more like her every day. I sing beccause the choir at church sounds so much less beautiful without her, so empty. I sing because I am so much less beautiful without her, so empty. I sing because I remember, and I sing because I never want to forget.
I sing because my mother's sunflowers still blossom every summer. I sing because I know Daddy cuts a bundle and lays them beside her grave. I sing because he thinks I've never heard him crying and holding her picture late at night when he thought I was asleep. I sing because I think he's never heard me do the same. I sing because I know she is in heaven now, where she belongs. I sing because I remember, and I sing because I never want to forget.

missed connections.

2009-07-20, 10:53 PM- I just wanted to thank you, whoever you are. Maybe you don’t even remember me, but yesterday, when I came out of Penn Station and the first rain droplets grazed my cheek, I couldn’t have felt worse. It’s just one of those things for me- I hate rain. It depresses me. Not to mention the crazy ways it can ruin a decent hair day! I told you all those things as your navy blue umbrella glided over my already-frizzing curls. If you remember anything, it’ll be the fight I put up at first. “What do you think you’re doing?” I snapped (I’m sorry I was so rude- blame the rain). “The rain will pick up any minute and you’ll thank me,” you assured me, but nonetheless I slipped out from under the blue folds of nylon and crossed the street. “Just trying to help!” you shouted after me, laughing. I’m too stubborn, and I hated myself for it as the drizzle escalated into a full-on downpour. But just when I thought my hair was a lost cause- let alone my silk top- I found your umbrella over me once again. That was really more than I deserved, and I appreciate you walking me all the way to my office- I’m sure it was out of your way. But I really did enjoy talking to you, and I hope the presentation you had at work yesterday afternoon went well! Email me if you see this- I just saw the weather report and it looks like there’s going to be a storm tomorrow about the time I get off my train.

[written at the alice hoffman young writers' retreat, inspired by the "missed connections" sections on craigslist.com - check it out]

grandma's buttons.

I was number 27.

That’s what you labeled me when you sifted through us on the red triangular kindergarten table, counting aloud with the assistance of your pudgy little fingers and your pudgy little teacher.

That was over 10 years ago now. Don’t you remember?

You were quiet, so very quiet that your voice was barely audible as you asked grandma if you could have 100 of the old buttons she still had lying around in the basement from her days in the clothing industry. Of course she obliged; she couldn’t have said no to your timid little angel face for the world. Don’t you remember her loving smile as she inquired why you needed us? You told her proudly about the celebration your class was going to have to commemorate the 100th day of your elementary school career. It seemed like a major deal at the time; 12 years of schooling later, it probably seems much less consequential. But nevertheless, grandma took the old sewing kit off the top shelf and presented us to you as if we were made out of gold. And to you, at the time, we were.

We were coral and beige, round with 4 holes in the center. You were tiny and innocent; a round face framed by soft brown curls and brightened by eager eyes.

Those weren’t like the eyes you have now, which are eager in a different way- so eager to move forward, to move ahead. So eager to get love, to get success, to get out. No, the eyes you had back then were… simpler. Eager for the very moment they were in. Eager for the people around them. Eager to live. Don’t you remember those eyes?

I know. We understand. It’s not your fault your eyes are hurting now. Maybe that’s why you stopped looking for the rest of us after you tripped that chilly October day, splashing us out all across the hard den floor. That’s what I tell myself when I wonder why you’ve never reached down to retrieve me from under the big blue couch after all these years- because it hurts so bad to have lost us to begin win. To have lost yourself. But there’s still something eager in your eyes, I can see it. And if you ever want me back, I’ll be here. Under the big blue couch. Number 27.

[dedicated to grandma, who would have been 89 today. rest in peace always.]

step write up.

"there's nothing to writing. all you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein."
-walter wellesley "red" smith.

so step write up, come one and all! see the freak of the circus- the girl with the open veins.