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When I signed up for this class, I wasn’t really sure what I was going to learn. I didn’t think it would be challenging, and I didn’t think it would surprise me, but I was wrong. For the first time, I was required to write poems with structure, which I used to be so uncomfortable doing. Free-verse poetry was the only thing I enjoyed, but now, I know that I can be content with writing haikus and triolets, and I’m proud of myself for learning that.
One of the most interesting writing techniques I’ve learned is writing micro-fictions. They are short works of fiction that tell an entire story in a small number of words. I wrote one called “Fidelity” that told a humorous story about a husband and a wife, in under 250 words. It was strange trying to fit all of that information into such a short length, but I enjoyed it.
I also learned about character development, and a lot of different types of characters. I used what I read about dynamic, static and round characters to create a few if my own characters in my fiction stories. I got to fill out a questionnaire about my character, Barbara, and it was funny how much it felt like writing about a real person.
Learning about the various types of antagonist in stories was one of my favorite things. Antagonists can be people, occurrences, or even the protagonist themselves. When I was creating an antagonist for my stories about Barbara, I made her into her own enemy. It was an interesting way for me to get inside my character’s head, and it was something I had not tried to write about before.
My favorite thing that we did was the small magnetic poetry assignment in the beginning of the course. I know it
was not one of the most difficult things we did, but I really enjoyed working with limited words. I felt good about the unusual aspects of the poems I wrote then.
The thing I struggled most with was the 3-page fiction story. I have never been much of a writer to begin with, but when I had to create a longer story, I was very out of my element. Coming up with characters that weren’t cliché or unbelievable was tough, but I had an even harder time trying to figure out what kind of voice my writing has. I’m still not very comfortable with writing fiction, but I am glad I gave it a shot.
As a writer, I have never been very confident. Perhaps it’s because I never found the drive for writing that I have for other things. I struggled with wanting to write, but also not wanting to write, for a long time, and I’m still not really sure if it’s for me. However, I’m glad I decided to finally take this class. I feel like if anything was going to encourage me to write more, it was this.
Table of Contents
Cold……………………………………………………………………………………………...01
Work of Art………………………………………………………………………………….02
17…………………………………………………………………………………………………..03
Here I Am…………………………………………………………………………………….04
Burning…………………………………………………………………………………………05
Tired………………………………………………………………………………………….…06
Tea……………………………………………………………………………………….………07
Walk…………………………………………………………………………….………………08
Graveyard Shift……………………………….……………………………………….……09
Fidelity…………………………………………………………………………………..……..10
Youth…………………………………………………………………………………………….11
Not Quite Sad…………………………………………………………………………….….15
Author’s Notes………………………………………………………………………………20
Free Verse Poems
Formal Poems
Flash Fiction
Non-Fiction
Fiction
Cold
You turn my lips blue.I try my bestto stay away,but you are always waiting.When I step out of the shower,or my covers fall to the floor.You grab me,and I shiver,dreading your touch,but enjoying the chill.
01Work of Art
He was a painting.
His darks made you wonder, his lights made you cry.
He was layers of time, with fingerprints on every inch
of his skin.
He was strokes of violence, of anguish, and of
beauty.
From a distance he was a composition of muscle and
deep shades of black.
But when you were nose-to-nose with him,
you could swear he was delicate, breakable.
Almost untouchable.
He was a work of art.
A masterpiece.
But I was the ocean,
and he was a lost treasure
at the bottom of the sea.
0217
I went to a beautiful partywhere all of the girls wore lipstickand the boys wanted to kiss them but couldn’t.I wore my favorite shoes, and blush that made my facemore red than the carpet.We stood in circles and talked about ourselvesand I thought we looked happy like a picturethat’s a little bit torn.My tights rubbed against my thighsand I wanted to rip them offbut I was afraid that my skinwould shine too brightly.
A boy made a joke about the way that my skirt fitand I laughed even though I didn’t get it.I drank things that people gave meall night longand later when I went to bed,I was excited for the next time.I was comfortable.I was quiet.I was living.
03Here I am.Lipstick on my face.
Lipstick on my neck.
Here I am smelling of perfume and rotting
and rotting.
Here I am with ashes on the bottoms of my shoes
and the rustling of unfamiliar sheets in my ears.
I tap my watch to see if it’s working.
It’s not.
Here I am with a broken timepiece
on a street where everyone can see me.
On a street I’ve walked so many times
it makes me want to cry.
Here I am wearing a suit of shame
on a street of monotony
and I can still feel the oils on her skin.
I can still hear the sharp breathing and the teeth grinding
and the knees shaking.
Here I am feeling everything,
and here I am,
ready to do it all over again
and again
and again.
04Burning
With paint smeared over my lipsand charcoal on my faceI set fire to every piece of art,
Tired
I woke up exhausted, late at night.My chest pounded, and my eyes spun.I tried to walk but my feet were light.I woke up exhausted, late at night.And hoping that I’d be alright,I failed to walk, but tried to run-I knew that sleep was out of sight.I woke up exhausted, late at night.
06Tea
I cut my mouth on a teacupAnd I was ok with the feelingThat I was the only oneAble to feel a kiss in the pain
I was ok feeling Like I melted to the touchOf a painful kissAnd glass in my skin
I melted to your touchAnd it overtook meSo much that the glass in my skinWas second to your voice in my ears
07Walk
I walked and walked for miles on a roadthat made my mouth dry out and my breathing wheeze.And when I looked down at my aching toesI saw my socks were slipping off my feet.I kept on going down the road in earnest,trying to pull my socks back up my legsI slowed my pace and tripped a bit on purposeBut dust was up my nose, and in my head.So on I went, my tired, awful strideshowed how much my socks scratched at my heels.I lost my dignity; I lost my pride.They’d never stopped to ask how I would feel.I tripped once more, but took a heavy fallAnd saw I wasn’t wearing socks at all.
08Graveyard Shift
My work is tiring, so I took a quick nap on the job. But now it’s dark, and I can’t get up. That’s the last time I’ll sleep in a graveyard.
09
Fidelity
My husband has never trusted me around other men. He does everything in his power to keep me away from them. “I’m the only man you need,” he screams.“No other guys measure up.”He makes assumptions. Accuses me of having affairs with younger, more attractive men.Of course, all of these claims are completely false. I don’t need more than one man in my life, that’s for certain.
I try so hard to tell him this, but he just won’t listen. He becomes more and more suspicious every day, and I don’t know how to comfort him. I tell him that he’s strong, protective, courageous…everything a man could be. Yet he continues to do the most ridiculous things. Just last week, on one of his particularly suspicious days, he became angry over nothing at all. I had just gone outside to get the mail, and when I came back in, he threw the letters on the floor and accused me of flirting with the postman. Why would I do such a thing? It’s so outrageous. It’s really quite the story. I cant wait to tell my girlfriend all about it.
10Youth
Everyone was burning up. It was the last night of
our twelve-day trip to France, and we were spending
it in the South, where the people were tan and the air
was hot. I was travelling with four of my best friends,
and we were looking for something spectacular to do.
We had two hours until we had to be back at our
hotel, and absolutely no idea where we were, but
there was something beautiful about being lost in a
place we’d never return to.
We were half-walking, half-running down a
poorly lit alley that slithered behind cafes and
bookshops. There was jazz music playing from a
window above one of the restaurants, and I almost
understood the smooth lyrics as we passed. I felt
thrilled and disoriented as I tried to take everything
in, while also searching for a familiar sight. Lizzy was
holding my hand so I wouldn’t run into anything; I
was too distracted to look straight ahead. Andres was
listing all of the things he still wanted to do, but
wouldn’t be able to. Meredith was panicking.
11
“What if we’re getting farther away? I feel like we’re
getting farther away. What if we have to stay here
forever? What if I actually have to learn French?”
Carly was just laughing. I thought it was her way of
saying she was nervous.
After almost an hour of this, we finally found
something we recognized. The sea was calm and
quiet that night, and there wasn’t a single person on
the beach. We wandered down the coast for a few
minutes, and it was clear that we were all a bit more
at ease. Andres was continuing his list.
“I feel like I didn’t even speak French here! All of the
people here know English! Also I didn’t see a single
mime. Hey wait.”
He slowed down, his gaze widening a little bit.
“You know what I’ve always wanted to do?”
We sighed a unanimous “What?”
“I want to have a movie moment. Like, where the
teenagers do something spontaneous and weird, and
there’s a little montage with indie music playing in
the background.”
This kind of talk was typical of Andres. His mouth
widened
12
into a grin.
“Let’s go swimming.”
Carly laughed and shook her head. Lizzy and I
breathed an excited “Yes!” Meredith looked
confused.
“What about our clothes? We don’t have time to go
all the way back and change.”
Andres suggested going in fully clothed, but Lizzy
had another idea.
Before anyone could say anything, she had
kicked off her shoes, pulled her dress over her head,
and started running for the water. I followed close
behind her, thinking about the possible
consequences and not caring. I hit the water, feeling
warm and exuberant. I went under, and I noticed how
the silence of the sea was actually deafening. When I
came up for air, I saw all of my friends in the waist-
deep water, laughing harder than I’d ever seen them
laugh. Meredith looked relaxed for the first time that
night. Carly wasn’t nervous anymore. We splashed
around like children; it was almost as if we could feel
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how young we were. It was almost unreal, and
exactly like the kind of movie Andres had wanted. All
we could say was a chorus of “Oh my god. Oh my
god.”
We got back late that night, with our hair
dripping salt water and carrying our shoes. But we
went to bed smiling. I knew, and so did all of them,
that we had just experienced exactly what youth is
supposed to feel like.
14Not Quite Sad
The phone rang seven times before the machine
answered it. I heard my dad’s voice on the other end,
muffled and low.
Dana. Dana, I don’t know how to do this.
He was breathing funny.
I don’t want to do this over the machine, but you
never answer. I know you’re there.
I was.
I’m sorry. Your mother is dead. You need to come
home.
I sat in the bath for a long time after he hung up.
I couldn’t move. I couldn’t cry. The water was the
loudest thing in the whole house, and I felt deafened.
The parts of my body that were outside of the bath
went cold. Your mother is dead echoed softly through
the bathroom, and as hard as I tried to be sad about
the words, they just made me angry. I wanted to
melt down the drain. I sucked in a breath, and let the
soapy water run over me.
Growing up, my parents weren’t exactly the best
at their
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job. My dad was a car salesman who was only ever
home to eat dinner and sleep. My mom stayed at
home and pretended she didn’t want to know where
he went every night. They never fought, mainly
because they were rarely together. But most nights,
before my dad came in late, I could hear my mom
crying in the shower. They did what they had to do.
They clothed me, fed me, and took me to school. But
I only got hugs from my dad on my birthday, and my
mom only woke up early with me on Christmas. As
parents, I would describe them as “functioning.”
I did well in school, and I got along with all of my
teachers. I felt more at home there than I did at my
actual home. I took music classes at school, and I
knew from an early age that I wanted to be a
performer. I sang in the shower, and in the car, and
sometimes in the kitchen with my mom. I went
through high school talking about how I was going to
grow up and go to a big city, so I could get paid to do
what I loved. When it came time for me to graduate, I
decided to really take a shot, and go to school in
Manhattan. When I told my dad, he
16
said he was proud of me, and went back to staring at
his food. When I told my mom, she cried, but she
said she always knew I was going to leave.
I fell in love with New York, and the passion I
found within it. I loved the people, and the food, and
the buildings. I never wanted to go home, so, I didn’t.
And then five years had passed. And then I found out
my mom was sick. But I was busy, and I was
successful, and I needed to stay in the city. She
started calling every day when they started making
her stay in bed. I used to pick up every time, or
return every call that I missed, but after a while, I ran
out of things to say to her. It’s not that I didn’t care. I
just didn’t care enough to make up things to tell her
about my life. So I stopped calling back. And after a
while, I stopped answering. She left messages all the
time, and for a whole year, she kept calling to tell me
how she was doing. Some days were good, but more
days were bad. Time passed. A year went by. Then
two. Then one day I decided to take a bath in the
middle of the day, and my dad called me for the first
time since I left.
17
So there I was, sitting on the bathroom floor,
wrapped in a towel, screaming my lungs out because
I was too pissed to cry. I blamed my dad, for not
calling for seven years. I blamed my mom, for not
being honest about how sick she was in her
messages. I blamed everyone I could until I couldn’t
think of anyone else I knew to blame. Then,
suddenly, I remembered singing in the kitchen with
her, and finally, I started to cry.
The next day, I was packing bags, and calling
airports, and doing everything quickly and efficiently
like I normally did, just without the feeling of
normalcy. There was a funny sensation in my chest
all day. Not quite sad, and not angry, and not quite
anxious. I called into work, and I cancelled my yoga
class, and I put my dog in the kennel, and I did all the
things that I needed to do, but I still felt like there
was still one things on my list.
It was strange, doing all of these everyday tasks
after finding out about my mom. I would have
expected the death of a parent to be a traumatic
event, causing me to be frantic, or numb, or
something other than what I was feeling. I tried
crying again. I tried being mad at my dad again. I
tried
18
drinking. But none of it did anything to make it seem
like I had just lost someone.
And then, out of nowhere, I decided to blame
myself. I should have gone home when I found out
she was sick, and I should have called her back every
time. Looking back on it all, I should have done a lot
of things, and I definitely could have been there for
her. But I was a bad daughter, and I ran away for too
long.
I didn’t know if I was ready for my mom’s
funeral, or to see my dad again. It would hurt, and all
of the memories from my childhood would be waiting
right there for me. But I’d had it easy for a long time,
and there were things I had to do. For the first time
in seven years, I was going home.
19
Author’s Notes17
I went to a party one nightwhere all of the girls wore lipstickand the boys wanted to kiss them I wore my favorite shoes, and blush that made my faceredder than the carpet.We stood in circles and talked about ourselvesand I thought we looked happy My tights rubbed against my thighsand I wanted to rip them off
but I was afraid that my skinwould shine too brightly.A boy made a joke about the way that my skirt fitand I laughed even though I didn’t get it.I drank things that people gave meall night longand later when I went to bed,I was excited for the next time.
Author’s Note: This poem was one of the more difficult poems that I wrote for this class. I wanted to convey a feeling of blurriness, so that the speaker of the poem came across as a little bit drunk. I tried to portray the boys in the story as insecure and ignorant, and the speaker as confused and naïve. I added three lines at the end of the final draft in order to make her seem more inexperienced and young. She believes that her empty parties are what life is supposed to be about, and without the last three lines that I added, that did not come across in the poem.
20
The Artist (Burning)
With paint smeared over my lipsand more on my faceI set fire to every masterpiece,each product of my frozen heart,
and watched them light the whole damn place
Author’s Note: This poem was one that I didn’t make a whole lot of changes to. I had a definite idea of what I wanted it to be from the beginning. In the first draft, I put the word “masterpiece” in the third line of the poem. I eliminated the word in the final draft of the piece because using the phrase “piece of art” helped the structure, and it rhymes with the last word of the line after it. I also got rid of the word “more” in the second line, and replaced it with “charcoal.” I thought that adding that word would create a more interesting picture for the reader. The last thing that I changed from the first draft was the title. “The Artist” sounded too cliché and vague to me. It did not explain the purpose of my poem. The title “Burning” better suited the main idea of the poem, and that is why I changed it in the final draft.
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Tea
I cut my mouth on a teacupAnd I was ok with the feelingThat I was the only oneAble to feel a kiss in the pain
I was ok feeling Like I melted to the touchOf a kissAnd glass in my skin
I melted to your touchAnd it overwhelmed meSo much that the glass in my skinWas second to your voice in my ears
Author’s Note: This poem was very structured, which made it difficult for me to write in the first place. I ended up not changing much from the original draft, because by the time I had figured out the structure of this type of poem, I had thoroughly written and re-written every line. After this draft was finished, I added and changed a couple of words that I thought would better suit the poem. Describing the kiss as painful gave the line more meaning, and the extra two syllables made it fit in better with the rest of the stanza. Changing a few other words slightly gave cohesion to the poem, and made it easier to read.
22
Fidelity
My husband has never trusted me around other men. He does everything in his power to keep me us apart. He makes assumptions. Accuses me of having affairs with younger, more attractive men. Of course, all of these claims are completely false. I don’t need more than one man in my life, that’s for certain. I try so hard to tell him this, but he just won’t listen. He becomes more and more suspicious every day, and I don’t know how to comfort him. I tell him that he’s strong, protective, courageous…everything a man could be. Yet he continues to do the most ridiculous things. Just last week, on one of his particularly bad days, he became angry over nothing at all. I had just gone outside to get the mail, and when I came back in, he threw the letters on the floor and accused me of flirting with the postman. Why would I do such a thing? It’s really quite the story. I cant wait to tell my girlfriend.
23
Not Quite Sad
The phone rang seven times before the machine answered
it. I heard my dad’s voice on the other end, muffled and low.
Dana. Dana, I don’t know how to do this.
I don’t want to do this over the machine, but you never
answer. I know you’re there.
I’m sorry. Your mother is dead. You need to come home.
I sat in the bath for a long time after he hung up. I
couldn’t move. I couldn’t. The water was the loudest thing in
the whole house, and I felt deafened. The parts of my body
that were outside of the bath went cold. I was frozen. Your
mother is dead echoed softly through the bathroom, and as
hard as I tried to be sad about the words, they just made me
angry. I wanted to melt down the drain. I sucked in a breath,
and let the soapy water run over me.
Growing up, my parents weren’t exactly the best.. My
dad was a car salesman who was only ever home to eat
dinner and sleep. My mom stayed at home and pretended
she didn’t want to know where he went every night. They
never fought, mainly because they were rarely together. We
only saw my dad at dinner times. But most nights, before my
dad came in late, I could hear my mom crying in the shower.
They
24
did what they had to do. They clothed me, fed me, and took
me to school. But I only got hugs from my dad on my
birthday, and my mom only woke up early with me on
Christmas. As parents, I would describe them as
“functioning.”
I did well in school, and I got along with all of my
teachers. I had a lot of friends, and I participated in
everything. I felt more at home there than I did at my actual
home. I took music classes at school, and I knew from an
early age that I wanted to be a performer. I sang in the
shower, and in the car, and sometimes in the kitchen with
my mom. I went through high school talking about how I was
going to grow up and go to a big city, so I could get paid to
do what I loved. When it came time for me to graduate, I
decided to take a risk, and go to school in Manhattan. When I
told my dad, he said he was proud of me, and went back to
staring at his food. When I told my mom, she cried, but she
said she always knew I was going to leave.
I fell in love with New York, and the passion I found
within it. I loved the people, and the food, and the buildings.
I never wanted to go home, so, I didn’t. And then five years
had passed. And then I found out my mom was sick. But I
was busy, and I was successful, and I needed to stay in the
city. She started calling every day when they started making
her stay in bed. I used to pick up every time, or return every
call that I missed, but after a while, I ran out of things to say
to her. It’s not that I
25
didn’t care. I just didn’t care enough to make up things to
tell her about my life. So I stopped calling back. And after a
while, I stopped answering. She left messages all the time,
and for a whole year, she kept calling to tell me how she was
doing. Some days were good, but more days were bad. Time
passed. A year went by. Then two. Then one day I decided to
take a bath in the middle of the day, and my dad called me
for the first time since I left.
So there I was, sitting on the bathroom floor, wrapped
in a towel, screaming my lungs out because I was too pissed
to cry. I blamed my dad, for not calling for seven years. I
blamed my mom, for not being honest about how sick she
was in her messages. I blamed everyone I could until I
couldn’t think of anyone else I knew to blame. Then,
suddenly, I remembered singing in the kitchen with her, and
finally, I started to cry.
The next day, I was packing bags, and calling airports,
and doing everything quickly and efficiently like I normally
did, just without the feeling of normalcy. There was a funny
sensation in my chest all day. Not quite sad, and not angry,
and not quite anxious. I called into work, and I cancelled my
yoga class, and I put my dog in the kennel, and I did all the
things that I needed to do, but I still felt like there was still
one things on my list.
It was strange, doing all of these everyday tasks after
finding out
26
about my mom. I would have expected the death of a parent
to be a traumatic event, causing me to be frantic, or numb,
or something other than what I was feeling. I tried crying
again. I tried being mad at my dad again. I tried drinking. But
none of it did anything to make it seem like I had just lost
someone.
And then, out of nowhere, I decided to blame myself. I
should have gone home when I found out she was sick, and I
should have called her back every time. Looking back on it
all, I should have done a lot of things, and I definitely could
have been there for her. But I was a bad daughter, and I ran
away for too long.
I didn’t know if I was ready for my mom’s funeral, or to
see my dad again. It would hurt, and all of the memories
from my childhood would be waiting right there for me. But
I’d had it easy for a long time, and there were things I had to
do. For the first time in seven years, I was going home.
27
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