Oscar and Alphonse

Annalise was singing. She was in the back yard of her Grandmamma Jeans house. She was laying on a large pink quilt her grandmamma had made years before. Annalise was staring at the rolling clouds in the sky, and she was singing to them. It was a soft melody that Annalise had made up. 

Dear Big Clouds in the sky

Don’t rain on my day

Don’t let my grandmamma die

It’s my month of May

It was a strange little tune, high pitched and squeaky. She just kept repeating those 4 little sentences, over and over. She gazed at the clouds watching as they swirled about her, creating images with their endless stories.

           

Annalise was alone, her Grandmamma was inside baking rhubarb pies. The smell had wafted over to Annalise and her stomach started to turn and growl at her.

She turned over on her side to stare along the top of the green grass. That’s when she saw them. Two small brown caterpillars crawling toward her. One was larger than the other, both were a mud brown with lines of black.

Annalise crawled on all fours toward the two caterpillars. She picked up the larger one, and he was very fuzzy. Covered in little bristles, Annalise stroked his back. She then gently picked up the smaller one with her two fingers and placed both of them in the middle of her palm. They started to crawl around in her palm, their little feet tickled her.

Annalise had never had any pets.  These two little caterpillars would be her first. Annalise thought  “if these were her pets, she must name them.” She walked back over to that pink quilt, and sat cross-legged still holding those two little caterpillars. She studied their movements, and was contemplating names. “Oscar” she thought. “Oscar for the large one and Alphonse for the small one”. Oscar and Alphonse it was.

Annalise yanked a handful of grass from her right and placed in the middle of the quilt, she then slowly put Oscar and Alphonse down in that bed of grass. She would have to build them a home. She walked along the yard and gathered small sticks and leaves. She would make a fence. Annalise didn’t want to lose her small friends. After gathering a  couple handfuls of twigs, she started her craft. In the middle of her Grandmamma’s quilt she was building a little fence. No higher then an inch. On one corner she places a large leaf over, so that Oscar and Alphonse could have shelter, if those clouds did indeed decided to rain.

“What do caterpillars eat?” Annalise thought to herself. “Surely not other bugs, grass though, they must eat grass, that’s good they have grass, but water, Oscar and Alphonse must have water.” Annalise quickly ran over the to house walked through the screen door, to the kitchen and asked her grandmamma for a lid to one of her many mason jars. Grandmamma without question handed Annalise a lid, and Annalise filled it up with water and then had to slowly walk back out to the yard.

She placed their “water-dish” in the middle of their home. “There you go, now you can stay her forever” Annalise told her small caterpillar friends.  She then layed back down and gazed back at the clouds. “See that Oscar, it’s a bird, and there an octopus,  can you see that too Alphonse?”

Then Annalise started singing again.

Dear Big Clouds in the sky

Don’t rain on my day

Don’t let my grandmamma die

It’s my month of May

These are my babies

My friend they will be

Oscar and Alphonsy

We’ll be together forever, you’ll see.

It was late in the afternoon; Annalise had been out all day. The sun was starting to set in the distance, and the dark was slowly creeping its way above her. “Time for bed.” She picked up Oscar and Alphonse and held them in her palm as she walked to the screen door. She wanted to show her Grandmamma Jean, her brand new friends.

Grandmamma Jean was sitting in her old rocking chair, like she did every night. She held a book on her lap, and was looking very intent on finishing it. Annalise walked up to her side. “Grandmamma look at my new friends”. Grandmamma put down her book and gazed at Annalise’s palm, where the two brown caterpillars lay. “Oh Annalise, look what you’ve found. Did you name them?” “Yes Grandmamma this one (pointing at the larger one) is Oscar, and this one (the smaller one) is Alphonse.  You like them? Can I keep them? Can they sleep here?” Annalise pleaded.

Grandmammas looked at Annalise and then started to frown. “Im sorry Annalise they cannot stay here. These are wild caterpillars, they belong outside. You’ve had your fun with them today, but its time to let them go.”  Annalise was shocked. She couldn’t keep Oscar and Alphonse? She had to let them go? Annalise turned her head down and looked at the two caterpillars that were her friends.   A tear dropped from her eyelash.

Annalise couldn’t disobey her Grandmamma, she walked back out of the house, through the screen door, and into the yard. All the while not leaving the gaze she had for the little friends.

She knew it was time to send them back. The caterpillars softly wiggled in her hand spelling out “goodbye”. “Goodbye to you too, I’ll miss you.” She then crouched down to the grass and put out her hand. But Oscar and Alphonse didn’t leave. They wanted to stay with Annalise. She wanted to keep them, but she couldn’t. “Come on now, off you go.” She softly told them. Oscar and Alphonse started to wiggle themselves off her fingertips and into the green grass. “Goodbye Oscar, Goodbye Alphonse.” And with that Annalise stood up, turned around, and walked back into Grandmamma Jeans house where a piece of rhubarb pie was awaiting her. 

Fourteen Potions Draft 2

Sarah lived in Choanta, a small village led by their healing teacher; a witch. The witch helped the poorest of the people, and blended small potions for their health. Sarah lived in the house three houses down from hers.

She would listen as a small child as the healer women would chant and throw various ingredients together. Sometimes the smell of what the woman was boiling would make her gag. “Never would I ever drink anything like that,“ Sarah used to think to herself.  Yet, she  knew what of great importance the women to the people. The witch had saved countless lives with her potions, including Sarah’s own mother during labor fourteen years before.

Everyone respected the women, and would trade gold, animals, and food, for just a bit of one of her “gagging” mixtures. Most of the potions were to cure the sick. But some say that she made potions to trick people into love, make women more beautiful, men stronger or even change the unwitting completely into a goat. Those of course were all rumors, but Sarah always wondered, what exactly was that woman creating?

One rainy October day, Sarah sat with her head pressed against the window, waiting to hear the  women’s chants, waiting for the “gagging” smell, waiting for the new brew. But nothing came. Sarah sat there, and thought “Where is the woman, where is the stench, where is the chanting, where is she?” Not one day did Sarah not know where the woman was. Not one day was she not creating a new brew. Sarah was confused, puzzled, but also very curious. “Could she be out? Could she be traveling? Away from her house, and her potions?” As Sarah sat there she pondered the idea, “if she’s not home, maybe I can look around, find out what she’s making, and see if there really is a potion to make you more beautiful?”

Sarah gathered her jacket, boots and gloves and walked over to the women’s house. She peered through the back window, but no one was in sight, no one was home. She grabbed and turned the handle to the door, it was unlocked. She entered through the back door, and she was in. The house was ordinary; typical furnishings, a decorated parlor, and even a coat closet. It looked strangely just like Sarah’s house.  No skulls on the walls, or spiders hanging from the ceiling. No body parts in jars on shelves. It was surprisingly normal.

 Sarah walked through the parlor and into the hall. That’s when she saw the door. It was old looking, rusted and opened slightly, as if someone had just walked through it. Sarah came up to the door and looked through. And there it was, the room. She slowly walked through the door, inside were shelves; rows upon rows of shelving. On those shelves were various plants, herbs of some kind. There were also insects, and animals  held captive in jars. There was even a carcass on the table, a crow Sarah imagined. The smell filled the room with its sweet sick stench. In the corner was her pot. A large cast iron bowl, that’s where she brew her potions.  Sarah was finally in. Finally in the lair of the woman.  

And now, finally, she could make herself beautiful, and no one had to know how she did it. No one would have to know she stole the potion. As she was thinking this, she heard the door to the house creak open and then shut. She heard footsteps in the hall. Someone was in the house. There were fourteen potions on the shelf. Their labels were all missing. She knew one of them was what she needed. She frantically glanced back over her shoulder. There wasn’t enough time to figure out which was which. She grabbed the closest one and chugged it, hoping desperately she’s picked the right potion. After she sucked down the last drop, she ran.

She ran through the rusted door, and there she stared face to face with the woman. She was old, her hair a frizzled white, lines smothered her once smooth skin. Her lips cracked, and splitting. Sarah was in shock. She had been caught, trespassing and stealing from the woman. Sarah stuttered an, “I’m sorry”. But Sarah couldn’t take the woman’s pulsating stare, Sarah pushed her way through the women, and ran to the door, she flung it open and ran as fast as she could through the street to her own house.

When she banged the door shut to her room, she cried like she had never cried before. She wept on her bed, until a large circle of tears filled her pillow. She had done wrong. How could the women forgive her, how could Sarah forgive herself? And what if with all that Sarah had picked the wrong potion. What if she had picked the potion that turns you into a goat. Not the one that would make you the most beautiful woman in the village. Sarah stopped crying, and sat up in her bed, frozen, and silent waiting for the effects. Waiting for the potion to work. How long could it take?

 But nothing happened. She looked the same, felt the same, she was the same. The potion didn’t work, it was the wrong one. Her breathing started to even out.  She went through all that for nothing. “It was probably a potion for chicken pocks or something” Sarah said aloud to herself. Right? 

Fourteen Potions

Sarah lived in Choanta, a small village lead by their healing teacher; a witch. She helped the people, and blended small potions for their health. Sarah lived in the house three houses down from hers. She would listen has a small child as the healer women would chant and through various ingredients together. Sometimes the smell of what the women was boiling would make her gag. “Never would I ever drink anything like that. “ Sarah used to think to herself.  She knew what of great importance that women was though. She saved countless lives with her potions including her mothers when we was in labor with Sarah fourteen years before. Everyone respected the women, and would trade gold, animals, and food, for just a bit of one of her “gagging” mixtures. Most of the potions were to cure the sick. But some say that she made potions to trick people into love, make women more beautiful, men stronger or even change you completely into a goat. Those of course were all rumors, but Sarah always wondered, what exactly was that women creating? One rainly October day, Sarah sat with her head at the window, waiting for the women’s chants, waiting for the smell, waiting for the new brew. But nothing came. Sarah sat there, and thought “Where is the women, where is the stench, where is the chanting, where is she?” Not one day did Sarah not know where the women was. Not one day was she not creating a new brew. Sarah was confused, puzzeled, but also very curious. “Could she be out? Could she be traveling? Away from her house, and her potions?” As Sarah sat there she pondered the idea “if she’s not home, maybe I can look around, find out whats she’s making, and if there really is a potion to make you more beautiful?” Sarah gathered her jacket boots and gloves and walked over the women’s house. She peered through the back window, but no one was in sight, no one was home. She entered through the back door, and she was in. The house was ordinary. The typical furnishings, she had a decorated parlor, even a coat closet. It looked strangely just like Sarah’s house.  No skulls on the walls, or spiders from the ceiling. No body parts in jars on shelves. It was normal. Sarah walked through the parlor and to the hall. That’s when she saw the door. It was old looking, rusted. It was open slightly open, as if someone had just walked through. Sarah came up to the door and looked through. And there is was. The room. She slowly walked through the door, inside were shelves. Rows upon rows of shelving. On those shelves were various plants, herbs of some kinds. There were also insects, and animals being held captive in jars. There was even a carcass on the table. A crow Sarah imagined. The smell filled the room with its sweet sick stench. In the corner was her pot. A large cast iron bowl, that’s where she brew her potions.  Sarah was finally in. Finally in the lair of the women.  Finally she could make herself beautiful. And no-one had to know how she did it. No one would have to know she stole the potion. As she was thinking and this, she heard the door to the house shut. She heard footsteps in the hall. Someone was in the house. There were fourteen potions on the shelf. Their labels were all missing. She knew one of them was what she needed. She frantically glanced back over her shoulder. There wasn’t enough time to figure out which was which. She grabbed the closet one and chugged it, hoping desperately she’s picked the right potion. After she sucked down the last drop, she ran. She ran through the rusted door, there she stared face to face with the women. She was old, her hair a frizzled white, lines smothered her once smooth skin. Her lips cracked, and splitting. Sarah was in shock. She had been caught, trespassing and stealing from the women. Sarah stuttered an “I’m sorry”. But the women just gazed at her, watched her start to tear up. Sarah pushed her way through the women, and ran to the door, she flung it open and ran as fast as she could to her room. When she banged the door shut to her room, she cried, like she had never cried before. She wept on her bed, until a large circle of tears filled her pillow. She had broken the women’s trust. She had done wrong. How could the women forgive her, how could Sarah forgive herself. And what if with all that, sarah picked the wrong potion. What if she had picked the potion that turns you into a goat. Not the one that would make you the most beautiful woman in the village. Sarah stopped crying, and sat up in her bed. She sat there frozen, and silent waiting for the effects. Waiting for the potion to work. But nothing happened. She looked the same, felt the same, she was the same. The potion didn’t work, it was the wrong one. She went through all that for nothing. “It was probably a potion for chicken pocks or something” Sarah said aloud to herself. Sarah was disappointed. She knew what she did was wrong, and that she would be punished for it. But never again would she question the women, never again would she disrespect her. Or anyone for that fact. 

Beloved Color Draft 1

In Beloved, Toni Morrison throughout the story repeats the image of “red”. In Beloved I believe the color red represents death, hatred, sadness, deep emotion yet occasionally even life. Red I believe without coincidence is the also the color of blood. In Beloved blood has been spilled multiple times in the story. In the manner of death red represented the death of “the crawling already?”, Sethe’s third child. The child that she murdered in the woodshed. The red of the blood that covered Sethe’s body, and her childrens.

But on the completely other side of the spectrum, red represents life. Red represents the blood of Sethe birthing her children; of bringing life into the world. Her blood that runs through their veins. Her love for her children fighting for them, and in her mind keeping them “safe”.


In the very beginning of Part 1, we are introduced to “red” when Paul D first enters 124 he enters “a pool of red”, a haunting emotion that filled the house. Sethe then simply replies “its not evil, just sad”. Later Morrison describes to us the sadness and urge Paul D had to cry that fell over him as he walked through that red light.

Later in the book red reappears when Sethe is remembering the birth of Denver. The girl Amy was on her way to Boston to find red velvet. As Sethe was suffering the pain of birthing Denver, Amy comforted her with the images and story of her quest of that Carmine (red) Velvet.

Another instance of red. Is when Paul D takes sethe and Denver to the carnival, and the streets are lined with red “doomed roses”. I believe that these roses foreshadow the sadness and “doom” that comes when Beloved arrives later in that chapter.  

The most memorable occurrence of red is when Stamp Paid finds “a red ribbon knotted around a curl of wet wooly hair, clinging still to its bit of scalp.” This image gives us a very sad and violent description of his memories of Sethe and her 4 children.

Toni Morrison’s use of color in this story also strongly involves the identity of Baby Suggs. After Sethe murderers her third child, Baby Suggs goes into a deep depression. In that depression she would ask for color. Nothing else, just the sight of more color. Particularly blues, yellows, lavenders and oranges. In one of Stamp Paid’s memories he is trying to convince Baby Suggs to continue sharing ‘the Word’, but she replies with saying how she is going to only think of colors and with that response “he hoped she stuck to blue, yellow, maybe green, and never fixed on red.” Not once inaw the story does Morrison ever write that Baby Suggs seeked red, as if she had endured and seen to much in her lifetime.

10/10/12

I remember...

I remember one of the first dreams I had. No not a dream a nightmare. I don’t remember how old I was when I had this nightmare, all I know is i was young, very young. Maybe five or younger. I remember the pink dress my sister was wearing. Or was it my mother. Could both of them be in pink. I think so. I remember the feeling of abandonment. For we had to leave our house. I dont’ know why, but my mother said we couldn’t live there anymore. I remember them folding out a sheet in the fenced part of our old chicken coop. I remember the wire surrounding us. I didn’t know where the rest of our family was. Why just my mother and sister? Where are the others? I remember I was very curious about the chicken coop. It was right there. We were basically living in it. I remember opening up the door, and walking in. It was very dark. I couldn’t see a thing. I can still feel the claustrophobic panic I had. And then that's when I saw them. The red eyes everywhere. Bat like demons, then from every direction started flying at me. I couldn’t breath, I couldn’t see anything but their red eyes, and their wicked fanged smiles. I remember trying to scream for my mother and my sister, but they didn’t come. And then I woke up.


I remember quiet clearly one night during a family road trip to Yellowstone. We had this car, a Previa, where the back seat would fold down, almost into a bed. And one night on our way to Yellowstone, Jamie and I were sleeping in the back, we had been on the road for some time. Possibly a day. I remember waking up, and listening to the hum of the car on the freeway. I remember how dark it was, except for the passing car lights. It was peaceful. Everybody was asleep except for my dad, who was driving. I slowing crawled up to the front, and sat down next to him. It was, if i remember clearing 1:30 or 2:30 in the morning. I was amazed on how late it was. I was quite young and had never stayed up very late before. I remember whispering to him, about where we were. And how long until we get there. But mostly I remember the silence. We kept quiet, so not to wake the others. It was so peaceful, the car lights, the darkness, the quiet.

Color

Notes/ Thoughts/ Rough draft 

Color: In Beloved red represents death, hatred, sadness, emotion yet even life. Red I believe without coincedence is the also the color of blood. In beloved blood has been spilled multiple times. In the matter of death red represented the death of “the crawling already?”, sethes third child. The child that she murdered in the woodshed. It also represents hatred…… But on the completely other side of the spectrum, red represents life. Red represents the blood of sethe birthing her children; loving them, fighting for them, keeping them “safe”.

In the very beginning of Part 1, we are introduced to “red”. When Paul D first enters 124 he enters “a pool of red”, a haunting emotion that filled the house. Sethe then simply replies “its not evil, just sad”. Paul D later thinks to himself, describing the sadness and urge to cry that fell over him as he walked through the red light. Later in the book red reappears when Sethe is remember the birth of Denver. The girl Amy, was on her way to Boston to find red velvet. As Sethe was sufferering the pain of birthing Denver, Amy comforting her with the images and story of her quest of that Carmine (red) Velvet. Another instence of red. Is when Paul D takes sethe and Denver to the carnival, and the streets are lined with “doomed roses”. I believe that these roses foreshadow the sadness and “doom” that comes when Beloved arrives later in that chapter.  

10/1/12

What comforts you?

         When I think of comfort, I think of “being at peace”. Not in the matter of being at peace after you die. But being in such a state of mind, that you forget all that is around you, and you are surrounded by bliss. For me that is the most comfortable thing, being enclosed in a blanket of harmony. I find this feeling when I am on the bridge between reality and dream. That section of time before you fall into a sleep, but are still awake enough to still be “here”. That is my “being at peace”; complete pleasure.  When I lay my body on my bed and smother myself in blankets, I get a feeling that runs through my body as if all my thoughts, troubles, and wants, drain from my veins. I forget all. My mind becomes blank; an empty canvas for my dreams to take over. It’s why I treasure sleep; I want it. It’s as if it was my own personal addiction, as if my body desires, craves the washing of my mind. That is my comfort; my heaven, a pure ecstasy. 

Beloved "Trees"

As I have been reading “Beloved” I have found multiple reappearing ideas, moods, metaphors or “motifs”.  One of these many motifs is Morrison’s use of “trees”.  When Sethe still lived at Sweet Home she was whipped and the after affect of that was a large scar on her back that she says resembles a tree. When Paul D arrives at her house and after they spent the night together in morning as he gazes at her scar he realizes that it is just “a revolting clump of scars”. That it was not a image of life and rebirth as many trees symbolize. It was not inviting it was revolting.  Then Paul D starts to remember his tree. His “brother”.  One of the beautiful trees that he and his fellow Sweet Home men, would sit and lay under.  In Beloved these trees are a mixed symbol of life and death. Because even though Paul D called his tree his “brother”, it was the same trees that would hang his fellow men. The same trees that took life away. And even though Sethe tree was given to her in a time of when she created a new life for herself, it still haunts her, with her memories. Morrison brings back trees with Beloved appears in the story. They found her sitting next to a tree stump. “A life that has stopped.“ Could this stump foreshadow Beloved and her story? 

9/25/12

Write the saddest thing you know about friendship.

In my opinion the saddest thing about friendship, is the unmistakable fact that someday it will end. Throughout your lifetime you will and should have many friendships that fade in and out of your life.  Some that last more then others, and some that mean more then others. But eventually all these friendships will end. At the moment I have a close group of friends, and we have been friends for a very long time.  But soon we will all be choosing our own paths. We will start to be independent, living on our own, and living in a brand new environment. Everything will be changing for us, and most importantly we will be making new friendships. But with those new friendships we all know, that our friendship will start to fade. It may not be quick, but eventually my friends will only be a memory. That is what I believe the saddest thing is about a friendship. But it is undeniable, it will happen, as much as we wish we could stay together. Go to collage together, start our independent lives together, we know that is not the reality. We have accepted this, and live now in the moment, always enjoying each other’s company, and making great memories that we all can keep. 

Beloved Part 1 Section 1 Personal Statement

"124 was spiteful. Full of a baby's venom." The first two sentence of Toni Morrison’s novel “Beloved” I believe state and “set the mood” for the relationships between Sethe and her children and the home and its inhabitants. I believe that Sethe was involved to how her first child died. The way the "baby ghost" reacts to different events in the house reflects anger, and even revenge. I feel that the child must have died in the form of hatred. "Sethe and her daughter Denver were its only victims", the fact that Morrison wrote "its only victims", it seems that this ghost has revenge against Sethe and her youngest daughter. It also seems that if that child, the one that was not even two before she died, still lingers, she has a reason; a task to complete. What reason would a baby return to haunt her own family, and to fill their home with its  "venom"? But being that the ghost is a family member to both of these women, shows another factor, that the child's death, could have been voluntary. Toni Morrison writes "But if she'd come, I could make it clear to her." This is said my Sethe, the dead child's mother. "I could make it clear to her." The question is to make what clear to her, what is it? During the first chapter Sethe seems very distant and full of regret. Memories she doesn't want to face. “the baby’s fury at having its throat cut” Could Sethe have knowingly and voluntarily murdered her two year old daughter? Is that why her child haunts her even after 18 years?  

9/17/12

Memoir Prompt - Write about the things that you enjoy most and are most passionate about. Do you feel that you devote enough time to each?

This has always been a tricky subject for me. What am I passionate about? I remember many conversations I have had with my mother, about me being passionate about something. But I feel that that is always changing. I know my mother would want me to passionate about music. She has always made that very clear. If not singing, playing piano, or cello. I used to love all these things; I used to be passionate about them once. Between the ages of 7-13, you couldn't get me to stop singing. I would belt out the words until my throat hurt. I wanted to be on Broadway, that was my dream. I memorized multiple musicals involving Les Miserables, Rent, The Phantom of the Opera, Evita etc. I don't know what happened, but one day it all stopped. And I didn't sing again. I would sing in choir at school when it was expected of me. But I have never seeked out singing again. The same with piano. I have been taking piano lessons for about 8 years. But I have always been bipolar with that. One year I would love it, practice everyday, really put my time into it. The next year, I would scream and yell, and refuse to go to lessons. I do know that over time, the thought of finally letting go, has corrupted me; and this year I quit. I know my mother was disappointed. She has come from a very musical family, her mother a pianist and her father a bassist. But I don’t feel passionate to music anymore. I know for her it’s hard to hear that. When music used to be ‘my everything’. But I have changed. Now I feel like my passion (in school) is science. I have worked hard to get where I have in my classes. I am a good student, I work hard, and I enjoy it.  Two years ago, would I have ever thought that I would be passionate about science? No. But again things are always changing, I never know what tomorrow will bring, maybe I would be passionate about something entirely knew. Who knows?

9/13/12

Free Writing Prompt - Write for 15 minutes using the following phrase as your first line.

"After the door shuts and the footsteps die..."

After the door shuts and the footsteps die, Marie sat; frozen.  After the footsteps died, the only sound was the swooshing of the ceiling fan. It turned in circles, never slowing down, never ending. Marie sat there, directly in the ray of light from her one small window. The lights reflected off of her face, the tears twinkling as they ran down her cheek. She sat at the end of her twin bed, and was ruffling in the covers through her hands. "How could they?" she repeated her in head. Marie sat there pondering what had just happened. The news her parents had just given her. "Divorce?" She had never thought her parents would separate, she didn't even know they were unhappy. They seemed fine last night at the dinner table. Talking, and even laughing. Nothing was wrong. They seemed like the perfect parents. Marie sat there; frozen, and confused. She sat there trying to find where their marriage went wrong. Where it had fallen, where it had made the turn, where it had died. But she couldn't manage a memory, a thought, or a reason. It had all happened so abruptly, just out of nowhere. How could she face them again. After their betrayl. Would they ever be able to sit around a their table again, talking about school, and laughing together. Everything would be different, everything would change. Nothing would be the same, and nobody would ever feel the same. Everything had now changed. 

9/12/12

What is your obsession?

What is my obsession? It makes you think. What am I crazy about? What do I do all the time. What can I not live without? When I think, and come up with an answer. All I can think about is being with my friends. They are my obsession. I think my parents would agree. I love my friends, I love being with them, and I love the feeling that they want me too. That I am wanted in a community. That is my greatest obsession. I have worked hard to be where I am now. I have played the game, that teenage social ‘ping pong game.’ Social dynamics that are always changing. I have worked hard to get where I am now. When I was younger, especially in middle school. I didn’t have many friends. Possibly 2 or 3 good girl friends. I was not “popular” I was not known. I was passed, ignored, and left in the dark. I would watch my classmates laughing together, talking about the time they had spent together. It made me sad. It made me lonely. It made me want to change. I wanted to have friends, I wanted to go out and do things. Be with people, and have fun. So that’s what I did, and I accomplished that goal.  Now as a junior in high school, I have one of the greatest groups of girl friends. We have all been very close since 7^th grade, and we have stuck together. A couple of have become distant and moved on. But the majority of us have stayed together. We are a strong group, and we are constantly together. If not have a girl’s night, we’re out in the town. Within my group of friends who I have nicked names “My Giggly Group of Girlfriends”, I have smaller groups of friends. I attend a different school, then most of the other girls. I ended up making some other very close friends at Laurel. And within that I have had to navigate several different social scenes and dynamics. Hopping from group to group, splitting my days, spending multiple nights out. It must sometimes drive my parents crazy. But its who I am, I love being social. I love to be out and about. And if I’m home alone, and I know others are together, it makes me go insane. I think because if I know people are together, and I’m not there, it reminds me of when I was lonely. When I wished, and prayed that I could be with them. I believe my parents understand that. Which is why they are so accommodating, they understand where I have been, and then where I am now. It’s my obsession. I am now a social teenager. I have to be with my friends. I’m addicted. It’s the main factor of my happiness. I couldn’t imagine going back to the loneliness. Being stuck in the shadows, unnoticed, unheard. I love my friends, and I know they love me too.  I am now wanted. That is my obsession; to be wanted by others.

9/11/12

In 300 words write about an old wedding dress.


My mother was one of those women who never kept anything for over a year. She was constantly refurnishing the parlor, swapping her wardrobe with the newest fashion, and exchanging expensive jewelry. She liked everything new, and up to date. The newest fad, she had to have. Whenever something new and better came out, she had to have it. I knew it drew my father crazy. They would argue about how she spent another $1000 on a new carpet, when the old one was just fine. But it was how my mother was. And it was what she had. Her job was to keep the house up, and up-to-date. It was how she spent her days, taking care of my little sister maggie, and buying new things online. Thats how she didn’t most of her purchasing online. It even drew me crazy. She kept nothing, and if she did keep something, it wasn’t much more than over a year, until she would return it, or exchange it for something “better”. Even gifts, christmas, birthday, she would return those too. There was only one thing she kept. One thing she cherished. It was hidden in the back of her closet. Stored in a cream clothed bag. It was a wedding dress. Her grandmothers wedding dress, my great-grandma Jean. It was a simple thing. An off white lace gown. I had only seen it once or twice. But i remember it was made of silk, smooth, cool to touch. It was long, had a lace train, that would follow as you wore it. It was cinched at the waist, and then fell on the hips. The neck was tight, and ruffled with floral lace. The arms long, and twisted. It didn’t look like much, a clump of lace. It smelt of old perfume and musk. Yet it was the only possession my mother cherished. The only apparel she kept, yet never wore.  It was something special, something precious to her. It was given to her from her mother, and from her grandmother. I had always expected that she would then give it to me, someday. I don’t know what I would do with it. I had never been attracted to it. Never how my mother is. I would probably store it, never would it be brought out. It would collect dust. After all it was just an old dress.

9/6/12

What element of nature would you choose as an emblem for yourself as a writer. Is this a symbol that you use when writing? Does the tone match your writing? Write using it as a metaphor.



My writing is as if the leaves are falling from their tree. As if the air we breathe starts becoming colder, more crisp. As if the air was full of the sounds of crows, cowering on the wires. Autumn. I do not know why, I do not know how. But as I write. A lot of times I imagine autumn. The time of decaying; death. I feel many of my writings have that tone. A low energy that is given off. A lot of times when I write I am feeling low inside. As if something is wrong. Could be something at school, at home, something going on with a friend. Those feelings are stored deep inside. When I write, they creep out. Slowly. Writing is an escape. A way to say what is needing, without anybody truly hearing. You can write what you are feeling. And simply delete it afterward. Nobody has to see it. Nobody has to read it. Nobody has to know. a secret. I sometimes wish that I could change the tone of my writings. Change the tone from being deep and heavy, to light and airy. I wish that my symbol of writing could be like the spring, rebirth, happiness. Or summer, to the heat and passion. But it is not. Its slow, paused. Its cold, and bitter, like as if winter were approaching. I feel my writing is stuck. Stuck in this sad melody. I want to break free. Write about life, and beauty. Happiness and love. Instead of sadness and death. But its easy for me to write, with autumn being my structure. Its familiar, something I know of well. Something I can relate to. Easily bring memories to paper. I need to find new memories to store. A new picture, thought, or feeling to flood through me. Through me, through my fingertips, through the keys, and onto the paper. A new story, and new story to share. A new story to read. A new story to begin.

9/6/12

“I am who I am”

She studied her face in the mirror. Plain. She was nothing special. Not a gem or a diamond. Not a feature that created harmony. She was no diamond; she did not sparkle. She was simply a rock, a pebble that lay at the bottom of the sea. Her eyes were a muted blue. A tint of gray, and muted with a hint of brown. Her eyelids; swollen, puffy, and red. Thick circles of flesh lay below her eyes. She had not slept in days. A band of bruised flesh surrounded her eyes. Sinking them into her skull.

Her skin was chalky, rough, and course. It was pale, no pigment to bring her to live. A corpse. Part of her skin had been chipped away; indentations in her face. Scars scattered her cheeks and chin. Dark stains of previous wounds.

Her nose was large, too large for her petite structure. It jutted out, and was crooked. It had been broken. Broken, and then broken again.  A large vein followed the break in her nose, created the vision to be drawn to it. It was the center view, the pillar that held the structure.

Her lips were pale. No rosy pink to be seen. The flesh was tight and cracked. Behind those lips lay shaved, chipped and cracked teeth. If she dared to smile you would see gaps of space between yellowed teeth. Those yellow teeth, covered in decaying food.

She was an emblem of ugliness. A definition of hideous. No one would speak to her, no one would listen, and no one would ever dare to look at her. Yet she would stare, and study her features. She would look at herself, and ponder. She was not afraid, she was not scared. She would whisper “I am who I am.” She was strong. She would suffer, yet she would not cry. “I am who I am”. She would stay there, gazing in her mirror; studying her face, her features, her identity. “I am who I am.” She would not leave, she would not be banished. She was strong. She would stay. She was beautiful.