Title Piece

Titles: 1.) Better Than You, 2.) The Bitter Coffee Story, and 3.) A Vintage Photograph

The coffee pot was making its slow dripping noise the day she died. It was hard, obviously. I’m not very good at telling a story, but I’ll try my damndest. The room was full of light, the early morning dew resting quietly on the soft petals of the garden she planted two weeks ago. It didn’t take long for them to come out of their plastic containers and lay their roots in the soft earth. It took her a lot longer to put her roots down in this good for nothing town, if she really did. I was sitting on the front porch, waiting on the inevitable, shelling peas to give my hands something to do. She didn’t really want anything and she sure didn’t want me taking over her last days on earth. All she wanted was a cup of coffee, not the good kind, you know, with extra cream and more than enough sugar; she wanted it black, just like her husband drank it before he was killed in the war. I don’t know if she felt more connected with him that way, or if the coffee was black to represent something different to her. She looked more at peace than normal when I took her the coffee. Her brow wasn’t furrowed in an annoyed and pissed off way. Maybe I was seeing what I wanted to see, instead of the way things really were. I think she was finally letting go of some of the anger and resentment that she felt for me. I was the only cousin left, and her closest living relative. She had no choice but to come live with me. Some people would say that they got landed with her, but in all actuality, it was she who was landed with me. Don’t get me wrong though, it wasn’t really me she hated all that much. It was this town, and it wasn’t for reasons one might expect. She hated this town because the nurses here are the ones who let her husband die, and in her eyes the whole town was to blame. She swears up and down that he would have lived had they done what they were supposed to, but who knows. Sometimes we have to blame someone, make them the source of our grief so that we can make it through. It’s really sad that way our relationship suffered so badly for something I couldn’t control, but love will do that to you. The day wore on, and the weather wore on me, so I went inside and tip-toed to her bedroom door. With a gentle creak the door opened, and for the first time upon her being in my house in this town, she looked up and smiled at me. I knew then that it would happen soon, and something even more shocking came from the mouth of my heartbroken cousin. She said, “I love you, and I’m so sorry.” I sat down next to the bed; tears came to my eyes as I fiddled with the yellow sheets on the bed. I had a hard time replying, and just silently watched as a single tear drifted down her cheek, then she was gone. Even will all the pain, she found a way to love again, but I guess love has a way of doing things like that to you.

Pat Carr’s Steps for Writing

1. Start with an incident, something that clangs in your head.
   
   1. Conflict
      
   2. An action, an experience that you have been to.
      
2. Develop a setting.
   
   1. Emphasis- Fight with brother is reflective in a raging storm outside.
      
   2. Contrast- Titanic is beautiful and is opposite of the death that it caused.
      
3. Choose your characters
   
   1. Limit yourself to five for a short story
      
   2. Limit yourself to fifteen for novels
      
   3. When you name your characters, choose a different letter of the alphabet.
      
4. Choose your protagonist.
   
   1. He must be a sympathetic character.
      
      1. The character thinks of other people
         
      2. He can love (his dog, his wife, anything reciprocal)
         
      3. He is vulnerable
         
      4. He is in jeopardy
         
      5. He's doomed and still noble
         
5. Give your characters Motive
   
   1. Why did someone do what he did?
      
   2. Remember: you don't have to motivate kindness, but you have to motivate cruelty.
      
6. Choose the person, either first or third.
   
7. Know where your story will end. Decide whether you will just quit, or tie up your loose endings. Always end with either: Action, Dialogue, or Image.

“Favorite Mistake”

Distract me please

Please ring

I’m left alone all over again

Glance again

Maybe it’s silenced

Not another chance

Rejection never tasted so sweet

You’re my favorite mistake

Skinny jeans and

Harry Potter glasses

Am I just a different

Kind of rejection statement

Turn the volume up

Music I don’t really like

Scream a little louder

Still no call

You’re always going to be

My favorite

Mistake.

I just realized that it would be very easy to mistake this poem for something that was semi-autobiographical, but it isn't. I got the idea for this poem when I was people watching when class had let out early. This is purely something that I imagined that this person may be going through.

Beauty

Everyday is the same, wandering these halls with no real direction in mind. But what does it matter, it's only high school. It smells like the cafeteria no matter which hallway your on. Putting the cafeteria in the direct center of the building was a brilliant idea. Lockers line these suffocating hallways, where the occasional stench of gym shoes gives your nose a small break. There she comes.
Long brown hair almost like it's billowing in the wind, but remember we're in a hallway, not outside. That's just the effect she has on people. You can always hear her before she gets close, her high heeled, suede boots rhythmically announcing her arrival. Stopping at her locker, she slowly puts in her combination. A quick make-up check and a reapplication of shiny lip gloss and she is ready to go again.
Everyone looks. The teachers because not only is she beautiful, she's also smart; the girls look, too. As much as they all want to hate her, they can't. The boy with the glasses walks by, his very controlled comb over hair style, and his almost too short pants. Even the most intelligent book worm can't help but stare, and occasionally trip. It wasn't just her beauty though, she was the epitome of what everyone wanted. If you needed a friend she was there, if you needed a tutor, she was there. She had the rarely found ability to truly care, not just pretend. She fought for the under dogs. The problems you had became her problems too. That's really what made her special.

Continued...Part 2

But seriously, my inability to ring my own Aunt's doorbell, the ridiculous nervousness that I felt- inconsequential. It really started three days after my arrival, when the staircase and I had a stare down. The staircase was one flight of stairs, skinny with a very rickety railing. You see, the thing about this staircase is that it was the second one in the house, and it was the one I couldn't go up. It doesn't make sense does it? In a house with two staircases, they should both lead to relatively the same place. So my Aunt Jane had a secret room, or maybe even a secret world up there, and all I had to do was go up that staircase. It was killing me, not knowing, so I asked. Hesitantly, I said, "Aunt Jane?"
"Yes, hun?" She replied.
"How come your house has two staircases, and how come I can only go up one?"
"Kid, you don't worry about that staircase, there isn't anything up there."
I hate it when adults call me kid.
"But, Aunt Jane, you can tell me any secret you got, I won't speak a word, look," I said holding up my hands, "no crosses count."
"Run along and play now, tonight, we're going to cook a huge meal and I'm going to need your help."
Just like an adult, even if they are really awesome, to send me off to play when they don't want to answer my questions.

Part 1--Titled at a later date. =)

It all started with a staircase. Okay, maybe I'm lying a little, but it did kind of start with a staircase a couple of days after I arrived at my Aunt Jane's house. You see, she was the brilliantly crazy person in our family. I hear every family has one, you know, the one that you sometimes wish you could hide under the couch, when you have new people come over, but also the one you want to be able to pull out when your having the extremely important argument with you colleague about the diminishing amount of adventurous people in your family. But it really doesn't matter what everyone else thought, it doesn't even matter what my family thought of Aunt Jane, all that matters to you is this simple fact: she was my hero and I wanted to be just like her. That is precisely why, on May 31, I was standing on the door step, suitcase beside me, nervously reaching up, slightly hesitant to ring the doorbell. That didn't much matter either, however, because before I had even come close to ringing the doorbell, the door swung suddenly open.

Letter to Myself

Dear 14 year old self,
You lived through high school, surprisingly enough. It isn't so bad either. Your Junior and Senior year, you only have to go half a day. That may be what saved us, or you, or the future you, I suppose. We always want information about our future, so this is what you're getting. After high school, you make it to college. You're tempted to make a fool of yourself on a regular basis, but most of the time your reason and good judgment win. In college, we have done some crazy things. You'll get hurt by a friend, only to find that that hurt will lead you to something amazing. All in a single semester, you will become a different, more mature person. Why am I telling you all of this, knowing that you will eventually find out? Because I want you to realize what I couldn't. Everything that happens is just a building block to make you into the person that you can be happy with. Don't grow up to fast. Don't hate the world, because the rest of the world is standing in similar shoes to the ones you are wearing now, trying hard to become who they need to be. Spend more time doing what you love, and being who you are. Welcome to your life.
--Your older, wiser self.
=)

The Library on Leonard Street

For some reason, parts of my not so distant past are slightly blurred. In some instances, distant memories linger, usually somewhat insignificant occurrences.Mostly, all I can remember are little pieces of time, that to the younger me were just boring, however, looking back I can see that they were the times that made me who I am today.
The house on Leonard Street was beautiful. It was white, two stories and it even had a basement. The rooms were large and they all seemed to have, at least in my slightly distorted younger mind, huge lighting fixtures. I think that they may have been smaller, but we can pretend. Large window in every room allowed the natural light to come in and take over. I remember the huge basement with the green concrete floors. My brother and I would put on our roller skates and race each other around the room. We thought we were something special.
Out of all the things that I remember about that house, the library is the most prominent. You see, my Grandma lived with us, we both had our own rooms, but I really don't even remember what my room looked like, but I could tell you every detail about that library. Book shelves lined the walls, the were slightly higher than floor level. The two carpeted steps leading to the shelves were well worn. There were two sofas in our library, both white with blue vertical stripes. Mamaw and I lived in that library. It was our home. That's why I can't remember our rooms, I can't quite recall the kitchen or the living room. That library, however, was amazing. Hank the Cowdog. I don't know if you ever read those, I really don't even remember what they were about, I think Hank may have been a detective dog. That's not what was important though. That library, in the huge, white house on Leonard Street was my favorite room out of any house that we have ever lived in. That room had the largest impact on the person I have become because that is where my love of books really began.

Life is the smile on a new Dad's face.

Many people walk through the doors of the coffee shop where I sit, hour after hour, doing my homework and making every attempt to be a good student. Most walk in, place their order, and wait awkwardly for it so that they can quickly walk out the door, back to their busy lives. Others linger, sit quietly at a table, enjoying the simple, solitary moments that aren't normally allowed. Every once in a while a couple comes in, sometimes they are married, sometimes they aren't. They walk differently, they hold hands or the man will open the door for the woman, occasionally they look indifferent to each other. Sometimes they look happy, like they are enjoying the life they lead, and sometimes they look miserable, like they don't know what happened to get them where they are.
Today a married couple came in, newborn baby in tow. I'm sitting in the corner, and as I look up, the scene sets itself up in front of my eyes. The wife goes up to the counter to place her order, while the Dad stays with the baby at the table. I watch as he looks at that baby with nothing short of amazement. The smile plastered on his face gives him away. These are the moments I live for. Simple fragments that only last a few moments, only to inspire me for days. Life is the smile on a new Dad's face.

Walking down to the beach was no easy task; an enormous mound of rock separates the farmland of one person from the ocean that no one can really own. The rocks on this levee of sorts are small enough to hold, but big enough to be heavy, thousands of them. I slipped and slid the entire way down to the beach. The first step, the step that moves me from the unsteadiness of slippery rocks to the sand that squishes between my toes, tells me how beautiful Ireland is. As I walk towards the water, memories of times long since gone bombard me. Things in my life that are happy, or wonderful, or powerful come to mind.
Lost in my reverie, the icy water startles me back to reality. Looking up, not only can I see my four year old cousin, with his sandy blond hair and huge, innocent eyes, running to greet me, but I can also hear his laughter. Ireland is good for him as well, I think.
When his short legs finally get him to me, he jumps into my arms. Spinning him around wildly, I can only think to myself that my favorite sound will always be his laughter.