I thought it would be a cute idea to make Christmas stockings for family and friends this year. I drafted my own pattern, and to my they’re very quick to make. It takes less than an hour. So far, I’ve made three.
This poem resulted as kind of a bet with my class mates. We all decided it would be funny to write sex poems, because my poetry teacher is old, and it would be funny to hear her read them. So, here is my new sonnet.
Toe Curling Dance
Fingers on skin, a light caress dances
up leg, past knee, to slightly parted thighs
sprinkled with goose bumps. The touch enhances
sensation and gives way to passion cries.
Tongues crash, a fervent game of hide-and-seek
as hands roam wild over peaks, valleys, curves
eliciting a long, low moan, knees weak,
desire buries deep, tingling the nerves.
Hips undulate, skin to skin bodies press
tightly, soon the world’s existence will cease
culminating in a quivering mess,
collapsed by satisfaction of release.
Words cannot form, reality shattered
lungs left gasping for air, minds scattered.
A friend of mine at school revealed that he often writes his stories 6 hours before class. While I envy his ability to do this (I usually manage to churn something out after at least three solid days on the computer), it makes me wonder, is he cheating his craft?
Part of what we do, or at least what we should do, as writers is work our piece. The magic isn’t in the writing, although you do have to have strong writing abilities. The magic is in the editing. Shuffling things around, trying things from different POV’s (first, second, third) and even different POV characters, can sometimes make a piece really soar, but you’ve got to have the time to do that.
Now I know this is school. I know that sometimes life gets in the way, and homework gets sacrificed. That very thing is happening to me with my story now, as I wish I would have budgeted more time, but it’s due tomorrow night. A deadline is a deadline, and I won’t sacrifice my grade, even if it isn’t quite what I hoped it would be. And I can’t really blame him for doing it in 6 hours; it’s probably still better than half of the crazy stories that are written for class. But if it’s that good to begin with, imagine how much better it could be, if it was spit-shined before presented.
I don’t know. Maybe it comes down to pride in your work, even if it’s something as simple as homework. Or maybe I’m just naieve to idealisticically believe that every writer loves the act of writing, even if it doesn’t always turn out just right. But 6 hours just doesn’t seem like enough time for any writer, no matter how good you are, to turn out a draft that resembles anything close to a polished product.
And no, I’m not picking on my friend at school, at least not intentionally. He’s a cool guy, and I like what he writes, it’s just what he said that got me thinking….
My to-do list runs,
a scrolling news-ticker at the bottom of my brain,
with updates every half hour.
It starts before lids budge,
before dawn has settled into morning,
when my brain is not quite awake.
It stops long after lids close,
after pillow, bed, house, cease to exist
and in the blackness of sleep it finally rests.
I discovered today, as I was sewing a poppet, that I hate dealing with small, delicate things. When I made jewelry, I refused to play with seed beads; when I crocheted, I refused to use the teeny, tiny needles and thread (well, refused after making a carebear with it, never again!); and now, sewing poppet parts, my fingers are sore, and tired. Maybe I’m just not meant to make small things.
(Here is a reference for those of you who don’t know what a poppet is: Be prepared for its cuteness…)
Monologues as a class assignment. We had to write at least one as a difficult character. I chose to work on characters that I’m writing a story about.
Difficult Character: Greg Butler **warning: language**
The worst part? It was Christmas. That magical day when you’re supposed to be oh so fucking jolly, and there I was - I - I didn’t mean to. It’s not like I planned it, you know? But when David got his present - the big present - I couldn’t help it. It was raw, you know? Primal, like. He started picking at the corner, slowly, in that annoying way that he does. Fucking kids got autism, so of course he can’t rip into his presents like any normal kid. Seven, he’s seven. Hell, at that age I’d have been through my entire pile of presents by the time he got through one. He, on the other hand, carefully peels the paper off, spiraling it round and round. In the end he’s left with one long strand of paper. Honestly, it made me dizzy, watching it slowly be unwrapped. And as each letter was revealed - E - A - S - I knew.
She promised. Promised. Isn’t that supposed to mean something? Isn’t that supposed to fucking mean something? I guess not. I used to trust her -really trust her. And then he came along. David. Took it all from me. All her time, all her energy, went to him. And I had to work. Wasn’t enough that I got a raise when he was born, wasn’t enough I was already working late. We had a kid with special fucking needs, and that costs money. I could handle the long hours. Shit, David didn’t like me anyway so it was easier to be away from home. But that wasn’t enough. We needed more, more, more. I gave up my weekends, my fucking weekends. That’s the only time I had to myself. That’s the only time I could paint. It made me feel free, you know? Not anymore, I had to work. Fuck. I hate work. Then Eva gave him my paint supplies. She knew what they meant to me, she fucking knew, and she gave them to him. Bitch. It wasn’t bad enough that he was using them, oh no. What’s worse - he’s good. Really good. Better than me.
So I made her promise. Talked her into letting him branch out, to find other things he was good at. I thought maybe I could go back to it, after he had lost interest. And she promised. But that bitch, that sneaky, fucking bitch didn’t keep that promise. I got him CD’s, classical music - hoping that might do something to his head, might make him better. She had talked about getting him some new educational gadget she saw on T.V. I thought it was all set, you know? I didn’t have a care in the world. Hell, I even poured myself some Christmas scotch - black label. I got all comfy like, on the couch, ready to watch David open presents. It was all fine and good, until he started unwrapping paint supplies. Small things at first, brushes, paint trays. My blood began to boil. But the easel, that was the last straw.
Second Character: Eva Butler
That was the worst Christmas ever. To this day I still couldn’t tell you what happened. One minute, we were happy. David was opening his presents so quietly, happily entertained for once. That year he started a new trend of peeling the paper off in a spiral. It took so long to open presents. But he was happy, and quiet for once, instead of screaming or rocking wildly in circles. Some days it’s impossible to keep him happy, but not this Christmas. It was God’s way of giving me a Christmas present, a few peaceful hours. Then Greg ruined it. Why did David have to take so long? Why did he have to set Greg off?
I don’t quite know what happened. David was unwrapping the easel. Every inch of paper peeled off brought an even bigger smile to his face. Greg was on the couch, drinking his yearly scotch, and as I watched him, his face grew red. I tried to hurry David up, really I did, but there is no rushing that kid. He’s going to do it at his own pace, or not at all. So I tried to tell Greg just to give him time, but he didn’t hear me. It’s like he wasn’t listening. His eyes were focused down on David, and I thought I saw…no father could hate their son, could they? But, that’s what I saw - hatred. And then I grabbed Greg’s arm. He pushed me, he actually pushed me, before lunging at David. He hit him, I saw it, mashed his face with the glass once. Twice. I started screaming, and I watched as Greg, a grown man, wrestled the easel from David’s hands, and throw it on the ground. He stomped on the box over and over. I heard it splinter into pieces. Then he stormed off.
And David, poor David. There was blood everywhere, from his nose, his lips. I thought I was going to have to take him to the hospital. How was I going to explain that to them? But as I cleaned him up, it wasn’t that bad. He had a gash across his forehead, and his nose was swollen, but it didn’t seem to be broken. It could have been worse. Greg could have actually hurt him, could have killed him. How would I explain that to everyone? He’s lucky he didn’t.
I don’t leave David alone with him anymore. I can’t. I just don’t trust him. The rare times we’re all together, I find I’m always situating myself between the two of them. Next time - god I hope there’s not a next time - next time, I’ll be there, between them. I’ve even started sleeping in David’s room, just in case. He’s not going to hit my child again.
Today was my first official day as a consultant at the UWC. I had three consultation sessions (well, three and a half, but I don’t count the half because the guy disconnected halfway through, and didn’t send the correct draft to begin with). It was sureal and a blast, all at the same time. The kids who work with at the UWC are awesome, as is my mentor. I’m super stoked to be apart of this amazing experience.
A story I wrote for class. It’s currently in the process of being workshopped. I will post the final edited version when it’s complete. Until then, enjoy the first version of the story! 
Change in scenery,
fresh air flowing through
screen porch causes two years
of dormancy to disappear.
Within a week,
green stalk snakes upward
seeking sun, buds ripen green
shifting to dark pink.
Now each morning
bean shaped buds blossom
revealing pink moth shaped petals
white center, yellow tongue.
