BLOG POST #12: A Letter to my 13-Year-Old Self

I found that necklace you thought you’d lost on the last day of school, 

back in eighth grade when you did more sulking than Jules.

Wait- you don’t know who that is yet, and I’m glad that you don’t. 

Just turn off the TV and work on those songs that you wrote.

Because our notebook’s still empty, stuffed away in a bin.

How have you been?

I know you needed a win.

I’m working on it now, but I want you to know you haven’t sinned

For being a child who has nothing to share

With the people around you, for whom you barely cared.

I’m back on your square after a long time away-

There was a good year between us, before I started trying to allay

The mess in my brain and the anger in my heart.

I think that’s what dragged me back to the start.

Work on your art. 

BLOG POST 11: Short Story Plot Graph

                                          Waterbed Memories

Exposition:

We are given a glimpse of Lunetta’s daily routine in the Santa Isabel Convent, set in Juanaria, Brazil.  We know what they treasure, what they value, and note their misery and disdain for others, which is masked by a quiet, shy persona.  A mysterious person named Hawa seems to be at the root of this.

Inciting Incident:

Lunetta is sent to run errands and  stops by the river.  They meet Caiman (the caiman), who shows them memories of their past in the reflection of the Pandeiros river. These include ones of Hawa, their aunt who had to leave Lunetta behind in the convent.  Lunetta is warned to wait for their aunt to come get them and  to not leave with anyone else.  They ignore this.

Rising Action: 

Lunetta is adopted- despite Caiman’s warnings, they leave with the man, who is later on killed in a freak accident.  They are made to return to the convent.  Three more occurrences like this one happen before a teenager named Antoni comes to pick Lunetta up on behalf of his boss.

Climax: 

Lunetta has faith in this new adoptee, although they haven’t yet met.  It dawns on them that Antoni is a lot like Hawa, and flees the boat.  Caiman intervenes, and the two brawl.

Falling Action/End:

Lunetta comes to terms with the fact that they cannot return to the convent; a new chapter in their life has begun, and they must grow up to face truths and fears alike.

BLOG POST #10: Physical Character Profile

At thirteen years old, Lunetta was sure that limbs made up 90 percent of their body.  With gangly arms and legs that felt more like inconvenient props than appendages, the child had developed the creepy habit of mimicking puppet gestures in private, maintaining a stoic, almost robotic posture otherwise.

Umber skin deepened to a summer shade suggested that they spent a great deal of time outside of the children’s home, and the reckoning could be backed by a single glance at Lunetta’s practical, limited wardrobe; the clothes hanging in their tiny closet included three pairs of basketball shorts, cargo pants and jeans, an assortment of hand-me-down T-shirts, and one button-up.  At that moment, they wore a blue sundress made of light cotton, the fabric draped loosely over knobby shoulders.  As Lunetta fussed with its skirt, their heart shaped lips turned downwards in a rare frown, squared jaw clenched so tightly one might have worried that a blood vessel would burst at any given moment. When they finally looked up, dark, upturned eyes peered over the water as their straight brows scrunched with worry.  

The sun had begun to set, and shadows danced over the smooth planes of Lunetta’s face;  stretching across the apples of their cheeks, mulling over the concave bridge of their nose.  

BLOG POST #9: Oracion

BLOG POST #8: Bird, Beatriz Martin Vidal

BLOG POST #7: The Outsiders

BLOG POST #6: Diamond Scouting

BLOG POST #5: Refresh and Rewrite

What is your most precious childhood possession? 

I was a fortunate child in the sense that I never went hungry or homeless, and had plenty of toys to play with- and I mean a lot.  Being the first born (along with my twin,) on my mother's side of the family and the first in seven years from my father’s, my grandparents, older brother and cousins blessed me with enough gadgets to fill the entire room I shared with my siblings.  It had gotten to the point where my parents would have to gather the majority of them and lock them away in a storage closet, leaving my sisters and I in tears at the thought of not being able to see our favourite toys for months at a time.  My stuffed bear Patience was a victim of incarceration for years.  Patience, like me, is a twin.  There are two of them with the same name and same outfit, as me and my sister were each given one at birth.  The stuffed animal sported a classic rabbit onesie, sewed from fabric stained with the blush of a thousand hugs, for a thousand kisses have descended upon her costume. It stretched over her maple-coloured pelt with little ease, the sleeves and legs bunching in crannies.  Altogether, the bear has always been a temperate thing, the mild expression on its face sewn into place with the simple stitching done with a fine brown thread.

       I’m not sure where the name Patience came from, but I like to imagine that those are the words embroidered onto her jumper- words that, if I hadn’t used my imagination, would otherwise be unreadable. Strangely enough, I hadn’t grown an emotional attachment to the toy until the fifth grade, when I was just about to move homes.  I had been against the idea, not for fear of losing any “friends” that were gained in the last six years, but because the area in which I lived was very precious to me.  The only other place I could have called home at the time was my grandmother’s, which is still one of the few constants in my life, even more so during the tumultuous affairs of my childhood.   As I angrily sorted through old toys to throw away, There lay the bear at the bottom of an orange RubberMade bin.  It was a meagre and beaten-down version of what used to be a round plushie, one fattened with layers of “fur” and clothing and stuffed with fistfuls of cotton.  I pitied this new Patience.  From then on, I made the decision to keep her with me at all times.  

      I've always referred to Patience with she and her pronouns, and although she’s only a cotton sack, my siblings and the few friends who’ve met her follow suit without me ever asking (granted, my friends were eleven at the time.)  And I know this all sounds pretty stupid, and may even make you think I’m crazy or simply making this up, but I genuinely believe that she is alive.  Not in a Toy-Story type of way, where I try to catch her moving and speaking, but in the sense that when I pray at night, I will cross Patience after I do so to myself.  At eleven years old, she had been a small reason why continued to believe in God- a little angel sent down from heaven to play the role of a teddy-bear guardian, even if it would only ever bring solace to myself, even if it’s only in my head.   When my younger siblings try to take her and hide her from me, I steal their toys in childish retaliation.  There is nothing more precious to me than that skimpy little bear who sits at the head of my bed every night, the one who patiently waits for my return from the dirty world outside of my bedroom.

Reflection:

      While writing the original and refreshing it for this blog, I found myself growing accustomed to the use of Parentheses and Dash. Not only does it guide me in my note taking while jotting down ideas, but the technique translates nicely onto finished products if used correctly.  When I am writing about a subject that may not be understood clearly by readers when written in short sentence form, using parentheses and dashes helps writers and readers alike sort out the basics of the story without feeling interrupted. After all, nobody wants to read an entire story without much understanding, only to be met with a glossary at the end of the book (I’m looking at you, Frank Herbert, Writer of Dune).  That was another example.

      I incorporated a vignette into the blog as a way to explain my reasoning on why  I felt closer to Patience at eleven than I did as a child.  Similar to the way I hadn’t felt sad about losing friends when moving, I did not ever care to play with the bear.  It was only ever a source of emotional comfort for me, similar to the area where I lived for most of my childhood.  When reminded of the fact that this object will always be with me no matter the amount of passing years, I thought of how I could always go back to visit my old neighbourhood.

      Imagery was also used to describe Patience.  I write of her “before and after” appearances so that readers could gain somewhat of an idea of how the bear looks as well as how it changed alongside me.

BLOG POST #4: Aren’t You Happy for Me? Epilogue

John Ballinger has seemingly adopted a more relaxed attitude towards his daughter’s marriage. But when life throws him another curveball, will he be able to take the heat?

“Say your name for the camera, honey.” 

          “Holly,” A little girl answered back shyly, hands crossed over her lap as she squirmed on the couch.

          “Holly! And how old are you today, Ho-Ho-Holly?”  

          “I’m four today.. And it’s Thanksgiving Holly-day.”

          “That’s right.  You’re a lucky one, aren’t you? Getting to eat a bunch and open gifts all in one day?”

          “That’s right- I’m hungry, grandpa.” 

          “Well, it looks like I’ve got perfect timing.”  Just then, Melanie Coombs walked into the living room with a tray of muffins in hand.  “It’s only a snack, Holly.  Don’t spoil your dinner.”

          “Hmph”

Melanie peeked over the tray at her father, shying away when he caught her staring.  “Will left the chocolate ones for you, dad.  He remembered how much you liked them last time.”  

          “A passing gift.  How kind of him to think of me in his last hours,”  The man’s voice dripped with mock sorrow. 

          “Will you quit acting like he’s dead? It’s not funny, you know.”

          “Alright, alright.  I’ll thank him later, darling.”

          “You will?”

          “Sure, I will.  I mean, it’s just a chocolate muffin, but of course I’ll thank him for you.”

          “Don’t just do it for-” Melanie paused, took a deep breath before speaking again.  “Nevermind.” She mumbled almost to herself before leaving the room as quickly as she came.

He might as well be dead, Ballinger thought, but decided against mentioning William Coombs and his one foot in the grave.  It would have only upset Melanie more, and confuse her kid who sat a few feet away from him, oblivious.

          “Wait here while I go to the bathroom, alright?” Ballinger told his granddaughter.

          “Okay,”

          “And no peeking at your presents. Roger?”

          “Rooooger that,” The toddler mimicked Ballinger’s gravelly voice, giggling to herself as he made his way down the hall.

          “I just don’t think it’s the right time..”

          “There won’t ever be a right time with him, mom.”

          “You know how your father takes this sort of news. I’d rather not do it on Holly’s birthday of all days.”

  Ballinger stopped in his tracks.  The voice behind the door belonged to his ex-wife, Mary.  He hadn’t even seen her enter the house.  

          “Who knows when we’ll all be in a room together again? And he’ll be here soon, anyways.” Melanie retorted.

John Ballinger shook his head, chiding himself as he noticed the way his body pressed against the nearest wall at the slightest mention of Mary and him.  For the past three years, he’d begun to do it purely out of instinct.

          “Not today, John.” He whispered to himself before carrying on.

Five minutes had barely passed when the doorbell rang. 

          “What, are you ringing the bell to your own house now, William?” Ballinger groaned as he stood in the house’s entrance.

          “I forgot my keys.”

          “What don’t you forget these days?” 

Ballinger didn’t get an answer.  Instead, his dreadful son-in-law stepped aside to reveal a younger man on the porch behind him.

          “John, This is Micheal.  I’ve just picked him up from the airport.” The words tumbled from William’s mouth with a dry stiffness to them, lacking their owner’s original signature formal style.

          “Where are my manners? I’m pleased to meet you, Micheal, though your father here hasn’t said much about you.”

          “He’s not my son.”

          “Oh?”

Micheal finally spoke as his eyes lit up.  “Mary!” 

          “What about her?” 

          “Micheal!” 

Once again, John Balligner was baffled by his ex-wife’s sudden appearance. 

          “Pardon me, John. And thank you, Will.  I won’t  bother you for a ride again.”

          “You still haven’t told me who you are.” Ballinger uttered, incredulous of the way the man treated him so casually despite the two never having met.

Mary spoke up. “Mikey here is my fiance,” She grinned at him, and it wasn’t until that moment that he noticed the golden band on her finger.

John Ballinger would not shut up about it.

“Fiance?!”

          “Quiet down, dad. I just got Holly to bed.”

          “Fiance…”  He turned to his daughter, straight faced.  “I see where you get it from now, Melanie.”

          “Oh, stop it. This is not the same, and you know that.” Mary spat.  The venom in her voice stung, but John chose to ignore it.

          “What do you mean by that, mom? If you have something to say about William and I, say it.”

          “We’re getting off course here.  Mary, fiance? You’re getting married to that thirty-something year old out there?”

          “We’re less than ten years apart.  I don’t understand why you’re making such a big deal out of it, John, we’ve been divorced for years now, and frankly, you have no say in this decision.”

          “T-That’s not the issue here.  I just can’t believe you’d spring this on us on your granddaughter’s birthday.”

          “We’ve all known for a while now.  It’s just you, dad.”  Their daughter announced bluntly.

          “So everyone knew but me,”  He was pacing across the kitchen floor, hands clutching either side of his head.

          “I ask that you don’t take this personally, John.  I was only waiting for the right place to tell you...”

          “I knew he’d do this,” Melanie muttered.  “I knew he’d make it about himself.”

          “I am not making this about myself, Melanie.  I’m only concerned for your mother’s well-being.  Is it so abnormal for a man to be skeptical of a situation such as this one? So uncommon that you’d reduce my worries to self centeredness?”

          “You’re not worried about my relationship, John. You’re doubtful.  You don’t believe that Micheal would marry me for love, do you? You don’t-”  Her voice quavered.

          “Good grief.  You’re not listening to me, Mary! This is like Melanie and William all over again.”

          “I wish you’d both stop taking shots at my relationship.” The daughter frowned. “You’d think that by now, I wouldn’t have to defend myself this much! William is a great husband, he’s a great father-”

John Ballinger was not in the mood to hear praise for William.  “That man is rotting, Melanie.”  He hissed, careful to assure that the two men in the living room could not overhear the conversation.  “He can hardly remember Holly’s name.  When was the last time he’s had a standard checkup?”

This earned a steady sob from his daughter.  It was now his turn to frown.  When did they all change so quickly?  Or rather, why did he let himself change so quickly?  The kitchen was silent,  save for the muffled sniffles from his child and the tsk-tsk-ing from his ex wife.  John Ballinger’s eyes darted between the two women before he spoke again.

          “Look, I- I’m sorry, honey.  I need to choose my words more carefully, I know.”

          “It’s fine, dad.  At least this way, I know exactly what you’re thinking.”  She snapped, and left the room without so much of a glance at her parents.

John’s shoulders sagged, not daring to look at Mary.  

          “I’m sorry,”

He wanted to say it to her again and again, but the last Ballinger knew that it would be a lie coming from his lips.

BLOG POST #3: Ideal Writing Room.

Naturally, a description of my ideal room would have to begin with one of my ideal home. It’s always been my dream to own a Mediterranean or Spanish style house, with light stucco walls and sharp terracotta roofs.  There would be a courtyard where my pool stays warm year-round.  From there, anyone on the second floor balcony could watch you bathe in its light water, my bedroom having the perfect view:  Our main attraction is near.  I’ll render the shared sense of intimacy between a bedroom and a writer’s room into something tangible when I mold a curved gap into the far-left wall, an arched doorway connecting them together. The first thing you’ll hear upon visiting my writing room is a soft clincking sound, left behind from your own entrance- there isn’t a door to shield the opening between the two rooms, a curtain of beaded pearls taking its place instead.  Shining cranberry and pine-green orbs hang off thin fibers of string, letting light filter through and reach both territories, stray rays reflecting off of their bulbs and setting off a flurry of colours: a daytime disco wall.  This goes without saying, but shoes are banned within my grounds. Everyone who visits will stay in socks or house slippers, whether they’re close family or strange new guests.  This only makes the experience of visiting my rooms an even greater privilege. Getting the opportunity to sink your feet into my plushy, carpeted floor will never fail to send waves through a body, with senses lashing against each other in a methodic harmony that just feels right, the same “right” that makes it clear that the ocean’s blue crashes are as natural as the morning dew.  Those two will exist undisturbed when nothing else is left, along with the sand left behind from the sturdy rocks underneath.  Sand.  The perfect combination of firm graininess and slippery hell, with its hot grists forever untameable.   My carpeting would be called Sand’s little brother, firm and composed but a warm sink-hole poseur all the same.  Another obvious thing: They share the same colour.  Beads and curtains, bedsheets and throw pillows- they can all be changed in a short matter of time, but sand on a beach or desert remains constant and infinite.  Carpeting imbued into the floor of  a precious chamber is just as magical, offering inner peace and love to everyone who steps on it. Four steps into the room, you’ll reach my chaise longue, with crimson velvet stretched over it’s curved shape.  The sofa lies with me when I need a rest, and I bury my face into the nook between its single arm and the little headboard.  The black rotating fan I take out from its dusty storage closet in the summers makes its rounds, blowing a crisp imitation of wind into my face, and occasionally, onto the curtains- they make a jingling sound like no other, lulling me into sleep with a choppy lullaby.  The sun sits on my skin while I mull over my work, eyes shut in a forced daze as I try not to let stress get the better of me.  “Where is the sun coming from?”  I’ve mentioned its light twice, but never hinted at there being a window anywhere in the room.  And that’s because there aren’t any.  Sure, its connecting chamber (my bedroom) has many, but this room’s only entrance to the outside world exists in a balcony right across from the velvet chaise.  It leads you to a view of the outside of the house, opposite the courtyard.  Ornate steel railings reach over both sides of the platform, leaving no space between its ground and walls for a slip or fall.  Two chairs sit opposite each other on either end of a round black table, it’s design matching the balcony railings.  The small furniture set stays off to the left side of the balcony, the right being reserved for free space and a single plant.  The gold-orange orchid uses its vine-like stem to raise itself high enough to reach the top of my railing.  Truthful to its name, the rounded petals range from pastel toned oranges to a golden hue, flowing from the ripeness of a green bud.  The delicate centers of each flower don a magenta and white bud, all of the colours resembling a bowl of sorbet when stared at for too long.  I stuff deep brown soil into a ceramic pot painted in a hue not unlike steamed milk.  I could sit here for hours at a time, staring down onto my property with its pear trees.  Their fruit sit like tear drops on the ends of their branches.  Twin pear-coloured hills roll down the length of a horizon where other houses reside in a welcoming solitude.  The balcony’s view is my only source of entertainment-  besides a laptop and fan, there are not any electronics in the writing room, and I’d like to keep it this way, living in the room until my fingers are stiff and weak, unable to continue their dance on a keyboard’s buttons. 

BLOG POST #2: I am a Camera

I stay still in my seat, trying my best not to make direct eye contact with any other passengers. The muted vibrations set off by the bus’s rumbling weighs down my feet, as I’m sure it does to the grey shoes across from me. They’re pointed Oxfords with gold buckles, white knitted socks visible under dress pants cuffs.  I don’t get another look as a new pair enters the scene, sweeping away the neat image along with dust from the road that trails behind their green sneakers.  The feet belong to a teenage boy, whose eyes seem to be closed as he bobs his head with the music in his headphones. Even so, he doesn’t miss a step as he makes his way to the moquette-fabric spot next to mine. This time, I stare down at my gloves- black leather with ugly straps on the side that I keep on only to appease my mother’s December worries. I reach over my shoulder and use a leather clad finger to brush off a leaf from my hood, not getting a chance to wonder how it got there before more rush through in pursuit of their lost friend.  Looking up to an overhead window, I cover my ears as a burst of wind rushes through the bus, little green soldiers raging onto their new battlefield as a howling cry rings through passengers’ ears.  More people follow my lead, helplessly cupping gloved hands over the sides of their skulls as I’ve already moved on, turning to face the intruders head on.  The window won’t budge as I press its glass with the palms of my hands, though not very hard- the handles are filthy, and we are in a pandemic, after all.  Dozens of eyes are trained on me as I awkwardly feign the role of hero, whole body turned the opposite way as I continue on my quest.  Honestly, I can’t help but notice how nice it looks outside: Blue-gray skies are visible and glimmering even through the sludge smeared screen.  There’s hardly a chance for me to properly commend the landscape, because my attention is soon drawn to the new image in the reflection in front of me- or should I say behind, for a pair of shining black headphones catch my eye in its light, the owner reaching beside me to push the window shut once and for all.  He does it so quickly, and embarrassment settles deeper into my bones than it already had. My only solace is that he couldn’t see the changing of hues in my cheeks as I nod soundlessly in appreciation.  The boy smiles under his mask; anyone could tell by the way the apples of his cheeks puff up, peeking under the thin black fabric covering the bottom half of his face. We both settle back into our seats. Once again, the rumbling sensation in the soles of our feet is all we share.

BLOG POST #1: Two Words

If she were to win the golden medal for her country, Kamila Valieva planned on thanking her skates, first and foremost.  The fifteen year old trusted them more than anything else in her control, and thought of them as her own little missiles that would propel her body into action at the start of each and every routine.  This is what Kamila thought to herself as she knelt before the locker room bench, letting droplets of an elixir fall underneath her tongue.  She was promised that the blue liquid would set the blood in her veins loose, give her heart and limbs all the time they wanted as she tore the ice rink apart- a white plane that remained smooth beneath her *raketas as she wove through teammates in competitions. Was there anything else left to worship?  Her coach.  Of course, Tutberidze was the goal- and by that, she meant impressing her.  Kamila understood how little time she had, how her judges and trainers and even the bodily functions that she took for granted would abandon her eventually, as soon as her metabolism slowed down and she stopped producing collagen- or whatever coach Tutberidze had said. When that did happen, all that would be left of Kamila is a husk, just like her coach.  The figure skater didn’t want to admit just how much she hated that woman, no matter how much of her success she owed to her.  She was mean, plain and simple.  A witch whose only gimmick was an interactive show-and-tell, a performance she always pulled off in the most cruel ways.  But the girl could forgive that, for that very witch gave her the elixir.  It all came back to the elixir, that pretty potion that kept Kamila skating, the fans cheering, and judges smiling.  While she performed, it would split her brain wide open and melt it slowly, while the residue leaked through her eyes and left rosy cheeks wet and cold.  That was fine, she told herself, since the tears would dry rather quickly- everything ran at full speed with the elixir by her side. Lithe bodies surrounded her alongside their familiar smells of sweat and spandex, while silly questions flooded her thoughts.  Can the back row see how hard I’m smiling right now?  Why are they on their phones? Why is her ponytail so loose? The girl knew in her heart that none of it really mattered, none of her musing helpful except for one, which she took as law:  

       “Right now, I am the liquid. And they have to pay attention to me.”  

       “What are you saying?” 

       “Hm?” Kamila turned her head.  Her teammate with the loose ponytail was staring at her.  She never bothered to remember her name, and so Kamila only felt it appropriate not to bother with a response.

It’s disgusting, really.  She was starting to come down from her frenzied elixir-induced stupor, and suddenly nothing felt the same.  Kamila did not hear her team’s results, did not try to read the faces of people in the arena like she had only minutes before.  The figure skater paused briefly in her hurry towards the locker room, right infront of a mirror.  She tore her eyes away almost immediately- Kamila felt like a stupid doll in all the stage-like makeup and glitter costumes, and chucked her skates across the floor upon reaching the locker room.  Fuck the skates.  Fuck Tutberidze. There was only one thing that could help her now, and it laid at the bottom of her bag in a perfect-blue flask.