Cold War Luck

Here it is, my first attempt at play writing. I got the idea from a fun story generator and the play wrote itself rather organically. If I had to edit it, I would try to add more humor and Russian puns; I wanted it to have an air of whimsy.

Cold War Luck: Playwriting

Cold War Luck

By

Callie Lopshire-Bratt

Characters:

Bill: a stressed psychiatrist, divorced from his socialite wife, yet still adores her. Deals in psychoanalysis and is very good at his job. Successful and a typical all-American man.

Carolina: a beautiful Russian spy living in the United States. Rather bubbly and empty-headed, surprised at her ability to survive as a spy as she speaks broken English at best. Must have a huge amount of luck to have survived thus far, and indeed situations always go her way. Has just received orders to find a husband to better camouflage herself.

Scene 1

Open curtains to a party in full swing in the 1950s. Women and men stand chatting and laughing around the couches, the high shrill laughter of women mingling with the smoke in the room. The room itself is done in red velvet, a throwback to the older era of New York, very gothic and rich-looking. A dark-wood table is off to the side, covered in whiskey glasses and bottles. The lights are set to low, casting a sultry yet seedy light over the party. One woman is standing by herself, her dress silky and straight, at odds with the flared dresses of others. Blonde and beautiful, she stands out like a sore thumb with her long hair among the brunette bobs. A man approaches her, nervous in his tweed-brown suit.

BILL: (nervously) You look lonely. Are you, you know, waiting for anyone?

CAROLINA: (with a noticeably bad attempt at masking her Russian accent) I’m a friend of….(with an air of grasping at straws) Mary’s. I’m just waiting here for her so we can go home.

BILL: Mary who?

CAROLINA: Mary (long pause while she desperately tries to think of an answer in English, then triumphantly) Miller!

BILL: There’s no Mary Miller here. (Carolina waits with bated breath for her discovery) She must have stood you up!

CAROLINA: (relaxing visibly) Why, what a horrible woman. (Suddenly remembers her orders to find a husband, and begins studying Bill intently)

BILL: So….what are you doing here? (he shifts uncomfortably under her gaze)

CAROLINA: Well, I was waiting for Mary, but since she stood me up, I guess I should go home. It was nice to meet you...

BILL: Bill.

CAROLINA: It was nice to meet you, Bill. (Moves towards the coat rack)

BILL: Don't go, can I get you a, a drink? (seems startled that he just asked a beautiful woman to get a drink)

CAROLINA: Sure, what about a vodka?

BILL: That Soviet swill? (laughs) We're in America, baby!

CAROLINA: (nervously) Ha, ha. I was just joking...what about...(desperately trying to think of an American drink) whiskey?

BILL: Sure thing! (moves out of sight to drink table)

A single light shines on CAROLINA, as she enters into a solioquy. Silence falls as everyone else on stage freezes in place.

CAROLINA: Whew, that was lucky. I can't believe no one has noticed that I have a Russian accent! Or that I'm terrible at this spying thing. My handler just instructed me to find a husband for better cover, so maybe this man will do? He's very....American.

BILL reenters into the spotlight. The moment is broken, and the rest of the people on stage start moving and chatting again.

BILL: Here's your whiskey. I put it on the rocks, hope that's okay.

CAROLINA: (takes a sip from her drink she takes from BILL) So, Bill, what do you do for a living?

BILL: I'm a psychoanalyist. (CAROLINA starts, frightened) Don't worry, I can't just look at you and see all your secrets.

CAROLINA: Well, that's a relief. (She laughs, relieved)

BILL: What about you....

CAROLINA: Carolina.

BILL: What about you, Carolina?

CAROLINA: Well, I'm an...accountant.

BILL: How interesting! You meet so few female accountants. With what firm?

CAROLINA: Um, well, actually I'm an unemployed accountant (again with an air of making things up)

BILL: I'm sorry to hear that. (Suddenly snaps his fingers) That's who you remind me of!

CAROLINA: I'm sorry?

BILL: You remind me of Natalia Makarova, that Russian ballerina who defected!

CAROLINA: (terrified) You don't think I'm from the Soviet Union, do you? (prepares to go down fighting)

BILL: Don't be ridiculous, of course you're American! You're too beautiful to be a Soviet spy. (realizes what he just says and turns bright red)

CAROLINA: (laughs) I like you, Bill. Shall we dance?

BILL: (offering his arm, which she takes) We shall.

THE PAIR dances off stage. Close curtain.

Senior Project: Why is Society So Obsessed with Blood and Monsters?

The reason I chose these piece (or really, a fraction of this piece) was because this essay and project have consumed my life for the last year of school. The Senior Project, a graduation requirement at my high school, must be on a question that the student chooses; in my case, I studied violence in the media. The following paragraph is from my 10 page paper, one of my favorite parts, on serial killers and violence in the news media.

Wild Card: An Excerpt from Vampires of Violent Media: Society and its Obsession with Violence

Monsters and blood go hand in hand, and oftentimes monsters are created by the blood they spill. A look at the genre of true crime novels and television (think 48 Hours, Criminal Minds, CSI) proves that American culture might assume that the monsters in human skin are the worst of all. However, our society is not only interested in the exploits of people like monstrous serial killers Dahmer and Ramirez, but even in some cases seems to worship them: Just look at the large demand for Ramirez's prison artwork (Kottler 119). Serial murders are incredibly rare, less than 1% of the homicides in America, but the news coverage of these “human monsters” makes these murders seem 1,000% more common (124). During an interview with Erica DeGarmo, who holds a PhD in social psychology, she made the note that “society finds marginal behavior like serial homicide interesting because it is so abnormal and unusual.” However, it's not only real serial killers that are documented far beyond their actual occurrence: Serial killers both imagined and real became the subjects of mountains of books during the Reagan years and beyond (Poole 149).

Moving beyond serial killers for the moment, if you were to take a look at the 5 o'clock news on any day, the old adage “if it bleeds, it leads” comes immediately to mind. Think back to the tragedy at Sandy Hook Elementary late last year: That story (and rightfully so) led on all of the news media stations; but as the shock of the tragedy faded, so did the faces of the victims, to be replaced by the face of the killer: Adam Lanza. During a brief interview with A-- Z--, the media studies teacher at L-- L----, she remarked, about the increasingly high levels of portrayal of any type of school violence, “The news make it seem like these random acts of violence are so commonplace, but schools are one of the safest places to be; your children are way more likely to get killed walking down the street or being hit by a car, than to get gunned down in school.” In yet another incidence of the media sensationalizing violence, in the 1980s, after a ill-timed statement by the Justice Department, the media hysterically speculated that more than 4,000 unsolved murder cases a year were caused by serial killers and that the typical American is more than 37% likely to meet a serial killer (Poole 152). In reality, in the excellent wording of Poole, “the typical middle class American had about as much chance of being in an airplane crash over the ocean, surviving it, and then being killed by sharks as falling into the hands of a Ted Bundy”(152). 

If we're talking about the media, nowhere do we see more violence, blood, and gore than in our movies and television shows. Dr. Ritchey remarked over the classical music in the background of Peet's, “Levels of violence weren't so graphic growing up; it was the era of family sitcoms, Ozzie and Harriet on one side, and shoot-'em-out Westerns on the other.” Clearly, that's not the case so much anymore, with shows like The Walking Dead and True Blood (not to mention ones like Fringe or Supernatural) , and movies like Hansel and Gretel: Witchhunters, and Django: Unchained, among others. For example, seven of the ten most popular cable shows, including Criminal Minds and Elementary, showcase intense crime scene violence (Lemire et al.); and to talk about The Walking Dead is to talk about one of the bloodiest shows that I have ever seen in my life—blood sometimes even splatters the camera lens from exploding zombie heads and limbs. And it's not just me watching this gory show: TIME reports that The Walking Dead gets the highest 18-to-49 ratings of any drama on TV. But, as James Poniewozik explains in TIME, “it's not just that there's too much violence on TV, though there probably is...it's that producers have decided that the best way to touch a viewer's heart is to rip it out and show it to him”(50). However, TV isn't only overrun in dumb, over-the-top violence; it's using this extreme violence in intelligent ways, whether it's to show the struggle between morality and survival in The Walking Dead or misogyny in American Horror Story (50), or even the effects of apartheid in District 9 (Kottler 115). Part of this overabundance of violence on TV is to attract the viewers: without viewers, it's a short fall until TV shows are canceled and the network loses the money it spent filming and producing the show. However, the more pressing question is really why does TV feel the need to show us this violent media that used to be called drama? Because we lap it up. Remember, if it bleeds, it leads.

The Mop Speaks

I chose this poem as a wild card because it is rather a different side of me, a more angry poem, as a mop describing its experiences. The description in my opinion brings the mop to life; whenever my mother makes me mop, I always try to be gentle. I think trying to understand the world from another object's point of view is important; after all, understanding one another is our only way to peace.

The Mop Speaks: A Wild Card

Rough wood my body,

long and luscious and limp my hair.

Too bad THEY don’t understand that

hair is not supposed to be used to

clean up Cheerios and toast crumbs and peas

that fall on the floor.

THEY plunge me into soapy water

then drag my head

across the grubby ground;

then I am shoved back into the bucket,

shaken and stirred in a cocktail,

the main ingredient dirt.

My favorite type of THEM are babies;

we share a secret bond that only other

floor cleaners would understand. Too bad

THEY grow up.

Sometimes I get a break from working,

and am waltzed around the house in

THEIR arms.

It hurts to know that I am only practice,

perfect practice, for another one of THEM.

nerdiness and me

I originally wrote this essay for a college application to a college I wasn't accepted to. But since I didn't want to go there anyway, I consider it a win win situation. If you've read my "About me" section, then you know that I am going to Bryn Mawr in the fall--and the reason I'm going to Bryn Mawr in the fall is because the women there accepted me with this essay. This essay is me, and the reason it's a wild card is because it shows my passion unlike really any other story.

Nerdiness: A Wild Card

I am opposed to the word nerd. I prefer "passionate about something which others consider weird, socially unusual, or just plain odd". Sometimes I just want to read my book, and all I can think about is it lying on my nightstand, pages still flat and unread. I pace around the room when the next book in a series is not immediately available for downloading on my e-reader. The entire Eragon series? Yeah, I've read it. Three times. The Hobbit? Yeah, I saw it. At midnight. On my eighteenth birthday. Game of Thrones? Don't get me started; if George RR Martin doesn't hurry up and finish Winds of Winter, he's going to have a very impatient redhead on his front porch with a sleeping bag, because waiting out in front of Walmart on Black Friday is to "normal" people what Game of Thrones is to me. Santa brought me a two-pound backpacking sleeping bag this year, because it was the one of the few things I asked him for. I'm a nerd about camping and backpacking as well. No car camping for me - I prefer isolated, packing food in, and some serious hills, because the only way I feel good after a hike is knowing that I climbed up, not down. I look normal on the outside – no glasses, just contacts; no suspenders, or high-waisted pants; and definitely no personal computer that my eyes are always glued to, unless you count my iPhone (I don't). But if someone mentions a book that I've read, or a TV series I like, I immediately jump up and down and grill them on every single aspect, all shyness gone. I don't have to celebrate my nerdiness, since I celebrate every day, just by being myself. Words don't define me, but if they had to, I would say I was a "passionate person with varied interests usually in the realm of the unusual".

The Day I Jumped Off A Cliff

One of the most clear moments of my life was when I rappelled in the Sierra Nevadas as part of my wilderness adventure/leadership course, which was one of the defining moments in my life. An organization called GirlVentures took me out into nature to teach me leadership skills and the value of me as a person, and I now work for this amazing organization and love every minute. This vignette shows the moment when I transitioned from girl to woman, from shy to brave.

The Day I Jumped Off A Cliff: A Vignette

I looked down, then, completely panicked, looked back up. My hiking boots dangled into open space, knees desperately digging into the ledge, fingers wanting to grasp the rock but were too busy tightly knotting themselves on the rope that was my salvation. Shakily, breathing deeply and steeling my nerves, I looked down at my dearest friends reaching up to me, yelling encouragement. Their support would have helped, if I weren’t fifty feet in the air above them.

I looked immediately back up, deaf to the soothing voice of my wilderness instructor, telling me that I can do it, I can jump. No, this was a battle between me and my inner demons, those little voices that told me I’ll never be good enough or brave enough for this world. Tears of frustration threatened; had I really come all this way, physically and mentally, just to give up now?

No, my new-found confidence whispered, Don't give up now, you can do it, just jump.

I could climb back up, but that would be giving in to my little voices, and the newly courageous me rebelled at that idea: I would not, could not, give up. I was going to rappel down this cliff and there was nothing those little voices could do about it.

Except then I looked down. My determination vanished, and I needed every ounce of courage and strength in my body not to admit defeat and climb back up away from the edge and my crippling fear. But then, strangely, gripped by a sudden impulse, I took a deep breath and glanced down, and for the first time, I consciously saw the beauty around me: the tall trees that brushed the sky, the majestic mountains, the rock itself, beautiful in the way only dirt can be, faceted with all kinds of small glittering particles, the wind, brushing its current against my face as if to say, let go and fly.

Suddenly I knew: If I didn’t jump now, I would never take a risk like this again. I would never know what it would feel like to live in the present, where every action wasn’t planned and controlled. I would never know what it would be like to be confident in myself, to lead, to take those first steps towards anywhere new I might want to go. Did I really want that life? The answer was mine and mine alone to choose: jump and continue jumping, living for myself and the ones I love. Or climb up, give in to my fears, and live a life I didn't want.

The choice was mine, the hardest yet most important choice I've ever had to make in my life. Decision time had arrived, and I was as ready as any girl could possibly be to make a decision that would change her life as she knew it.

To jump or not to jump? That was my question.

Jump, my confidence said, and I'll catch you.

I jumped.

And I’ve been jumping ever since.

Burning House Project

Wild Card: Burning House Project

This project was one of my favorites. I had a great time picking out my ten items, but it wasn't easy at all. I had some existential moments picking out these items: it wasn't easy to pick things that were truly irreplaceable. I kept thinking about what was really important to me, and here's a list of what is in the picture and why.

1. Long tribal-patterned skirt: I love to dance in this skirt and it's pretty irreplaceable, as I found it in a thrift store.
2. My journal: the black journal is an old Kahlil Gibran book, that was turned into a journal. I love it to pieces.
3. True Blood: a new addiction; while not irreplaceable, it holds a special place in my heart.
4. Illustrated Fairy Tales: my grandparents gave this book to me when I was just a baby, and someday I want my children to read it.
5. NOOK: I would most definitely die without my books. I could always get a new NOOK, but this one and I have been together for many memories.
6. My chapstick: a girl can't deal with a fire if she has chapped lips!
7. Poohlie: my Poohbear stuffed animal I've had since I was three is definitely like no other, and he is very important to me.
8. King Dork: this is one of my favorite books and will never be replaced! I have written notes in it and it is like a Bible to me.
9. Mohindar Suresh action figure: Mohindar is one of my favorite characters from Heroes, and my best friend gave it to me.
10. My sister Addie: this one is pretty self-explanatory: I love my sister to death and would do anything for her.

the best days are spent outside

Short Writing: the best days are spent outside

The original assignment was to write a six word sentence to best describe me and my outlook on life. I love nature, so I knew mine had to include that idea that nature is quite honestly the best. I chose the fragment to illustrate my innermost thoughts about nature, for I believe that it is amazing to spend a day outdoors, and I try to at least once a day, for just a little bit if I don't have much time.

Friday Night Dance

This story has an interesting backstory of how it came about. We had an in-class activity in which we had to write to music, and surprisingly, the best story starter to me was the most annoying song ever, "Friday." I am sorry for now getting it stuck in your head. I wanted this story to expand on the most challenging time in a girl's life: middle school. I think this story gives a very sentimental look towards the changing relationship between mother and daughter.

Friday Night Dance: Third Person Narrative

Blake tossed her hair in the mirror, pursing her heavily-made up lips. Pop music blasted from the radio on the vanity that she insisted she had to have. Her room looked like a disaster zone, an explosion: Bright and colorful clothes from her closet were everywhere, draped on chairs, bed, and floor. Blake had on a white miniskirt and a violet fitted tank, but with thick straps that didn't violate the dress code (she was only in eighth grade.) “It's Friday, Friday, gotta get down on Friday,” she lip-synched in the mirror, applying pale pink blush to her already-flushed cheeks.

Stella, Blake's mother, leaned in the doorway, looking at her child, so ready to walk out of the door for her first dance. She looked like she was trying on her clothes and makeup on for size, like a toddler in her mother's shoes. Blake was a walking cloud of perfume; Stella could smell the freesia from the doorway. She enjoyed watching her tween daughter before Blake saw her, watching Blake in her natural habitat; Blake's habits when she thought no one was looking reminded Stella of her little girl when she was younger and only cared about climbing trees. Now, Blake's propensity for bright colors only showed how young she was, until she attempted to smile with her mouth shut to hide her braces, or fluttered mascara'd lashes at boys. Then Stella was reminded just how much her daughter was growing up.

Stella thought back to earlier that evening. At dinner, Blake hadn't been able to sit still. She had been up and down, running from her room to the kitchen like a squirrel, showing her mother new outfits she was thinking about wearing.

“What do you think of this dress?” Blake had asked nervously. “Do you think it's too fancy?”

Stella sighed, giving up on getting her daughter to eat any of her spaghetti. “Let's look at your other options, honey. What are the other girls wearing?”

“I don't know. Ashlee and Stacy are wearing skirts and tank tops.”

“Well, sweetheart, what do you feel most beautiful in?”

Blake said angrily, “I don't know, Mom! Just tell me what looks best!”

“You'd look beautiful in any of these outfits,” Stella said patiently. “It only matters what you think. No one else's opinions matter, Blake.”

“Ha! Don't lie to me. You were Miss America, Mom. I think you cared what other people thought.” Blake slammed her door shut, shutting Stella out in the hallway.

Stella stayed rooted to the ground, remembering the satin pastel-colored dresses, endless tanning, teeth-bleaching, dance routines, catty girls, flippers to make your lips glide over your teeth easily in a smile, makeup so thick she couldn't remember what she looked like without it. She remembered the hair extensions, the exhaustion, and the thrill of victory when the tiara was placed on her head. Had she cared what people thought?

Yes, of course she had. Doesn't every girl at that age? But now, she realized, looking at her daughter playing beauty queen in the mirror, that caring what other people think is a phase. A phase that is incredibly difficult to overcome, so difficult that some never overcome it. She realized that Blake just had to be supported through this phase, something Stella's own mother never understood.

Back in the present, she made eye contact with Blake in the mirror. Blake looked back abashedly with her wide baby blue eyes, and Stella knew that her daughter wasn't mad anymore and felt bad about their fight.

Blake asked timidly, “How do I look? All ready to go?”

Stella longed to tell her that none of this pageantry mattered, that true beauty comes from the inside. But instead she walked to her daughter, and secured a loose flyaway hair. “There,” she said. “Now you're ready to go.”

BEANSTALK, INC. "CHOPPED DOWN"

This was one of our first assignments in Creative Writing. When I chose a fairytale, I knew I wanted to create a modern retelling, with some humor and wit. Anyone who knows the original fairy tale will find the references quite easily. I chose a newspaper format because it allowed me to tell the story in a new light, with new inflection and new perspective on the tale. As it is set with Jack being the "bad guy", the reader can tell the differences (unless you've never heard of this story, then you're on your own).

BEANSTALK, INC. "CHOPPED DOWN": A Humorous Modern Retelling of Jack and the Giant Beanstalk

-FAR FAR AWAY Today in the city of Far Far Away, a surprising arrest was made: Jack, the peasant boy from that small cottage in the middle of nowhere, was arrested on two felony charges of theft and breaking and entering at Beanstalk, Inc., and one count of murder, first class, crimes that were committed earlier this week. In a twist of the already shocking tale, Jack released this statement earlier today, exclusively to The Knightly News:

'Well, you all know that I lived alone with my poor old mother on the outskirts of the city. One day, she needed money for her medicine, so I took all of our money to go buy her some medicine at Target. However, along the way, I was stopped by a strange old woman. She turned out to be a broker, you see, and advised me to set up a stock portfolio, which would allow me to multiply my money! That would mean more money for my mother and maybe even a visit to the doctor's. So I let this old lady buy me stocks at Beanstalk, Inc., When I got home and showed my mother the portfolio, she got so mad that she sent me to my room with no dinner! However, I knew I'd prove her wrong when we made a profit selling our stocks.

'But before we could sell, Beanstalk, Inc., went under, because the CEO Mr. Gigante decided to spend all of the quarter profits on a golden statue of a chicken. I was so mad I decided that I would climb all the way up Beanstalk, Inc.,'s skyscraper to his office on the 100th floor and take that golden hen to pay for my mother's medicine. It was only fair, right? After all, he spent my money on a decoration!

'The biggest problem with my grand plan: the elevator was out of service. Really? I had climb the stairs. It took me a very long time, but getting that golden hen would be worth it.

 'Mr. Gigante had left his door unlocked (thought he was safe on the 100th floor, huh?) and I quickly stole inside and grabbed the golden hen. But when I looked around...I saw a golden harp sitting in the corner. My hands were full (golden hens are heavier than you might think) so I decided to come back the next day to grab that harp too. I mean, judging from the pictures on his desk, Mr. Gigante is pretty rich--certainly he didn't need that golden harp as well as a vacation home in the Bahamas!

'So the next day I ran up those rickety wooden stairs to his office, where I grabbed the golden harp and prepared to run away--when Mr. Gigante stepped out from the secret treasure vault he kept in his office. He is (or was, I guess) a giant fellow, and I didn't much want to get in a fight with him, so I ran down the stairs, jumping from one flight to another. Those stairs were pretty shaky and definitely not earthquake safe, so what happened next isn't entirely my fault....

'As I rounded a corner, he was right behind me! I jumped down to the next section of stairs when thesection I had just jumped from suddenly fell away, with Mr. Gigante jumping down straight into the gaping hole left by the collapsing stairs. This wouldn't be this huge of a deal if we hadn't been 50 stories up at that moment.

'Contrary to popular belief, I did NOT "weaken" that section of stairs down with an ax. I don't even OWN an ax, people! It was a tragic accident that had nothing to do with me, and that is why I am entering a plea of not guilty at my trial on Friday. I did not murder Mr. Gigante!'

Tragic accident, or premeditated murder? Tune into Jack's trial and our talk show Happily Ever After? immediately following, on K373 or on Bippity Boppity News at 7pm.

Twelve-Ten

Danielle and I wrote this story in all one syllable words, as a classroom assignment. I think that we did a very good job describing the atmosphere of a coffee shop, although we never explicitly name it. It creates a sense of sensory experience to the story, adding to the reader's understanding. We definitely wanted it to be happy. Enjoy!

Twelve-Ten: Descriptive Writing

Hot, then cold. The heat burns the skin, 'til the cold of the air fights it off when the shop door swings shut. At first, a whiff of beans takes siege of her nose, with a hint of sweet things next. The noise fills her ears, booms, bangs, and dings of the shop's staff in the back; bells ring as boys and girls come through the door. It is twelve-ten, lunch time, loud crowd time. The folks choose drinks, food, and "soy-chai-three-shot-tea;" they chat, talk, yell to be heard as they sit, hands filled with treats. She steps up to the wood bar, asks for a large cup of Earl Gray and some milk, then waits. She looks at the face of the lone man, who comes each day, at the same time she does, twelve-ten, and eats cake. She wants to speak to him, ask his name, but has not yet.

As she stands, out of the way, two names are called. "Sam? Joel?" She walks to get her drink, grabs it, takes a small sip. Her arm bumps a hand. She looks up to say some words and sees the lone man. They lock eyes, hers blue, his brown. Cold, then hot.

Unappreciated

This story was inspired by the short story "After I was thrown in the river and before I drowned" by Dave Eggers. I found it to be fascinating: I had never considered the world from a dog's point of view, much less imagined a dog's thoughts. Or a pen's thoughts, for that matter. I chose a pen because everyone has a favorite one, but probably never stops to think about what it could be thinking.

Unappreciated: A Piece of 1st Person Narrative

It's near the end of my life, I think to myself as I sit in this pen jar, frantically avoiding detection near all the young pens, so full of life and vivacity and ink. I think about my life.

I change hands so frequently I desperately need to take a bath. They say, “Hey, can I borrow a pen?” and my hand, who I thought I was really connecting with, just passes me over like it was nothing. This happens all the time.

I was born in a package, with my sisters and brothers, waiting to scribble on virgin paper and even virgin skin, free of ink and blots and stains. What no one mentions is that people treat you like you don't matter, all the time.

No one ever says, “That's Annie, or Bill.” No, they say, “That's my favorite pen.” Like we don't have feelings, or attachments at all. Like we don't even exist except as a way for them to write down that phone number or those very important directions to a friend's house.

And then, even though they already don't acknowledge us as equals, they have the audacity to lose us! I've been left in cars, trains, behind beds, between seat cushions, only to be discovered in an hour of frantic need. I have been thrust into the air triumphantly, but only to hear: “I found a pen, now what was that last thing again?” No “thank you” or “what a relief you're there for me”! Never any credit given to me, the pen who deserves it most.

The worst place I have ever been left was the floor. Feet trodding on me, then rolling me clear across the tiles or wooden boards. Sometimes, I purposely roll under their feet, just to make them notice me and pick me up and put me where I belong, in a pen jar or on a table, waiting to be used.

At least I'm not a pencil: They get sharpened, growing shorter with use until they are thrown out. When you're a pen like me, your best bet is to hide behind the others when your ink supply is exhausted.

And right now, I am out of ink.

Out of ink. The three most dreaded words in a pen's vocabulary. Which is why my life span is nearing its end.

A hand reaches into my jar now, fishing around, and picks me.

It's all I can do to shake out a few last drops, to save myself from the trashcan. It almost works too, but not quite. My last efforts are not enough; this hand just has too much to write.

The next thing I know I am sailing through the air, only to miss and land on the floor. I hear the thrower call out, “Madison, go pick up that pen, will you? It needs to go into the trash!”

Madison yells back, “Mooom, I'm busy!”

I decide I love Madison in that instant.

I roll into a crevice, protecting myself from the rooting hand above my head. The hand gives up, leaves me for dead, although I am the furthest thing from it.

That's another thing no one mentions about being a pen: Because you get left in so many weird places, you have a lot of time to think about your life, ponder it, study it, and come to conclusions.

What I have realized is that everyone feels unappreciated, me more so. The hands holding me to write in journals always mention feeling lonely, and I long to rip myself from their hands and write by myself, you're never alone if you take the time to look around you, if you take the time to look at the pen in your hand. Even in the weirdest places, I've always been accompanied by dust, rubber bands, old food, dog hair, paper clips, etc. And I've realized that everything exists for a reason: You just have to be able to see beyond a shape and form.

Homecoming

Homecoming: Wild Card

I decided to use this poem as a wild card because I believe it shows a different side to my writing style. This poem is a little bit more formally written than my others, as I tend to prefer reading and writing Modern and Imagist poetry. I also really like this poem overall, as I tried to show two sides of the same story, of a girl coming home to her childhood home for the first time after leaving.

I

Look: the parameters of her life once so distinct and abrupt,

her old life in a mountain’s palms cupped.

Walking the fine line between shade and sun,

she fights the urge to simply forget propriety and run.

A homecoming long awaited lies within reach,

her butterflies flying free with every footstep.

She remembers the canning days of endless prep,

sneaking away from mother’s kitchen to pick a perfect peach;

and eat it there on the back porch looking at the endless sunset,

and thinking to herself about all the people she’s now met

out in the infinite world beyond the farm’s fences she’d peer through.

She hums an old song as she creaks open the hinges rusty and true,

thinking of lessons to learn and lessons to teach.

II

Breathe in, and out, and in again,

waiting for that noise she can tell from the call of every wren;

Creak comes the noise, so loud and present

startling her from a moment reminiscing spent:

pretending she didn’t notice her sneaking feet,

leaving the kitchen through the back door,

acting like she had finished every chore,

dreaming of leaving her long-held country seat.

Fingers pressed so delicately against the screen fine meshed,

deciding not to break into daughter’s dream so fully fleshed,

So many times she thought about speaking into that air,

but merely watched and prayed she out in the big world would take care;

now a face so missed is embraced in a homecoming so sweet.

Hide and Seek

Hide and Seek: Revised Writing

I originally wrote this story in class, for the first class write. The prompt was a sentence to begin and end with, represented by the beginning sentence and end sentence. I wanted this story to have a creepy, eerie feel to it, by using a menacing seeker and people who clearly don't want to found and who definitely aren't children.

The two stood face to face. Well, stood was a bit of an exaggeration; they were crouching, rolled into tight little balls, painfully pressed under the shelves of the linen closet. But somehow, eyes still met, cloaked in shadow, just the whites glowing faintly in the darkness.

Breaking the silence, she spoke first, hissing, “What are you doing here? This is my hiding spot! Get out!”

“Shhh! There is nowhere else to---”

He only got so far before she interrupted him with a firm, cool hand against his mouth, as if she had heard something suspicious, nothing he had even noticed. Her eyes met his, a command for absolute silence glaring from them.

She motioned her head towards the door and the line of light seeping underneath it from the bright hallway outside. As they stared unblinkingly at the light, its line was broken, by feet, skipping gently past.

“Ready or not, here I come!” The unknown seeker giggled outside, somehow making even the words of a children’s game sound menacing. The two pushed tighter under the shelf, further into the blankets that lined the closet, desperate to burrow into the blankets and towels and never be found.

The line of light was still interrupted. An ear pressed against the door, barely audible, but they shivered like that ear was pressed against their mouths, listening for the faint noises of breathing. Her hand still pressed against his mouth, she now covered her own, pulling herself into the darkness around him.

Suddenly, as they drew further into the closet, something made a crinkling noise, from the plastic around an unopened, still packaged set of sheets.

There was a moment of terrible waiting, waiting for the inevitable.

The door creaked open.

Frozen with fear, they locked eyes in mute appeal. Something resigned appeared in her eyes, staring so firmly and fearfully into his. Then as if it had already been decided, she let his mouth go and thrust her hand into the light.

“FOUND YOU!” came the gleeful shout, as hands pulled her into the light, her eyes still locked with his, freezing him into the safety of the closet.

“Please, stay hidden,” her last whisper pleaded with him, as he made a move to grab her, pull her back into safety.

The door slammed shut.

The feet skipped away, heavier now, burdened with the weight of an extra person.

The silence settled back into the air of the closet, like it had never been broken at all.

And then there was one.