Before taking this class, I had never tried my hand at Creative Non-fiction. To be honest, I feel a total lack of preparedness for this class both academically and creatively. Even though I enjoy writing poetry, I have never been instructed or "molded" as a poetic writer. I am posting some drafts of poems I have been working on the past couple of semesters.
Madwoman, badwoman—
Nothing but a reflection in a mirror,
an “I” specialist,
a sour lemon; hard to swallow,
A book long forgotten,
A pest, a gnat.
Forced to fall silent—
Abused by the affection of another,
Trapped within a resilient grip,
Preyed upon by men intimidated.
Costing more than hunger, thirst;
Compensating only with cold.
Little girls, trash those foolish ideals.
Our dreams of love—
dead.
Never will we leave this attic
nor see the light of day.
Society’s fist chipping more of us.
Madwoman, badwoman—
Beaten black and blue—
the foundation of underprivileged dreams
ripped away.
First a crack—
eventually shattering.
Character is Fate
Tonight, I am ugly.
Foul, ruined meat—
Unable to be consumed.
Hued lights consume
Forcing reds, oranges, violets.
Music screams out a faceless box—
Pouring broken chords, dissonant melodies;
Defacing flesh, limbs—
No longer can be put together again.
I go deep into them
To know their juvenile shenanigans.
Without emotion, I let them kiss me—
Boys hot for forced quickies
In search of new toys to play with—
Encasing me with poisoned, wet scars.
Hating the little gentlemen
Who dispel sexual cravings freely,
I cry desolately in the kitchen—
Tears fall on the dirty dishes,
Salting the dinner yet served.
Breathe
Breathe slowly—in and out.
A salty breeze blows through—
wisps of hair caress the face.
Pregnant clouds arrest the night sky—
only the moon penetrates.
Deep breaths—in, out.
Tones of blue and green
dance to the melody of the Earth.
Foam like fresh snow
tumbles upon the shore.
Breathing in and out—
sun-bleached toes slowly succumb.
Inch by inch, the water rises
and the grainy floor fades.
Floating in Natura’s womb.
Still breathing—
In through the nose,
out through the mouth.
Riptides tug and pull—
another ragdoll to be claimed.
In, out, in, out—
breathe quickly.
Harsh salt water immerses—
Blinding
and silencing
Muffled crashing
Perception
becomes blurred—
Silence—
Breathing
no
more.
Cut
Freshly cut, I become seduced.
Sweet earthy vapors intertwine,
clouding all senses.
Sensual repeated pricks
tickle and excite.
Moistened palms, dirt-filled mouth—
nervousness gnaws at my core.
When joined, your glass beads shatter—
raping my exposed soles.
I lay encompassed
by your morning juices.
Shackled each daybreak,
incarcerated after every cut.
Also, here is a piece of fiction I worked on last semester in Professor Chaple's Intermediate Creative Fiction class. Although I enjoyed the class, I don't think fiction is my forte.
Should Have Been a Boy
Julie was seven when it happened. She was lying on the beige shag rug in the family room playing checkers with her older brother, Nicolas, when the song on the radio was interrupted by an emergency news broadcast. A series of beeping and screeching sounds filled the room, causing her spine to tighten and her teeth to clench. Her father, who had been sitting on the sofa reading a book, took a deep breath as a man’s voice delivered the earth-shattering news. “We have witnessed this morning the attack of Pearl Harbor and a severe bombing of Pearl Harbor by army planes, undoubtedly Japanese. The city of Honolulu has also been attacked and considerable damage done. This battle has been going on for nearly three hours. One of the bombers dropped within 50 feet of KTU tower. It’s no joke. It’s a real war.”
Another round of screeching and beeping noises filled the room once more and silence followed. Eons of silence seemed to pass before her mother, Linda, who entered the living room from the connected kitchen, broke into tears and collapsed on the floor. Showing little emotion, her father rose from the sofa, crossed the room to where his wife was crying, and knelt down beside her. Julie’s attention was suddenly drawn away from her parents by a massive blur that bolted past her and out the back door. It was Nicolas with wet eyes.
“Nicky, what’s going on?” she called after her brother, but he didn’t answer. He just swung open the door and ran out into the woods. Probably to his hideout, Julie thought. He won’t be coming home anytime soon. Confused by the events, she turned back to her beaten parents.
“Daddy, what’s going on?” Once again, she didn’t receive a response. While attempting to control her mother’s hysterical outbursts, her father just stared at her. It was the most terrifying moment of her life, and she didn’t even fully comprehend.
Back then, she didn’t understand what the words “war” and “draft” meant. She and her school friends thought war was a holiday for daddies and older brothers. A time for the boys to hang out without the interference of mommies, work, and annoying little siblings, and receive an endless supply of cookies and chocolate milk while relaxing on a beach somewhere. And she didn’t understand why her mother was lying on the floor in tears. Now that her father was leaving, her mother could have more lunch dates with her new friends. Julie had met one of them before. A big, burly man named Tim with more hair on his face than on his head. He had bought Julie a piece of strawberry cheesecake once as an incentive to keep her mother’s friendship with him a secret. He had called it a “surprise” for her father. She didn’t understand how it would be a surprise or why her Daddy would be bothered by their friendship. Back then, she didn’t understand a lot of things. All Julie understood was that the emergency broadcast meant two things to her. First, Japan was in trouble with America, and second, Nicolas, her eighteen year old brother, and her father were going on holiday for a long time.
* * * *
It was fall of 1941. Japan hadn’t attacked Pearl Harbor yet, and her father and brother were still at home. Before the attack, things were happy in their house. Every Monday night, the King family would cook dinner together and take weekly turns deciding what to cook. Julie always picked spaghetti—it was her favorite. She would crush the tomatoes up for the sauce and help measure out all of the ingredients.
“Do you have everything?” Julie’s father asked with bright eyes and a huge grin planted on his face.
“Uh-huh. Four cups of mushed tomatoes, one spoon of paste, six basil leaves, three pieces of garlic, one cut up onion, and some meat. See I’m a big girl now, Daddy. You don’t have to worry about anything,” she replied, returning a similar smile. Nothing short of perfection on spaghetti night. Her favorite part, however, was the garlic toast. She and her father would tackle the toast while Nicolas and their mother would make the dessert. Actually Nicolas would make the dessert while their mother would slip outside and pull a hidden bottle of whiskey out of a flower pot in the corner. She thought we didn’t notice, but the stench was too strong to ignore.
“Cheese, cheese,” cried Julie.
“Ok, Jules. Settle down before you fall off of your stool.” Her father had built that stool just for her so she could help out in the kitchen. On the stool, he had painted a teddy bear with a blue ribbon on each side. He originally attempted to use the color pink, but Julie was quick to tell him that she hated that color.
After reassuring himself that Julie wasn’t going to fall over, he walked over to the refrigerator, pulled out a block of mozzarella cheese, and began to grate it. After he finished, Julie would have the honor of sprinkling on the cheese before it was placed in the oven. He always let her add extra.
* * * *
About a week after the broadcast, Julie’s father and brother went to her father’s former home military base in an attempt to enlist in the United States Army. As they went through their evaluations, the psychologists asked them numerous questions in hopes of discovering at least one psycho in the room, and the medical professionals poked and prodded until they both bore several fresh bruises. Her father, already possessing a military background, was immediately reinstated to his previous position of Lieutenant. However, her brother received unwelcomed news in the commanding officer’s office that morning.
Julie’s brother later referred to him as “one of those Washington birds who has never even fired a gun at another human being.” He stood erect in his pressed white dress uniform. Although he never seemed angry, his gaze seemed to pierce a hole right through Nicolas.
“Mr. King, I need to speak with you and your son together. Can you please follow me?” the towering man asked with a forceful tone in his voice.
“Yes sir,” replied her father. Once in the Captain’s office, they took adjacent seats to his desk as the Captain hunched over with a solemn look on his face.
“Jack, is everything alright?” asked Julie’s father.
“I’m afraid not. I have some bad news for your son, Robert.” Nicolas pushed his body to the edge of his seat and rubbed his sweaty palms back and forth over one another.
“I’m really sorry to be the one to tell you this, but your enlistment paperwork has been denied.”
“What are you talking about?” yelled Nicolas as he stood up.
“Nicolas, please sit back down,” his father demanded.
“No, sir. I’m not. Why the hell can’t I join? You’re letting my old man back in after he has been out for almost ten years, but you won’t take a strong, young man like me. Why not? I demand to know why I—”
“That’s enough! Sit down.” His father gave him a look that screamed “shut your mouth right now.” Looking back at the captain, Robert asked him to continue.
“Son, I’ve watched you grow up over the years. Your father is the best friend a man could ever ask for, and I know how much you wanted to join the military. Hell, with your spunk I’d love for you to be a member of my outfit, but the reality is that you failed your psychiatric evaluations. I’m afraid you can’t join up with your dad or re-test for another two months.” Nicolas just stared at the floor, speechless. Everything he ever wanted was ripped away from him because of a mental test.
“At least you will be able to stay home and take care of your mom and sister. Hell, she may be the reason you can’t pass anyway—eight years of listening to an annoying little sister,” the captain proclaimed in an attempt to cheer Nicolas up. But it didn’t work. Distraught, Nicolas stormed out of the room and headed into town.
When Robert got home and explained to his wife what happened, she didn’t say anything. She merely walked into kitchen and began cooking dinner. The house went still. Julie was playing with her dolls, Nicolas wasn’t home yet, and her father was sitting in the family room reading the paper. The only sound to be heard was the sobbing of Julie’s mother in the kitchen. It was the saltiest dinner Julie had ever eaten.
* * * *
Only a few months had passed since her father had left, but things were already heading south in the King household. Linda began spending more and more time away from home, and her number of friends flourished. To Julie, it seemed as though her mother was going to dinner with a different friend every weekend and all of them were boys. Eventually she started bringing them home. The first time was with Bill.
Julie could hear them through the wall. She could hear loud banging and short yells now and again. The first time it happened, she ran into her parent’s room across the hall and swung open the door.
“What the hell was that?” her mother cried out. Julie couldn’t believe her eyes. Her mother was in bed with Bill—the bed that both of her parents once shared. They were naked and touching each other. Julie wasn’t sure what exactly was transpiring, but she felt sick to her stomach.
“Mommy?”
“Oh, god,” her mother whispered as she turned and stared at her innocent daughter. “Jules baby, Bill is just helping me exercise. He’s massaging Mommy’s sore muscles. Ok, sweetie? Just go play with your dolls, and we’ll go get some ice cream in a little bit. How’s that sound?”
“Ok,” she whimpered as she shut the door. Julie ran back into her room, shut the door, crawled under bed, and hid in her closet. Screams of pleasure, “Oh, Linda,” and “Fuck me harder, Bill” filled the once happy home. Even though Julie tried to block it out, the banging and screaming continued. Julie just shut her eyes and covered her ears with her hands.
“They’re just exercising. That’s all,” she repeated to herself aloud in an attempt to deafen the screams even more. “It’s not what you think. Just exercising.” The world around her was muffled and dark. She didn’t notice her brother when he came into her room. He knelt down beside her bed and tapped her on the shoulder. Julie opened her eyes and pulled her hands away from her ears.
“They aren’t exercising. They’re fucking, and you know it.”
“Shut up, Nicolas. She wouldn’t do that to Daddy!”
“You can’t ignore it Julie. It’s time to grow up.” Nicolas left her sitting there with tears in her eyes and headed toward his room. As he walked in, he slammed the door, momentarily interrupting the repetitive banging in the next room.
“They’re just exercising.” But the exercising happened every weekend with a different friend each time.
* * * *
It was March of 1942. School was out for Spring Break, and Julie’s mother was hung over again. She was puking and being bitchy towards both of her children, but that day was better than most. Sometimes their mother would even throw pots and pans at them. It was those days that Julie sat in her room and re-read her father’s letters from over the past few months.
With each letter received, Julie She didn’t understand where Europe was in the world or even what was taking place. To her, it sounded like a dream vacation. Their father’s letters didn’t help with the situation. Instead he fed into her little fantasy by leaving out particular details about the bombed landscape and the mangled bodies. He even made the parachute soldiers sound like they were having fun jumping out of airplanes at hundreds of feet in the air and even compared them to the toy soldiers Nicolas had so many years ago. What he failed to mention was how the parachuters were being shot at as they drifted to the earth below. Even though he attempted to protect his daughter’s innocence, she already knew the cold truth.
Each night at approximately six o’clock, she sat with Nicolas and listened to the world news, specifically news about the war. Each night there were numbers of dead, wounded—no names. Only numbers. There was news of small and large victories and losses and predictions of what a nation might do next. Even though she kept telling Nicolas that their father was on vacation and that he would be home, she knew deep down what was going on in Europe. She didn’t know where it was located, but she knew that their dad could be killed.
* * * *
One December afternoon around lunchtime, Julie was sitting at the kitchen table making snowflakes out of coffee filters and glitter when two uniformed men arrived. The doorbell rang, and Julie ran to answer it. Upon opening the door, she noticed that they uniformed men wearing dressed exactly like her father was when he left.
“May we speak to your mother?” asked the older man. No sooner had the man finished his question, Julie’s mother appeared around the corner, wearing a mask of blank expression.
“Julie, go to your room,” she said forcefully.
“But Mom—”
“Just do it!” Julie didn’t hesitate this time. Once upstairs, she left her bedroom door open so she could attempt to hear what her mother and the two men were discussing. However, they were speaking so low that she wasn’t able to make out too much. All she heard with clarity were the words “Lieutenant King” and “arrange for him and his belongings to be brought home.”
“Daddy’s coming home?” Julie barely whispered. Unable to contain her excitement, she began to dance around her room, jump on her bed, and giggle as quietly as possible. “Daddy’s coming home, Daddy’s coming home,” she sang to herself in a hushed voice.
After the two uniformed men left, Julie’s mother sauntered back into the kitchen. She looked as though she had seen a ghost—pale, frightened, but no tears fell from her eyes.
“Mommy, Mommy,” Julie screamed as she ran across the house and into the kitchen. “Who were those men? What did they say? Does Daddy get to come home early? Will he be home in time for Christmas? Oh, boy! I can’t wait to see Daddy again. When will he be home Mama? I want to make him a special Christmas present. Maybe he will get me…” She kept rambling on and on as a typical nine year old would, but her mother never replied. Instead, she continued making her peanut butter and raisin sandwich.
“He’s not coming home, Julie,” my brother announced.
“What do you mean? I heard those men talking about Daddy. Of course he’s coming home. Right, Mommy?” Her mother wouldn’t look at her. She just stared at the food on the kitchen table, crying.
“No, he isn’t. He’s dead. Those men came by to tell us that he was killed in action. It’s over Julie.”
“No, he’s not,” Julie yelled at Nicolas. “He’s coming home. He promised. Don’t lie to me.” Her brother shot across the kitchen so fast that Julie didn’t have any time to react. He grabbed her around her waist, held her under his arm, and began to beat her. Julie’s mother still did not budge.
“Mommy…Mommy, help me,” Julie called out. She didn’t move. Julie continued to call out to her mother while attempting to wriggle her way out from under her brother’s arms with tears streaming down her face. “Please Mommy! Make him stop. It hurts, it hurts. Daddy would stop him. Help me.” Without evening glancing up, her mother finished making their lunch, sat it on the dining room table, and walked upstairs with a bottle of gin in tow.
“Daddy is not coming home,” Nicolas declared as he slowed his spanking. “He’s dead. And from now on, I am going to be in charge. I am going to be the new Daddy of the house.” He then stopped and set Julie down on the floor. She immediately began to sit down to continue crying.
“Stop crying like a little girl. You need to be tough. Life isn’t fair, and the sooner you learn that the better.” But she wouldn’t stop crying. “Why couldn’t you have been a boy? You just had to be a whining little girl who can’t take a spanking and who drives me insane. You’re the reason I couldn’t pass my evaluation. You drive me absolutely crazy. It’s your fault I couldn’t be there for him. I could have saved him. It’s your fault he’s dead. You should have been a boy.” She continued to wail as Nicolas repeatedly attempted to force her to stand up. When he realized that it was useless, he set her on the counter, grabbed a pair of scissors, and cut her pigtails off. She was no longer his sister.
“You hate the color pink so much that you can be the little brother I always wanted. Not some scrawny brat like yourself,” Nicolas said to her as he pulled her up the stairs and into her room. As he dragged her, he gave her multiple bruises and rug burns from tugging on her with so much force. When they reached her room, Nicolas tore down Julie’s dolls off of the shelf and threw all of her girly clothes in a trash bag. Waves of purples, oranges, greens, and yellows crashed around her room. Julie just watched.
