Journals 9/22 and 9/24

So my creative writing class also has the policy of writing little snippets of whatever for at least like 20 minutes five days a week. Just gonna share what I've written. Hooray for writing all the time!


9/22
The netting on the tea bag is so fine it disappears in the tea-color water. I worry that fannings have made their escape through heat tears or stem punctures, but when the tea bag sways they sway with it. This is my second time brewing this bag. It's not that I'm thrifty or lazy or even grateful for the tea's flavor-life. It's just fun to watch the leaves breathe and curl, flutter in their little cage, lilt across each other. When they sink and give up, I know it's time to relieve them of their service and toss them out. I know when to let the useless sleep. They want to be working as much as I do.

I stop writing and bounce the bag.

I start writing again, tugging the string and lifting the bag out of the water with my free hand. It spins around and slouches like a marionette. When I drop the bag back in, not ready to remove it, it eases itself into the hot water, floating at first, and then slipping away before it presses up against the bottom. The boiling water is still hot, and the steam licks my palm as I hover it over the lip of the cup.

And now it's time. The netting holds some of the water for a moment as it suspends in the air, and then it releases it all.


9/24
My grandfather had a Buick Park Avenue phase for about thirty years. I was born in the middle of it, his third reincarnation, as he called it, for he loved referencing time with his sedan armada. Somewhere around the time of this model, a champagne 1991 with a leather faux hatchback, we were driving into town, like the big city Minneapolis was supposed to be. The next car he would buy would be the one I drive now, but that hadn't happened yet.

My grandfather was a two-foot driver, one on the gas pedal, the other slowly eroding the brakes. This is how he drove; it was like a washing machine, and it knotted my insides up too. I would puke, but that hadn't happened yet.

And my grandfather still smoked, his breath and teeth pushing bits of tar and ash when he spoke loudly, because he believed a World War Two veteran was too exalted for a hearing aid. This smell, incubated and recycled by the rolled-up windows, sent my stomach over the edge.

I had lied down in the back seat on the blue leather, and so when I projectile-vomited it all rained back down on me.

Some bits of tomato and rice soup still clung to the tan felt ceiling, which had speckles of cigarette ash well patterned in it.

After I had erupted, my grandfather pulled over on the side of the road. I had cupped my hands over my mouth to prevent further spewage, and yet my hands had reeked of sunfish slime from fishing earlier that day, and made me more nauseous.

He sprayed some windex over the seat and on my hands, scrubbing the vomit lodged in between my fingers. That damn car always smelled of windex, if not cigarette smoke, and sometimes it smelled of baked leather. When the vomit was all cleaned up, the hot leather scent crinkled through the seams in the seat.

I think my grandfather stopped smoking after that because none of the Buicks afterwards had had that scent. But that hadn't happened yet.

Something old, something new...

Something that's very obviously not poetry.

I don't think I've been very direct about the... er.... direction of this blog, so I'm going to say this outright: I'm taking a fiction course, and I will be writing fiction intensively for the next three months. No poetry. I've honestly been drifting towards fiction in the past year or so, probably since NaNoWriMo, and while I still very much enjoy poetry, there are paths in fiction that I want to explore more thoroughly, and I have tons ideas for short fiction pieces/ longer fiction pieces. Is that to say that I won't be posting any poetry in the near future? No, but just don't expect it.

So now on to something more relevant to the title.

Several years ago, I wrote a poem based on my very first memory in honor of some birthday. I think it was my 19th? Whatever. I wrote a poem. It's the poem on my most popular post (woooo!), but for those of you unwilling or unable to click on a link, here's just a copy of it:

First Memory

Verdant shuffle, fresh from sleep.
Day unplanned save planned caprice,
Free from obligations to keep,
Time obliging only to creep,
Not too old for inner peace,
Every quandary tends to cease
At inception. None are deep.

I round the corner, put my fist
On a wall of mirrors, every shade
Reflected as to not resist
My acknowledging them in list. 
But soon was a connection made
Between myself, and one thought stayed:
“This is me. I exist.”

I obviously wasn't thinking in such flowery terms, but this was definitely how it went down.

And now for something newer.

Tuesday I had my first in-class exercise for my Creative Writing Senior Seminar (wtf how did I get so old, anyway?) and so we were given a prompt pertaining to an early memory and then wrote in our notebooks for about 15 minutes. I'm really digging the whole idea of writing more physically in a notebook rather than in a Word Doc, but then again I've always preferred it that way. And so here is my piece in all its 15-minute glory.


I don't know why, but I remember it was a Tuesday morning. My room was at the end of the hall, and the carpet was so green it resembled turf. I would always play on that carpet because it seemed more real. 

I wasn't very old ,but I knew the concept of opening a door, twisting my wrist around a knob I barely could reach. My fingers must had been previously in my mouth, because they were slippery and made my grip weak and awkward.

My little wispy curls bounced as I waddled out of my room. This was before my hair was ever cut, so the strands must have been there from the time I was born. My hair curled up at will on the ends, changing their size and place whenever I slept. And I passed my parents' room and Lala's room, the room I would graduate to when I became a big girl and had no need for the nursery.

I passed the brown and white sofa set in the living room. They looked like cows or horses, and I would straddle their armrests and neigh or moo for them. I would take off their cushions and pretend they were pelts or hides to make a fort. The cushions were stiff, and the naugahyde was prickly, but I had never seen a cow or a horse in real life, so I figured that was what they felt like.

And then there were mirrors. Some were bigger than me, all cast in frames and different shapes and sizes. Every time my mother went to Colombia she would come back with one or five. They were spaced unevenly along the wall, but I knew my mother must have had some method to it that I didn't understand yet.

I would look at the dust gathering in the crevices of the frames, pretend the mirrors were talking to each other, imagining what they would say. I never looked at the mirrors themselves because their frames were more alluring. Besides, many of them were too high for me to look at at eye level.

But one of them today was. It must have been the new one. My mother had just come back from Colombia. She would go there to see where she had come from what she was, she would later tell me. And there I say myself for the very first time in the mirror. This must be what I looked like, what I looked like to others. 

I'M BAAAAAAACKKKKK

Sup there, readers. Sorry that I haven't been around for like six months, but I guess it's not that surprising anymore. I've had kind of a busy summer that is just coming to an end, and in about a week and a half I'll be going back to school. I didn't write much in the summer since I had just taken a very intensive creative fiction class and I decided that I was going to just intentionally not write for a while until I missed it. I kind of regret this, because now I'm just too lazy to start writing again, but I've been trying to easing myself back into it by transcribing two little snippits I wrote in the summer. I won't be posting them because I'm not crazy about them, but I will be posting a poem that I haven't even written yet. Here's a poem with no editing and with the time stamp beginning and end. I won't promise anything. It'll probably suck way more than the scenes that I refuse to post.

Start time: 13:36

I found a kernel under my car's hood.
I wondered if it had made the sounds
That came from it when I went kind of fast.
I should explain that it was some popcorn
That I had maybe eaten like a week
Ago when changing my car's oil again.
My stupid car. No wonder it runs bad.
The oil-saturated kernel reeked
And I pretended I had not seen it
As I put the hood down and walked away.
A kernel makes no problems if I don't
Acknowledge that it's there, is that correct?

End time: 13:42

.... I think I'm hopeless.

The first time I heard the Lord's Prayer

Sup... there hasn't been much contact from me because I have been in New Zealand and Australia and being very busy and happy in a foreign country. That being said, I still wrote poetry. Here's a poem I wrote one night when I was bored and very much... bored.

The first time I heard the Lord’s Prayer

I was sixteen, barely alive.

I fed myself on the scraps of survival like

Empty words. They gave me the energy

Of a decapitated calf. I hate listening.

The young boy at the front of the church

Was as nervous as a chambermaid

Seeking a predator in the dark corners of a room.

Is God that scary? Is Latin so intimidating?

Aren’t both of those things dead?

The boy might as well been dead. He glistened gray

Under the heat of the lights and the heavy Catholicism.

And so he continued the song, his voice too stern

To break. He projected himself into notes so high

His sternum shriveled at each pause.

I would have felt bad for him but

You can’t feel bad for someone

That you hate so much.

His eyes closed as he breathed in like a faucet

And I wondered when he would crack.

Crack: like a linoleum statuette of Pegasus

In the bathroom at the back of the nave.

So real and so beautiful. So I’ve been told.

He opens his eyes and looks at me, released,

Unchained from his façade. He breathes hard

And closes his eyes again, catching wisps

Of the stale draft rippling through the elders.

He opens them again.

He’s looking at me again.
No, he’s looking at nothing.

I’m looking at nothing.

Nanowrimo 17

Last post! It's super long Thank you so much for reading if you have been all this time (no, seriously).  This has been such a fun experience. I'll definitely do Nanowrimo again in the future... Though maybe when I'm not writing a thesis.

-CD

Ambrosia Froid looked out her office window as the sun dipped under the trees. It was late in November, so late that she had to remind herself to not stare at her neighbor’s fluorescent Christmas lights and burn her eyes. He was old and colorblind, so he did not know any better, but the lights still did little to give him pity. Froid had always walked past his apartment and cringed at the bright purple. It clashed with everything. She would always somehow forget.

            The English Department office was empty now. She was the last to leave. She had no need to stay so late: she had interns that could do the busy work for her, or editors to boss around, but she never did. She had the equivalent of four Quentin the publishers around her every workday, making sure her lecture for her class was going okay, collecting her poetry to compile into volumes, bring her Americanos, bring her nicotine patches.

            This was the life of Ambrosia Froid: junior lecturer at the University of Washington, poet laureate of the state of Washington, hallowed alumna of the gracious university. Her living was nice: she was paid to do what she would do for free. She traveled to colleges to give readings, wrote on commission, ate at Asian Fusion restaurants with other famous poets, and best of all, had the enviable position of calling some student’s earnest attempt “flowery at its worst.” She was even more cynical now. She could thank poetry for that. However, she still needed it.

            As she entered her sparse apartment, she remembered the date: six years since Samuel’s disappearance. She had not even thought about it the last five. Once everyone assumed she was dead she refused to revive her hope. She had no idea where he went, but it was clear to her: she would never see him again.

            She held “hIre why’sdumb” up to the light. She did not ever take it out of the plastic bag. It was too precious to touch. It was not too precious to listen to though. She recited it every night. She had had it engrained into her mind for years.

            Next to it she had put her old copy of the first volume of y(not)ou. Samuel had published three in his lifetime and two had been published posthumously through Murkvein, but Froid never bought another copy. “hIre why’sdumb” was published in the beginning of the third and most acclaimed of the three. She refused to buy it in the wake of her breakup with Samuel, and while she was dating him, the second volume was published. She had no need to by the poetry of the poet when she was dating poet and could watch every one of them surge out of his mind and onto charcoal.

            Froid sighed and opened up the volume. She could not read it at all; it was destroyed when she made the poem “still you.” She had not forgotten the poem, but she had forgotten which words she had removed from where.

            Then she had an idea. In celebration of Samuel’s life, transcribe the volume, using the process of elimination to determine which words went where. It was arduous and time-consuming, but Froid had no desire to grade mediocre poetry. She would be just like Samuel: return it to the students blank.

            The first poem in the volume was called “wetrock.” She rewrote the poem, reinserting the words  “shore” and “blue.” The next poem was “man.Ia.trieval,” which was missing some prepositions and the word “split.” The third poem was her personal favorite, a simple poem called “gash:us.” She remembered which words went where because she had memorized it long ago: “lilts,” “morgue,” “and,” and “everyone.”

            The process continued for the rest of the volume. She reinserted nouns, verbs, prepositions, and adjectives everywhere. After a few hours the volume was complete again, in her handwriting in her own notebook. It was all transcribed again and lovely. She felt proud. She could feel Samuel there in the volume, at the expense of her poem. He was reassembled, triumphant, in his Spartan verse. She could appreciate him once more for what he wrote, not just her memory of him. The pleasure of once again being complete.

            The happiness waned though when she saw that that would not change anything. Samuel was still gone. Samuel would not come back because she filled in the blanks spots in her book. Samuel existed on the pages of his poetry, but he did not leap off the pages in the tangible way that Froid could hope for. She could see his hands where the charcoal may have smudged on the manuscript, but she could not hold it. She knew the charcoal would transfer to his hands and later everything he touched. He would get it all over her cheeks whenever he had put his hands on her face to kiss her hello. She had no charcoal on her face that night. She wrote in pen. She could see him with a poem in his mind sitting on the ground trying to get it out as fast as possible. They would be in the middle of a conversation, of breakfast, of reading, and he would have to stop. He would run, tripping over things or nicking his shoulder on a wall to get to some paper and charcoal. And then he would write. No, not write. It was a spasm. It was violent. He would close his eyes and clench his body, sweating as he poured out what could have been his life into one poem. This happened every time. Froid would watch him, wondering when he would fall over dead or snap out of it and resume his life. But it was beautiful. He never looked so alive, so passionate, so anything as when he was scrambling to write lines of near incoherence onto a page. It did not matter if no one else could read it. He could. Poetry was all he cared about. Froid knew that deep down. If it ever came down to deciding between anything and poetry, Samuel had an obvious and regretless choice. Once he wrote his poetry he would resume whatever he was doing as if nothing happened. He was so dissociated from his two worlds that Froid sometimes thought that he forgot that he wrote poetry. But then she would remember his choice.

            Samuel had already made that choice before. Froid knew it so well.

            As she sat alone in her apartment, surrounded by her thoughts of Samuel and his poetry, she decided to complete one last task to commemorate him. She found a piece of paper that he had made for her that she never used and some charcoal in a box of art supplies.

            She closed her eyes and began to write.

            b(ridge)d

            all[forgotten]us

            per{feets^feats}fection

            faction/faction

            bro(apart)ken

            4seven ye(ons)rs

            I[what]I you see^

            up!wards? no in

            paper. yes

            p(age)s of wait

            WEIGHT

            and you see I.

           

            She opened her eyes at the completion. She read it to herself. It sounded like Samuel. She followed his orthography, his methods, like he was there, like she was him.

            She felt someone watching her. She looked up. It was Samuel.

            She jumped backwards, hitting her head on the wall. When she picked herself back up he was gone again.

            “I need some air,” she said aloud. She had been by herself in the apartment for too long. She took a hidden packet of cigarettes with her just in case.

            The wind was harsh that night. It seldom snowed, but it rained enough to make one wish for it. The sidewalks were icy from when the temperature slithered around freezing. Froid had seen freshmen slip on this. She was too old to fall.

            She walked past the library with the Suzzallo Reading Room. It looked smaller now. It seemed less important now that Froid had her own publications in it. She had read theses of students commentating on her poems. It un-validated everything for her. Academia seemed to be a lost end. One day she could look back and appreciate higher learning. There was none of that with her tonight, though. She wanted to close her eyes, hear Samuel’s voice recite “hIre why’sdumb,” and open her eyes and be at the edge of a shore. Be in his poem forever.

            “Professor Froid!” called a voice.

            Froid looked around. A freshman boy named Nikolai Murcielago was running towards her, but he slipped and fell on the ice. He spent the last of his commute sliding with a pained expression on his face. Froid did not help him up.

            “The assignment for tomorrow… Are we still to read the volume of your poems? And analyze “man.Ia.trieval” by Coldridge?”

            Froid forgot assigning that at all. “Skip the Coldridge. We can cover it later. I’ll email out about it tonight once I get home.”

            “Oh, thank you, Professor! Thank you so much for teaching this class. I’m a huge fan of your work. I can’t wait for you to publish another volume. Maybe you can bring in a poem for workshop? Just a poem you’re working on? It could be very interesting!”

            Froid smiled. “I’ll think about it. But for now, do the assignment for tomorrow. I know you’re not the fondest of doing your homework, but I must remind you of the adverse effect on your grade that will have.”

            The student nodded in earnest. “I promise I’ll turn it in on time, Professor Froid!” He walked away, having learned his lesson from the ice, but still managed to slip and fall again.

            Froid knew she would not workshop one of her poems to the class. It was not because she did not like criticism, but rather it was because there was no need. She preferred her own edits to her work. It kept them unspoiled. She also knew Nikolai Murcielago would not turn his assignment in. She knew him well. What she did not understand was why he kept pretending like he was going to.

            “Nikolai Murcielago, you just might become a great poet someday,” she mused as she returned towards her apartment.

            Her apartment was just as she had left it a half an hour ago, save one new addition. Samuel was in the middle of the room, holding a briefcase, reading her poem out loud.

             “Bridged:

            All forgotten in us

            Is the feet’s feats in perfection

            Faction for faction

            Broken apart

            For seven years and eons.

            What in I do you see?

            Upwards? No. In

            Paper. Yes.

            Pages and ages of wait

            And weight.

            And you see I.”

            He smiled at her. Froid could only stare. The silence made Samuel impatient somehow.

            “Yes, I’m alive, in case you’re wondering.” His speech was different. It was relaxed. He looked different. He looked resurrected. He looked like how he did in the poems he wrote.

            “But, how?”

            “Well, technically, I wasn’t alive for a while. Until now. Now I’m alive.”

            Samuel dropped an adverb so casually. Froid had never heard him use one before. It rattled in her brain like flimsy tin.

            “I… I…”

            “Yes, you. It was you,” he replied.

            “What? What did I do?” Froid thought she was dreaming.

            “Samuel, am I dreaming? What’s going on here?”

            He lifted at her poem and pointed at it. “This is what’s going on.”

            “What?”

            Samuel sighed. “Ambrosia, I just came back to this world by using your poem as a literal bridge. The least you can do for me is say something other than vacant questions.”

            “I….”

            “Or pronouns.”

            Froid composed herself once she poked his face. He smiled sheepishly as she poked his dimples. He was real after all.

            “Permit me one question.”

            “Very well.”

            “How?”

            “My poetry. I was tired of living somewhere that wasn’t there. So I left. After my brother was destroyed I decided would be a good time to leave. It was nice, really. I got a lot of writing done. But, I got bored.”

            “Bored?”

            “There was something missing. It was boring playing God.”

            “Boring?”

            “Ambrosia, please say a different word.”

            “Like what?”

            Samuel sighed. He opened his briefcase and out of it flew thousands of poems. Froid gasped as they fluttered everywhere, falling like the snow she wished Seattle would have.

            “Is this all the writing you’ve done?”

            “For six years, yes.”

            “That’s a lot of writing.”

            “It is. I brought it all back with me.”           

            “What are you planning on doing with it?”

            “Who knows. Probably publish again, make some money.”

            “This will make a lot of money,” she muttered.

            “It definitely will. The late Samuel Tyler Coldridge miraculously appearing with volumes worth of unpublished poetry?”

            “Sounds like royalties to me… Are you planning on staying long?”

            Samuel laughed. Froid’s momentary elation fled.

            “Thought so. You’d probably rather be bored than be here anyways, right?”

            Samuel stopped laughing. “Who said anything about leaving?”

            “Wait… what?”

            “You wrote me back into this reality. You better take responsibility of me!” Samuel teased.

            “But…”

            “No buts!”

            “Are you hungry?”

            “Famished!”

            “And not for poetry?”

            “I think I’m done writing for a while.”

            “Why?”

            Samuel gestured at her apartment. The floor was nowhere to be seen.

            “That and… well… I’m going to sound like the most hackneyed poet to ever walk the earth, but right now I’ve got the only poem I’d ever need.”

            He smiled at Froid. She knew what he saw.

            “I’ve got higher wisdom,” he said as he gazed at her.

            Froid handed him the manuscript still in the plastic bag. He slapped it aside as he embraced her, resting his cheek on her hair.

            “I like this version better,” he murmured.

            Froid smiled like the blue of oceans.

            “What are you hungry for?”

            “Hmmm… maybe Peking duck. I’ve always been curious as to why the hell that athlete liked it so much.”

            The End
            

Nanowrimo 16

Part two of the epilogue coming soon!

Epilogue

            Callahan was more in shape than before. He had started exercising again thanks to squash team tryouts, and his burly build was now supported by adequate muscle. He had gone to poetry and back and was more or less the same as he had been during high school. His love of creative writing was demolished thanks to what had transpired in Seattle, and with Samuel’s mysterious disappearance his inspiration was gone. Callahan spent many hours on google trying to find anything about Samuel Coldridge, and all he unearthed were news articles. Many people argued about when and where and how he disappeared. Some said that he had disappeared at Murkvein one evening. Others said that he never left Seattle. Still others claimed conspiracy for entertainment purposes. But everyone could agree on one thing: he was dead.  

            Callahan closed his laptop and sighed. Another day, another empty search on google. He hated Samuel, but there was something about him that warranted constant searching. Callahan went out for a run.

            As he ran he passed a group of students on the quad. The girls smiled at him, appreciating his physique, and Callahan grinned to himself. I’m not flattering you anymore, aren’t I, Samuel? He ran a little faster, enjoying the early spring air.

            He passed a tour group that was filled with expectations. It was large, full of parents that cared too much and kids that did not care as much and a tour guide who tried to get everyone to care as much as he did. It was a large tour group. This was around the time students were waiting for their acceptance letter or praying to get off the waitlist. Their nerves tired Callahan. He slowed to a jog, avoiding looking at them as he passed.

            “Callahan!” A voice called from the group.

            Callahan looked over, expecting to recognize the guide from somewhere. But he did not. He had never seen him before. He turned away and kept running.

            A hand tugged his shirt from behind. Callahan stopped.

            “Wow, for an athlete you really suck at running.”

            Samuel faced her. “Caracolle.”

            “Nice to see you again,” she said smiling, approving of his new build. He looked more like what he had been labeled as. “Someone’s gotten buff, huh?”

            Callahan chuckled and scratched his head.

            “So, you’re touring here?”

            Caracolle nodded. “My parents would totally kill me if I didn’t apply here. Even though Ambrosia obviously hated it here and transferred after like two years and all. I don’t know what they’re thinking. They think it’ll make me more like her or something.”

            “Well, it is a liberal arts education,” mused Callahan. “You’ll get a smattering of everything I guess. And I’m pretty sure that she didn’t leave because of the school. There were… other factors.”

            “Yeah, like Samuel? Ugh, I’m so glad he’s gone or something. He was so bad for her. But she was pretty cut up about him dying and stuff. I wonder if they made up or like…” she trailed off. “Oh-my-god, do you think they got back together or something?”

            Callahan shrugged his shoulders. “I’d rather not think about it. Say, it looks like your tour is moving on. I shouldn’t keep you waiting.”

            Caracolle scoffed. “Yeah, you really think I want to keeping going? I’m not going to go to this place anyway. I’m thinking UCLA. I’ll never get tan here.” She grimaced at the weak sun.

            “Well, you know,” said Callahan, “It is early spring. I’m sure it’ll be better once it’s later.”

            Caracolle shrugged her shoulders.

“But you’re right,” he continued. “Too close to home, isn’t it? Don’t want your parents randomly popping in and checking on you or anything. Besides, I bet all the guys in California are super buff and hot.” Callahan stretched his arms back towards his spine. His biceps bulged. Caracolle ogled with no effort to conceal it. “And after all, you’re going to be in the company of super blonde tan girls that will your bff’s and let you in on all the secrets to being so sexy and stuff.” Callahan leaned closer to Caracolle, flashing her his blue eyes. She gulped.  He pulled himself back. “Now, I don’t know.... UCLA sounds like a pretty fun school.”

Caracolle’s nerves colored her chuckle. “Ha, well, yeah, I suppose it will be…”

“Well I’m all for you coming here. But I think you’re right to ditch this tour. Full of crap anyway. It’s nothing like they say. Coffee? My treat.”

Caracolle followed him to the coffee shop on campus. The last time he was there he was with the elder Froid post break-up with Samuel, and right after Samuel passed outside and Callahan began their fist exchange. It was not a pleasant memory. But Caracolle was not Ambrosia. And Samuel was not here. The scene was obsolete enough for him to enjoy his time with Caracolle.

“Spring of your junior year already…” mused Callahan. “Wow. This time has flown by. How have you been? I bet you’re stressed out.”

Caracolle went smug. “I feel like all the drama that’s going around is so pointless now. I mean, I didn’t get asked to prom by Markus Lucianescu because he’s going with my ex-bff. She just wants to get back at me because I got the quarterback’s digits probably. But whatever. I don’t even. Screw prom. I just don’t even want to go anymore. I mean, you don’t remember prom all that much after high school don’t you anyway? It’s just all dumb. They think that all this stuff is going to last forever and I’m like the only one who can see all past it, you know? I feel like I’m getting senioritis and I’m only a junior! Did you feel like that? Probably not. You were so busy with writing those poem things and stuff and like you don’t seem like the kind of person that would get all caught up in drama. I guess that’s what you get for being popular.”

Callahan had not heard most of what he said. In her huge monologue he caught a few words: prom, like, and drama. He nodded throughout in a noncommittal pattern, wondering if Caracolle had noticed that he was not paying much attention to her. She seemed much more relieved, though. It was clear that she needed to vent and had no outlet but the mild-mannered Callahan.

“Yeah, I don’t remember much of my prom,” began Callahan, continuing on the one thread of the conversation that he had caught. “I remember the girl I took to prom, and I think she wore a purple dress. I... think.”

To his surprise, Caracolle laughed. Callahan smiled at her. When she laughed she looked like Froid. She looked beautiful.

“You do look a lot like her.”

That stopped her laughter right away. Caracolle glared at him. “Don’t say that. I don’t want anything to do with her.” She could not even say her sister’s name.

“Have you heard from her at all?” Callahan pressed. He had let Caracolle rave about the banal problems of her life. It was his turn to direct the conversation.

Caracolle did not answer him. She took a loud sip of her mocha.

“I haven’t heard anything since I came back in December. She seemed fine when I left and was all gung-ho about taking up poetry again. I think Samuel’s responsible for that. And then I sent her a text wishing her a happy birthday and-”

“SAMUEL?!” Caracolle shrieked. The coffee shop went silent. Callahan hid his face with his hand before massaging his temples.  

“She reconciled with Samuel,” Callahan began, his voice not even above a whisper. “I think that was good for her, even though at the time all I wanted to do is punch him in the face. I can’t really understand those two to save my life, but I think they really do care about each other. And I think they need each other.”

Callahan’s disappointment seeped into his voice. It was hard enough to face rejection; it was even harder to watch her go back to someone she loved.

“Humph! I still think he was a waste of time. And a dick. Even though he’s dead now I don’t think she’s moved on. She should’ve done physics instead of poetry. She’s not gonna do herself any favors by holding on to the past like that.”

Callahan knew Caracolle had misunderstood. To her poetry was an avoidable evil that no one did unless they wanted to be pretentious or to impress someone. She did not understand that Froid needed poetry like Samuel needed poetry. She did not understand poetry like they did. And perhaps she never will. All of this aged Caracolle in Callahan’s eyes. It should not have, but she looked old. She looked like she had fought in a war she knew nothing about.

With effort Callahan reinstated the conversation in his direction. “She doesn’t think much about home or anything, does she? I mean, if she did, she would visit you guys or something. Are you really not in contact with her anymore?”

Caracolle acted to grateful to mask her more apparent disappointment. “Nope. I think she’s decided she’s too good for us out on the east coast. I guess all she wants to do now is be her own boss and not care about what we’re up to. She’s always been like that though. I wonder if it’s our parents that are keeping her away. Or maybe it’s you. I don’t know. I think she’d rather hear the word “adverb” than the word “Murkvein” ever again. No offense, but I don’t think she ever wants to have anything to do with this place ever again. Oh well! I guess I can go here now. Not like she’ll come bother me or anything.”

Caracolle finished with a beam, but Callahan could see her hurt.

“You miss her, don’t you?”

Caracolle was taken aback, but her face began to show signs of defeat.

“You may hate her because you hate how you parents prefer her, and you may think she’s weird and all, but I think you care about your sister way more than you let on. You were angry when no one seemed to mind that she ran off to Seattle. You made me text you when I found her and was with her at first. You were more overprotective than Luke! Are you sure you’re not some sort of alter-ego?”

Callahan hoped that he was joking.

“The hell are you talking about?” she demanded as she set down her mocha.

Callahan laughed with much more energy than was demanded.

“Okay, okay. Good. Just making sure.”

Caracolle rolled her eyes. “You’re crazy. All of you. I think I’m the only sane person in the world.”

“That may be true, but what’s the fun in trying to be like everyone else?”

Caracolle gave him a small smile.

“Say, how much do you like driving?” he asked her.

Caracolle was confused. “Uh, I don’t know. I guess as long as I have an iPod or something to listen to I can kinda just drive wherever.”

“Good. Get ready to do a lot more of it.”

With that he stood up, grabbed Caracolle’s tiny face in his enormous hands, and stole a kiss right out of her.

“Halfway between us is a really nice steakhouse. Come back next week. My treat. No bitching about vegan yeast allowed.”

He gave her a wink as he walked away from her to continue on his run. Caracolle wanted with all her heart to be annoyed with him, to go up and slap him for being so brash, but she could not for the life refuse an offer with a handsome jock who was offering her a normal, non-vegan dinner.

Caracolle was right: she was nothing like Froid. Callahan knew that deep down nothing with Caracolle could ever bring him closer to Froid. He had not talked to her or seen her, and at this point it was clear he never would.

Callahan continued running, the air inflating his body with a comfort. He floated as he sprinted across the campus. He may not have Froid, or any of the things that he wanted a year ago. But it was okay. He had poetry. He smiled as he kept running past the edge of campus, through townships, over dirt roads, east towards the sea.

Nanowrimo 15

Chapter 12

            Callahan wasted no time getting into the Starbucks once he made and lost eye contact with Luke. He texted Samuel and Froid as he approached it.

            “Hospital Starbucks. Now.”

Lucky for him, Luke was writing Callahan’s death and was too preoccupied in the dialogue and execution to notice him coming in. As Callahan tiptoed around him he breathed a sigh of relief and waited in line. He looked at the enormous notebook and got a venti coffee of the day before walking over to Luke.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he said, hovering his coffee hand over the notebook.

Luke smiled at him. “I thought you didn’t drink coffee,” he said, gesturing to the cup.

“I don't.”

Callahan dropped the cup onto Luke’s notebook.

The black coffee did what it was intended to do. Before long it saturated all the pages with its entropic heat. It dissolved the ink and made the paper brittle. In a matter of seconds the papers were engorged with coffee and the entire book was so brittle that when trying to pick it up it shredded itself like steamed bok choy.

Luke jumped back, frightened, scalded, and furious. Many of the surrounding patrons also stood up in confusion, wondering why a college student would pour coffee all over an adult’s notebook.

“You,” Luke snarled through his teeth.

            Callahan smiled at Luke the way Luke had smiled at him. It was all over. Luke was powerless.

            “Can’t do much now, can you?” taunted Callahan. “Now you know how it feels to be just like everyone else: just in control of yourself, and not even then. Doing things and you don’t know why. Getting screwed over by other people. Being the one manipulated. It’s all part of being a subject, isn’t it?”

            Luke lunged for Callahan, but not before Samuel and Froid came into the Starbucks. Samuel peeled Luke off of Callahan on the floor. The employees and patrons of Starbucks were in a panic trying to figure out who they should help and what they should do.

            “You flatter my physique, Athlete,” said Samuel as he helped Callahan off the floor. Froid brushed off some of the dust from his shoulders.

            “What's the meaning of this?!” cried Luke. “You two should be at the hospital!”

            “Why?” asked Froid.

            “Because you,” he said, pointing at her, “were just there! Both of you! You have been!”

            Samuel laughed. None of them had heard him laugh before. It was creepy. It was a sound that could never be heard again.

            “What is this?” Luke screeched again, as an employee escorted the four of them outside.

            “Please leave the premises. I don’t want to call the police,” she said.

            The four of them walked on the sidewalk surrounding Luke. Luke glared at all of them in a cycle: first Froid for betraying him, Samuel for always hating him, and Callahan for just existing. As they walked they took turns explaining.

            “You know you’re just a character now,” said Froid.

            “And not just any character,” began Callahan. “We’re the protagonists. And you’re against us.”

            “The antagonist,” Froid said with a reproachful glimmer in her eyes. It was the same that Luke had written into his scene of Callahan’s murder.

            “You may fool many, brother,” said Samuel, “But I know what you are to your marrow.”

            As they talked around him, Luke began to panic. When they stopped at the crosswalk, Luke made a run for it and jumped onto the street.

            The oncoming traffic was thick and quick. Luke stood there with his eyes closed and arms stretched, waiting for the moment to happen.

            It never came though. The cars averted him like he was a post in the middle of the street. They swerved to avoid him. They did not even honk. It was as if he was not there. As Luke stood there in shocked disappointment, Samuel held him as the group re-encircled him and walked on their way.

            “Suicide,” mused Samuel. “A final act of free will for a character scavenging the remains of his. We prepared for that. I know what you are. You cling to your power. You will cling to it at any price.”

            Luke was still bewildered. He could not understand how he went from being the narrator to a supporting character, and an antagonistic one at that.

            “Froid!” he cried. “Enlighten me. I trust you.”

            Froid knew he was lying. “No you don’t. But Callahan doesn’t quite know either, so I’ll explain.”           

            One evening when Froid could not sleep she dug through Luke’s things, suspicious at how much attention he was giving her. In his briefcase well-concealed in a hidden compartment, Froid found a notebook. The notebook was an accurate transcription of the entire events that had taken place up to that point all the way back to her departure from Murkvein. It did not take long for Froid to realize what this was, and to conceal her discovery she ran away from the apartment, playing her nightmares in her head to make sure Luke could not find her nor could know what she found.

             Whenever Luke was asleep at night Froid transcribed the narrative in her own secret journal that she had brought for emergency writing. It was so secret that Luke had never seen it, and he never saw her write since she came to Seattle. Before long she had finished the entire narrative up to the point when she had met Samuel and devised their plan.

            At the bridge, before they parted, Froid had placed it in her near-empty book bag. It was empty, except for the journal. Samuel took it back to the hotel and spliced it with their own narrative.

            Luke was shaking as Froid finished her narrative of the narrative.

            “Don’t worry, Luke. Your narrative for the most part has survived. It’s just in my handwriting and in our care. We won’t tinker with it too much.”

            “Well, except for the whole part about you being in this story,” said Callahan.

            They arrived back at Samuel’s hotel room with Luke, restrained by Samuel and Callahan. Froid read out loud the first part of the story that Luke had ever written:

“It was late afternoon by the time Ambrosia Froid finally looked out the window of the bus… I couldn’t understand why she was so keen on staring at the carpeted seat in front of her. I told her that she should look out, acknowledge the voyage, savor the commute. But she wouldn’t. I implored her to at least admire the skeletal trees basking in the stingy clarity of the mid autumn sunshine. It was jarring but completely objective. This is what autumn really looks like. She should take lessons from it.

“You know, this entire passage can make do without you, can’t it?” she said as she revised. As she rewrote the passage, with all mentions of Luke gone, Luke began to disappear.

For the next several hours, Froid took the painstaking task of rewriting the entire narrative without any mention of Luke. As she did he began to fade and weaken, which was a relief to Samuel and Callahan, who began to tire of his intermittent wriggling.

At last the story was rendered thus: Froid on an impulse came to Seattle to avoid seeing her parents. Samuel came for the poetry reading in the hopes of seeing her. Callahan, concerned about her, enlisted the help of the other Froids but found their response lacking and spent his entire savings getting himself there. Froid and Samuel reconciled, and while Callahan was bumbling and got in the way, his good intentions were enough to get him an amiable acquaintance with both.

Luke was a useless character after all.

“Shame that you were in the company of minimalists,” Froid said as Luke disappeared forever. “But we can’t have superfluity. It’s against our morals.”

This was how the narrative ended. Callahan, Froid, and Samuel stood in the hotel room and said nothing. What tied them together seemed to disappear.

But then Samuel walked over to the end of the narrative and took out a pen.

“There is something I still must write.”

“Yeah, you can do that later, Coldridge,” said Callahan. “Let’s go get Chinese to celebrate!”

Froid smiled. Chinese sounded good.

At the restaurant downstairs Callahan ordered pork dumplings for the table, but more for himself. He ate them with such vigor that he did not notice Samuel’s unusual sullenness. Samuel had an emotional range that went from “apathetic” to “annoyed,” but sad was not in his repertoire. Froid had assumed that Samuel was worn out from the activity that day, though she had the most right to. With all of the writing she had to do, she deserved twenty pork dumplings more than anyone.

“Coldridge, uh, your bok choy is getting… cold,” Callahan noticed as he poked Samuel’s full plate. Samuel did not acknowledge Callahan. He seldom had, but this time perturbed Callahan for some reason.

            “Do you miss him?” Callahan asked.

            “Who?”

            “Your brother. I mean, you have known him all your life and-”

            “Of course not,” Samuel snapped. “I have waited twelve years for this day to come.”

            While he was directing his minimal focus at Callahan, Froid stole some of the bok choy off of Samuel’s plate. He noticed that. She winked at him.

            “We must talk,” he told Froid, standing up and grabbing her by the arm.
            “What?”

            Callahan stood up as well.

            “You stay, Grossherz,” said Samuel.

            “Um, you’re welcome for buying you all these goddamn dumplings!” retorted Callahan.

            As the two walked off together Callahan fought the urge to not sock Samuel a couple of times.

            “Nice talking with you too, asshole,” he hissed.

           

            Froid and Samuel did not go far. They were right outside the restaurant, standing on the sidewalk and watching the traffic blur past them.

            “I have something to give you,” he said.

            “What?”

            Froid had every right to be confused. Samuel had never given a present in his life.

            He handed her an envelope. Inside was a Ziploc, and in the Ziploc was a poem.

            “hIre why’sdumb” was the title.           

            Froid gasped. “Is this…”

            “The original manuscript.”

            She cold not bring herself to take the poem out of the bag. She instead looked at it through the plastic, intent on preserving it forever.

            “Please touch it,” said Samuel. “It is yours now.”

            “But, this it your poem! This isn’t like a thank you card or a diamond ring or something. This is a poem!”

            “You must have it.”

            “I… why?”

            “It belongs to you.”

            “No, it belongs to you! You wrote it!” She almost nudged the poem back into his hands.

            Not to be foiled, Samuel put his hands in his pocket. “There. Now you cannot give it back to me.”

            “Why didn’t you give it to me before?”

            “There was no time.”

            Froid understood. He wrote the poem after they broke up and before Seattle they had not seen each other since.

            “Samuel, I, I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”

            Samuel smiled.

            “Goodbye, Ambrosia.”

            Now Froid was surprised. “What? Where? What’s the hurry? We have the whole winter break.”

            He took one hand out of his pocket at put it on her cheek. With his other he pointed at the poem in her hand.

            “As long as you have it,” he said. He walked away from her, closing his eyes.

            “You are beautiful, Ambrosia,” he called back. “I cannot make you beautiful. You just are.”

            Samuel disappeared after a few streetlights. Froid thought about following him. She wanted to with all her heart, but instead ran into the restaurant to get Callahan.

            “He left?!” Callahan exclaimed.

            Froid nodded.

            “I guess we’re not worth two Chinese meals, aren’t we?” he muttered, paying for the dumplings that he ate by himself.

            When they returned up to Samuel’s hotel room, it was empty. None of Samuel’s things were there. All that was left was the narrative on the table. Froid looked over to see it.

            “He… added some more,” she whispered and she began to read.

           

            The English department had insisted that Samuel sit in on the introductory creative writing class. They had promised him more creative freedom, which did not incentivize it any. Samuel would write when and how he wanted. His poetry was important.

            All in all, he humored them and sat in on the freshman class. Samuel could read every student: those who smoked to seem more artistic; the ones who had lost a parent or pet and wrote monolithic verse and prose dedicated to them; the ones who hung out with artists to seem more like artists. The archetypes were clear. Samuel would sit on the class but do nothing more.

            “Samuel!” called Professor Doanday down the hall. “Such an honor to have you join us!” Doanday was sarcastic, but just to Samuel could he be sincere. Samuel would have preferred the sarcasm.

            “Listen, do you have a very busy semester? I know that you’re writing your thesis and all…” Doanday continued. Samuel knew where this was going.

            Against his better judgment, Samuel agreed to be the TA for the class. The expectations were thus: he would attend each class period, he would help grade assignments, and he would be the guest lecturer once. Samuel had no desire to any of these, especially grade the assignments. Samuel hated all writing that was not his. This was perhaps the most human thing about him.

            After a week the first batch of assignments arrived in his box in the department. The stack was thick; there were thirty mindless overachievers in the class. Samuel forwent his stipulation. He did not even pretend to grade them. They were returned to the students blank.

            The next week the students tried harder, hoping to be the one that would get read by Samuel and get a proper grade. Doanday was irritated with Samuel at this point and was entertaining the idea of dropping him as an assistant, much to Samuel’s relief. However, Samuel had given an amazing guest lecture in the middle of the week that so enraptured everyone that Doanday realized he had to give Samuel more of a chance.

            The week after the students strained themselves the most. Samuel’s lecture had both inspired and frightened them, and they wrote their poetry to impress him. Samuel felt marginal pity for them. He would not read their poetry no matter how much effort they had put into it.

            Doanday was collecting the poetry when he made a patronizing observation.

            “Miss Froid, you have failed to turn in an assignment at all for the duration of this class. You know that this will adversely affect your grade.”

            Samuel hated Professor Doanday.

            Froid said nothing. Doanday rolled his eyes and grabbed other students’ assignments. Was she doing it on purpose? Froid looked at Samuel. He recognized her from the English Department party from before school started. She gave him a small but mischievous smile. She was doing it on purpose.

            After class Samuel was walking across the quad back to his apartment. A familiar voice came up behind him.

            “Excuse me? Could you sign this?”

            He turned around. Froid was there, with a piece of charcoal and a copy of y(not)ou. Samuel did not do this, but given that she knew that he would never read the assignments, he felt like rewarding her. He took the book and opened it up to the first page.

            Except there was no first page.

            There was a second page, but it was riddled with holes. Samuel skimmed through the entire book. It was gutted and dilapidated. Entire poems were missing. Words were missing from lines. It was not his poetry anymore. It was just ornamental words on paper. For once in his life, Samuel was terrified.

            He looked over at her, welled up with fear as he snapped the charcoal in his fingers on accident. She, on the other hand, had a pleasant look on her face. She reached into her book bag and pulled out a piece of paper.

            “Looking for this?” she asked.

            And there, on the page, were the words that she had cut out of y(not)ou. They were a poem. Samuel read the title: “still you.”

slight lilts

in a shore of blue

the mania edge

sounds for you

I split the light

as it seeps through air

and darkness

becoming more

for everyone

not a morgue

for you

Samuel stared at the poem for a while. He knew what it was. He saw himself in it. He saw himself in “you” and “shore.” But he also saw her. He saw a lot of her. He saw her in “lilts,” “I,” “becoming,” and “not a morgue.” And there they were, together, harmonious in the poem. If they could coexist in the poem, could they in real life?

He gave her back the poem and looked back at the book. He took the half charcoal that he had shattered in his hands and scribbled something on the inside cover. He felt self-conscious and did not know what to write. He gave the book back to her in haste. She opened it up, thanked him, and read.

“to ambrosia froid, be my lilt. Samuel Tyler Cold-”

Samuel did not give her time to finish. Before either of them knew it, they were locked in each other’s arms, his lips touching another’s for the first time in his life. To his relief she did not push him away or spray mace. She reciprocated. She felt warm. He pulled her closer when people started staring at them.

“Is that… Samuel Coldridge? With a girl? I thought he was asexual!”

“I thought he was gay!”

“Ugh, I hoped he was gay!”

They walked away when Samuel waved them on, keeping his face on Froid’s.

Froid, thought Samuel. I am yours.