...that tore me up. But in a good way. Unexpected tears surged to my eyes and I had to practically run out of the classroom we were writing in to cry, sobbing into my knees around the corner. It was a good, cleansing cry, though. Really.
----------------
Hey Grandpa,
I miss you.
It's been almost a year since you left us, but I hope that you are doing well. I hope you got to see Grandma and Shadow again because I'm sure they missed you as much as we do. I still can't believe how surprising your death was - it was just so sudden. I'm glad you went peacefully though, and with a smile on your face like nothing that the managers of the funeral home had ever seen before. You were always grinning when you were alive and I appreciate that so much. I wish I would've told you while you were here just how much you meant to me, because now it's too late. I hope there are palm trees and hammocks and sun in heaven like there are in Florida where you'd go for Christmas every year. I know you trekked down there all the way from Michigan for the winter because avoiding the cold and replacing it with warmth was worth the long journey.
I know we never really had many deep, meaningful conversations and now I'm regretting that. So much. Because now you're somewhere I can't bring you back.
I love you.
~Vicki
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Don't Wait Up For Me
Her chest slowly rises and falls, tucked underneath a thick quilt and sheets with her eyelids heavy in sleep. A lamp illuminates the room in a soft yellow glow from the nightstand, sitting flush with the bed. A novel is perched on her abdomen, open but face down; her fingers loosely grasped the edges.
Carpet-muffled footsteps enter slowly through the shadowed doorway. He steps into the light and his ring glimmers subtly as he advances to her bedside. He smiles sadly, crow’s feet branching from the corners of his eyes as he delicately pulls the book from her hands, closes it and sets it quietly on the table. It was sweet of her to try and wait up for him, he thought, but tonight it was better that she hadn't been able to stay awake.
He gazes at her face and sighs melancholically. Ghosting a hand lightly over her cheek, he bends down and kisses her forehead tenderly. He whispers that he's sorry he has to leave, but it's for the best; that he'll miss her so much and that he loves her and will continue to no matter how much distance is between them. His eyes linger on her eyelashes, cheeks, and lips; every inch of her face before he tears his gaze away and turns the bedside lamp off with a click. He walks out the door and pauses momentarily at the frame of it, his hand resting on the faded wood as he contemplates again what he's about to do.
He looks back at her shadowed figure. She rolls over, mumbling something before falling still again.
He sighs, his shoulders sagging forward. He has to force himself to turn away before he can pick up the bag he packed and walk out the door.
Closing it behind him silently, he disappears into the night.
Carpet-muffled footsteps enter slowly through the shadowed doorway. He steps into the light and his ring glimmers subtly as he advances to her bedside. He smiles sadly, crow’s feet branching from the corners of his eyes as he delicately pulls the book from her hands, closes it and sets it quietly on the table. It was sweet of her to try and wait up for him, he thought, but tonight it was better that she hadn't been able to stay awake.
He gazes at her face and sighs melancholically. Ghosting a hand lightly over her cheek, he bends down and kisses her forehead tenderly. He whispers that he's sorry he has to leave, but it's for the best; that he'll miss her so much and that he loves her and will continue to no matter how much distance is between them. His eyes linger on her eyelashes, cheeks, and lips; every inch of her face before he tears his gaze away and turns the bedside lamp off with a click. He walks out the door and pauses momentarily at the frame of it, his hand resting on the faded wood as he contemplates again what he's about to do.
He looks back at her shadowed figure. She rolls over, mumbling something before falling still again.
He sighs, his shoulders sagging forward. He has to force himself to turn away before he can pick up the bag he packed and walk out the door.
Closing it behind him silently, he disappears into the night.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Scissors
He slid a thin, rolled white cylinder out of his pocket and flicked his thumb over the lighter. It ficked metallically before a flame ignited, dancing red and orange in the reflection of his aviators. She scowled and crossed her arms, turning away from him.
He took a long drag, his chest rising slowly before exhaling wispy gray smoke through his nose and mouth in almost what seemed like a long sigh of relief. Holding the lit cigarette between his pointer- and middle fingers, he tipped his head in her direction and quirked an eyebrow. She couldn’t tell where his gaze was through the shields of the lenses concealing his eyes, but she knew he was looking at her. She could feel it.
“What? Something bothering you?” He asked smoothly, inhaling through the red-tipped tube again. He expelled the smoke into the air and it dissipated in the cool night breeze. “Yes. Something’s bothering me.” She huffed and wrapped the jacket tighter around her torso, shoving her hands into the deep pockets.
“Care to elaborate?” His tone was calm, languid even. She envied him for it. But it only irritated her more.
“Care to guess?” She retorted sharply. She kept her gaze low and away from his face, away from his entire body. She heard him take another slow drag.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” He prodded gently, setting a hand on her shoulder to turn her to look at him. To anyone else who’d do that, she’d shrug off their hand, smack it away, or bite it. But he was different. She let him touch her, even though the effort to not do anything made her grind her teeth together.
She looked up at him and was disoriented when she found his soft blue-green eyes instead of those mirrored lenses peering at her. Blinking, surprised, she looked away for a second before grasping her bearings. She had almost forgotten why she was frustrated with him when he sucked in more of that sick, noxious tobacco. Her anger kicked back in full force.
She glared at him.
“Why do you smoke those things? You know it’ll kill you. You know I hate the smell and your addiction. Why don’t you stop?” She crossed her arms and looked up at him sternly.
He looked at her, blinked, and looked up into the sky thoughtfully. He took another drag and respired the smoke straight up to the stars. Sliding a hand into his black skinny-jeaned pocket, he sighed leisurely like he had all the time in the world to answer her.
“You don’t understand this addiction.” He whispered to the air. Taking in another mouthful of tobacco fumes, he exhaled them through his nose before continuing. “It’s got me on a leash, on a chain that takes a lot of strength to break free from. I could do it if I really had the motive to…but it makes me feel too good to give up.” Here, he turned to her and gazed into her eyes. “I know you don’t like it. I know you hate it and I’m sorry. I want to be able to stop, but…I can’t. Maybe one day I’ll summon up enough courage to finally quit.” He turned away from her and lodged the cigarette cozily between his thin lips. He put his other hand in his pocket, his posture slouching even worse as he leaned back against the railing.
I’ll give you motive to quit…
She rummaged around in her own pockets for something, a certain thing an idea had just sparked. Her fingers rubbed against the cold metal and plastic and she grasped it in her palm. Swiftly pulling it out of concealment, she snipped once, chopping off the end of his cigarette. He blinked down, confused, and extracted the stub that was left of the cig from between his lips.
“What did you-?” He stared at her incredulously. His eyebrow quirked to a great height and she almost laughed in dark satisfaction. “How did you-?” Disbelief crossed over his lips.
Smirking, she slipped the blades back into her pocket and turned to walk away, but paused to look back over her shoulder as if she had suddenly remembered something. “You better quit soon or I’ll keep doing that.”
She sauntered away, leaving him to stare after her, perplexed.
She continued to smirk.
He took a long drag, his chest rising slowly before exhaling wispy gray smoke through his nose and mouth in almost what seemed like a long sigh of relief. Holding the lit cigarette between his pointer- and middle fingers, he tipped his head in her direction and quirked an eyebrow. She couldn’t tell where his gaze was through the shields of the lenses concealing his eyes, but she knew he was looking at her. She could feel it.
“What? Something bothering you?” He asked smoothly, inhaling through the red-tipped tube again. He expelled the smoke into the air and it dissipated in the cool night breeze. “Yes. Something’s bothering me.” She huffed and wrapped the jacket tighter around her torso, shoving her hands into the deep pockets.
“Care to elaborate?” His tone was calm, languid even. She envied him for it. But it only irritated her more.
“Care to guess?” She retorted sharply. She kept her gaze low and away from his face, away from his entire body. She heard him take another slow drag.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” He prodded gently, setting a hand on her shoulder to turn her to look at him. To anyone else who’d do that, she’d shrug off their hand, smack it away, or bite it. But he was different. She let him touch her, even though the effort to not do anything made her grind her teeth together.
She looked up at him and was disoriented when she found his soft blue-green eyes instead of those mirrored lenses peering at her. Blinking, surprised, she looked away for a second before grasping her bearings. She had almost forgotten why she was frustrated with him when he sucked in more of that sick, noxious tobacco. Her anger kicked back in full force.
She glared at him.
“Why do you smoke those things? You know it’ll kill you. You know I hate the smell and your addiction. Why don’t you stop?” She crossed her arms and looked up at him sternly.
He looked at her, blinked, and looked up into the sky thoughtfully. He took another drag and respired the smoke straight up to the stars. Sliding a hand into his black skinny-jeaned pocket, he sighed leisurely like he had all the time in the world to answer her.
“You don’t understand this addiction.” He whispered to the air. Taking in another mouthful of tobacco fumes, he exhaled them through his nose before continuing. “It’s got me on a leash, on a chain that takes a lot of strength to break free from. I could do it if I really had the motive to…but it makes me feel too good to give up.” Here, he turned to her and gazed into her eyes. “I know you don’t like it. I know you hate it and I’m sorry. I want to be able to stop, but…I can’t. Maybe one day I’ll summon up enough courage to finally quit.” He turned away from her and lodged the cigarette cozily between his thin lips. He put his other hand in his pocket, his posture slouching even worse as he leaned back against the railing.
I’ll give you motive to quit…
She rummaged around in her own pockets for something, a certain thing an idea had just sparked. Her fingers rubbed against the cold metal and plastic and she grasped it in her palm. Swiftly pulling it out of concealment, she snipped once, chopping off the end of his cigarette. He blinked down, confused, and extracted the stub that was left of the cig from between his lips.
“What did you-?” He stared at her incredulously. His eyebrow quirked to a great height and she almost laughed in dark satisfaction. “How did you-?” Disbelief crossed over his lips.
Smirking, she slipped the blades back into her pocket and turned to walk away, but paused to look back over her shoulder as if she had suddenly remembered something. “You better quit soon or I’ll keep doing that.”
She sauntered away, leaving him to stare after her, perplexed.
She continued to smirk.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Food for Thought
I'm still not sure what inspired all this to come together, but here it is. It's sort of titled "Peace," but that's just the prototype name.
Think what you want. I'm still not sure what I think of it, myself.
Love,
Vicki
---------------
Pavement melts into brick
red swallowing the streets
smelling of must and vanilla and old vintage clothing kept in the closet too long.
Prices tag cloth and skin
How much are you worth
it sickens me the heights these numbers take.
You, with your closed emotions
I want openness, you want to leave
Don’t leave, don’t disappear without words
Say something, say something
Whisper me the secrets of the earth
I just want peace.
Think what you want. I'm still not sure what I think of it, myself.
Love,
Vicki
---------------
Pavement melts into brick
red swallowing the streets
smelling of must and vanilla and old vintage clothing kept in the closet too long.
Prices tag cloth and skin
How much are you worth
it sickens me the heights these numbers take.
You, with your closed emotions
I want openness, you want to leave
Don’t leave, don’t disappear without words
Say something, say something
Whisper me the secrets of the earth
I just want peace.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Schedule: Unwrapped
So like I promised, I'm going to write a short summary to each time/activity so you can get a better glimpse into my day.
Here goes.
7:00 WAKE UP you lazy bum! (This one is self explanatory; gotta get my butt outta bed.)
7:30-8:30 Breakfast in O'Hill (My suite and I walk across the lawn to the cafeteria, AKA O'Hill [Observatory Hill] dining hall. It is good food compared to regular school cafeteria food, but to any other meals it's just plain alright. But that's to be expected.)
8:45-10:15 Morning Workshop Lab (We all split up into our separate genres and I hang with my Creative Nonfiction peeps. We work with our two TA's [teacher assistants] and do some exercises that help stretch us and better us in our writing and free writes. There's generally an activity/prompt that we work the whole class around.)
10:15-10:30 Break (15 minutes to breathe before something else starts up. This break is greatly appreciated.)
10:30-11:30 Writing Time (We sit and either pull out our pencils and notebooks or laptops and fingers and just plain write. Write write write, whatever comes to mind, something you need to work on for workshop. Just as long as you're writing. This is probably one of my favorite times out of the whole day.)
11:30-12:40 Lunch; Independent Writing Time (Again we make the short [but hot] trek across the lawn to O'Hill dining hall and indulge in its lovely lunches. If we get done early, we can go back to our suites and write some more as we wait for the next activity to roll around.)
12:45 Leave for Workshops (At around 12:35, we split into genres again on the lawn just out front of Tuttle [the house of dorms that we live in] and then leave on our journey to the Hall where we have our intensive afternoon workshops. It's long and hot the majority of the time, but it's worth it when you get to the doors of the Hall and air conditioning almost blasts you away.)
1-3:30 The Intensive Afternoon Workshop (This is my favorite part of the day. Our main Teacher (Julia McGill) shows up and bends and molds us even more by throwing prompts at us and challenging our writings in many different ways. For instance, I wrote an art critique in the format I would normally, kind of like an organized essay. We "workshopped" it [this means we went into small groups and read it out loud and got feedback on it, what we should change, what we should definitely keep, etc.] and Julia challenged me to put it in poem form, just to do something different. Now, I'm no poet and it's not one of my strengths, so at first I was like okay, I might try it, vaguely thinking about it. But then I actually did it and she liked it. We workshopped this poem and she wanted a printed copy to use as a model for how much different your piece can come out from what you originally planned. It was pretty awesome.
I also really like my Creative Nonfiction family. I'm so chill and used to them now, so I don't have to worry about if I cry in class because of what I wrote or write something that sounds incredibly stupid. They understand what's going on in my head and it's so cool (: )
3:30-4:15 Break (Another breather before the next activity. This break is also very nice.)
4:15-5:30 Electives (The day before, we sign up for electives which are afternoon activities ranging from Beardology to Ultimate Frisbee. They're pretty neat and I try to do them every chance I get, but sometimes I just need plain ol' writing time, which is also an option in place of an elective.)
5:30-7:00 Dinner; Independent Writing Time (When 5:30 rolls around, we know it's time to trudge back over to O'Hill for din din [or yum yums, as Erika Lewis, one of the head counselor people here likes to call it.] After la cena, we chill in our suites for a little bit before the next activity.)
7:00-9:00 Cultural/Social Events; Student Staff Meetings (Poetry slams, faculty and staff readings, student readings, plays, you name it. And at times, important announcements.)
9:00-9:45 Personal time for writing projects, etc. (Quiet time [generally] to work on something you need to get done for workshop or just time to roll around other ideas in your head; this time is dedicated to anything writing.)
9:45-10:45 Suite Time ("SUIIIIITE TIIIIIIME" as the suite next to us likes to yell. Our 120s suite gathers out in the main area on the couches and floor and hang out. Sometimes we play Apples to Apples, sometimes we watch "Freaks and Geeks," we talk about how our day/week has been, etc. This time is dedicated to suites doing things together with their suites.
10:45 Get ready for bed (Suite time is over and it's really time to wind down and think about sleeping.)
11:00 Over head light must be out (We don't necessarily have to be asleep when 11 rolls around, we just need the room's main light to be shut off. Sometimes I'll take showers at this time or continue on my writing projects until I'm tired and need to go to bed. Although sometimes when I'm in bed and preparing to go sleep, someone starts talking to me about...random things :P )
Whew! So that wasn't as bad as I thought it was gonna be. But anyway, enjoy! It is a packed day and I'm glad again that the weekend is here to let me relax a little bit. Last weekend, by the end of Sunday I was refreshed and ready to get back to it, so I hope it'll be the same after this weekend.
Gah! Only 5 more days left! What?! That is insane. I can't believe the 2nd week is already over. I'm really really glad I didn't do first session, because I was fully adapted to everything here by the time this past Friday rolled around.
Thanks friends and family for your support and encouragement (:
And thank you so much Mom and Dad, for backing me up in this decision. I'm not tired of writing yet, I'm actually enjoying just how much we're writing, which is constantly. I'm so eager and excited to finish out this next week with a bang. (:
Love out to you all, and I'll even add a cyber hug just for you!
~Vicki
Here goes.
7:00 WAKE UP you lazy bum! (This one is self explanatory; gotta get my butt outta bed.)
7:30-8:30 Breakfast in O'Hill (My suite and I walk across the lawn to the cafeteria, AKA O'Hill [Observatory Hill] dining hall. It is good food compared to regular school cafeteria food, but to any other meals it's just plain alright. But that's to be expected.)
8:45-10:15 Morning Workshop Lab (We all split up into our separate genres and I hang with my Creative Nonfiction peeps. We work with our two TA's [teacher assistants] and do some exercises that help stretch us and better us in our writing and free writes. There's generally an activity/prompt that we work the whole class around.)
10:15-10:30 Break (15 minutes to breathe before something else starts up. This break is greatly appreciated.)
10:30-11:30 Writing Time (We sit and either pull out our pencils and notebooks or laptops and fingers and just plain write. Write write write, whatever comes to mind, something you need to work on for workshop. Just as long as you're writing. This is probably one of my favorite times out of the whole day.)
11:30-12:40 Lunch; Independent Writing Time (Again we make the short [but hot] trek across the lawn to O'Hill dining hall and indulge in its lovely lunches. If we get done early, we can go back to our suites and write some more as we wait for the next activity to roll around.)
12:45 Leave for Workshops (At around 12:35, we split into genres again on the lawn just out front of Tuttle [the house of dorms that we live in] and then leave on our journey to the Hall where we have our intensive afternoon workshops. It's long and hot the majority of the time, but it's worth it when you get to the doors of the Hall and air conditioning almost blasts you away.)
1-3:30 The Intensive Afternoon Workshop (This is my favorite part of the day. Our main Teacher (Julia McGill) shows up and bends and molds us even more by throwing prompts at us and challenging our writings in many different ways. For instance, I wrote an art critique in the format I would normally, kind of like an organized essay. We "workshopped" it [this means we went into small groups and read it out loud and got feedback on it, what we should change, what we should definitely keep, etc.] and Julia challenged me to put it in poem form, just to do something different. Now, I'm no poet and it's not one of my strengths, so at first I was like okay, I might try it, vaguely thinking about it. But then I actually did it and she liked it. We workshopped this poem and she wanted a printed copy to use as a model for how much different your piece can come out from what you originally planned. It was pretty awesome.
I also really like my Creative Nonfiction family. I'm so chill and used to them now, so I don't have to worry about if I cry in class because of what I wrote or write something that sounds incredibly stupid. They understand what's going on in my head and it's so cool (: )
3:30-4:15 Break (Another breather before the next activity. This break is also very nice.)
4:15-5:30 Electives (The day before, we sign up for electives which are afternoon activities ranging from Beardology to Ultimate Frisbee. They're pretty neat and I try to do them every chance I get, but sometimes I just need plain ol' writing time, which is also an option in place of an elective.)
5:30-7:00 Dinner; Independent Writing Time (When 5:30 rolls around, we know it's time to trudge back over to O'Hill for din din [or yum yums, as Erika Lewis, one of the head counselor people here likes to call it.] After la cena, we chill in our suites for a little bit before the next activity.)
7:00-9:00 Cultural/Social Events; Student Staff Meetings (Poetry slams, faculty and staff readings, student readings, plays, you name it. And at times, important announcements.)
9:00-9:45 Personal time for writing projects, etc. (Quiet time [generally] to work on something you need to get done for workshop or just time to roll around other ideas in your head; this time is dedicated to anything writing.)
9:45-10:45 Suite Time ("SUIIIIITE TIIIIIIME" as the suite next to us likes to yell. Our 120s suite gathers out in the main area on the couches and floor and hang out. Sometimes we play Apples to Apples, sometimes we watch "Freaks and Geeks," we talk about how our day/week has been, etc. This time is dedicated to suites doing things together with their suites.
10:45 Get ready for bed (Suite time is over and it's really time to wind down and think about sleeping.)
11:00 Over head light must be out (We don't necessarily have to be asleep when 11 rolls around, we just need the room's main light to be shut off. Sometimes I'll take showers at this time or continue on my writing projects until I'm tired and need to go to bed. Although sometimes when I'm in bed and preparing to go sleep, someone starts talking to me about...random things :P )
Whew! So that wasn't as bad as I thought it was gonna be. But anyway, enjoy! It is a packed day and I'm glad again that the weekend is here to let me relax a little bit. Last weekend, by the end of Sunday I was refreshed and ready to get back to it, so I hope it'll be the same after this weekend.
Gah! Only 5 more days left! What?! That is insane. I can't believe the 2nd week is already over. I'm really really glad I didn't do first session, because I was fully adapted to everything here by the time this past Friday rolled around.
Thanks friends and family for your support and encouragement (:
And thank you so much Mom and Dad, for backing me up in this decision. I'm not tired of writing yet, I'm actually enjoying just how much we're writing, which is constantly. I'm so eager and excited to finish out this next week with a bang. (:
Love out to you all, and I'll even add a cyber hug just for you!
~Vicki
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Illness
Air conditioning. A cricket chirps for a mate in the distance. Cotton blankets and polyester sheets rustle in the dark. A sigh emanates from them.
An insomniatic figure rises as a slim shadow from the twin bed. She’s thin as death himself and pale as the horse he rides.
Ebony coats her walls with darkness.
The darkness is unfriendly.
Luna isn’t out tonight, clothed in her silver dress.
She hobbles over to the wall, leaning her frail arm against it for support.
She shouldn’t be out of bed.
Flicking the switch, lights blaze to life and she shields her sunken eyes from them in envy.
If only it were that easy to live.
The orange and white bottles of pills taunt and jeer at her from the small bathroom countertop.
Her legs begin to wobble. She’s already stood up for too long.
Stumbling, she barely makes it over to her bed before collapsing onto it. She heaves a sigh, panting lightly and beginning to feel her head swim like it was lost in the ocean.
Drowning.
The doctor always told her to act positive, to think optimistically. He would always straighten his glasses and smile reassuringly at her.
And she would always scowl and turn away from him.
How wrong he was. “Think optimistic,” she would mock once he had finally stepped out of her room. “Fat lot of good that does.”
She had tried. She’d thought optimistically, acted positive. She’d smiled.
But not anymore.
Not now that there was a price on her head, a price in time.
Steadily she got cheaper every day.
-------------
I'm not sure if "insomiatic" is technically a word, but oh well. I like it.
Ciao!
~Vicki
An insomniatic figure rises as a slim shadow from the twin bed. She’s thin as death himself and pale as the horse he rides.
Ebony coats her walls with darkness.
The darkness is unfriendly.
Luna isn’t out tonight, clothed in her silver dress.
She hobbles over to the wall, leaning her frail arm against it for support.
She shouldn’t be out of bed.
Flicking the switch, lights blaze to life and she shields her sunken eyes from them in envy.
If only it were that easy to live.
The orange and white bottles of pills taunt and jeer at her from the small bathroom countertop.
Her legs begin to wobble. She’s already stood up for too long.
Stumbling, she barely makes it over to her bed before collapsing onto it. She heaves a sigh, panting lightly and beginning to feel her head swim like it was lost in the ocean.
Drowning.
The doctor always told her to act positive, to think optimistically. He would always straighten his glasses and smile reassuringly at her.
And she would always scowl and turn away from him.
How wrong he was. “Think optimistic,” she would mock once he had finally stepped out of her room. “Fat lot of good that does.”
She had tried. She’d thought optimistically, acted positive. She’d smiled.
But not anymore.
Not now that there was a price on her head, a price in time.
Steadily she got cheaper every day.
-------------
I'm not sure if "insomiatic" is technically a word, but oh well. I like it.
Ciao!
~Vicki
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