Kaitlin's Creative Writing Assignments

[Thursday]

Here's a few of the things I worked on for my creative writing class this year.

[Thursday]

Reality
Sitcoms: the illusion of real life without the messiness that we actually live with. I grew up watching shows like this. The re-runs on Nick at Night and TV land. I remember sneaking out after bedtime to watch them, The Brady Bunch, Gilligan’s Island, Laverne and Shirley, and the Golden Girls. The kinds of shows before reality TV and the crime scene investigation dramas that dominate every channel today. There was just something so satisfying in watching those half hour worlds and the perfection they portrayed. First, with the plot set-up, then one of the main characters gets into some kind of hilarious trouble, and everything is resolved before the last commercial break. What’s not to love? Being a kid, you base many notions of life on what you see on the small screen, especially when left to your own devices as often as I was, with divorced parents and my mom in school. Of course this is a poor example of the real world. Nothing in life ever works out as neatly as it does on television.
“So what did you think of that movie?” my friend Stacy asked me at lunch. We were standing in line with the rest of the kids who didn’t bring sack lunches from home, the smell of fish sticks and fried food wafting over us. I shrugged.
“It was okay, I guess. I knew most of it already. I read that book, Are You There God, It’s Me, Margaret. “
It was fourth grade and the class had just been split up into boys and girls to go watch our respective videos on “coming of age.” While I knew the basics, of course, my knowledge was from books and TV, not from my parents. We were all properly mortified.
In grade school it was sometimes easy to blur the lines between genders. It was before dating and boyfriends and sexual tension. We all played together, ate together, and learned in the same classrooms. While we knew the differences between boys and girls, it wasn’t a significant factor in daily life. That came later. But now we were growing up, and the school, in their own way was trying to prepare us the best they could.
“The only thing I don’t get,” I said as we got our food and went to sit down, “is when are our voices are going to change? The video didn’t say.” I popped open my milk carton and took a sip, oblivious to the titters from the girls around me. Stacy was giggling.
“What is it?” I asked. “Is there something on my face?”
“No,” Stacy said, trying to not laugh. “Girls voices don’t change. Only boy’s voices do. I can’t believe you said that!” I could feel the flush creep into my face as the other girls laughed around me. Luckily, the boys’ class hadn’t gotten out yet.
“Oh,” I answered lamely. “I didn’t know.” I sat there, my face turning redder as I waited for the humiliation to pass and the conversation to move onto other topics. I was too embarrassed to admit why it was that I thought girl’s voices were supposed to change too. The truth was, it was because of an episode of the Brady Bunch.
Good, wholesome television that it was, the Brady Bunch was chock full of episodes featuring the hazards of growing up. The one I kept remembering was when Peter, the middle boy’s voice was changing, with its cracking and warbling and how embarrassing the whole situation was to him. For whatever reason it stuck in my mind, and I thought for years that the same thing would happen to me. The fact that I was girl, and Peter was a boy did not really occur to me. I just knew that he was growing up and so was I.
It bothered me the rest of the day. It was the first time I remember television failing me. Something I watched led me wrongly. It was almost like a betrayal of sorts. I guess part of me had been looking forward to it and I was strangely disappointed. I was slowly getting into that awkward phase before middle school and I was tired of being just a kid. The voice-changing seemed like such a clear cut way to prove I was a grown-up and ready to move up in life, so when I found out it wasn’t going to happen, I felt misguided. Growing up is hard enough and having the wrong information only adds to the confusion.
. It wasn’t until later in life that I realized television back then didn’t like to show the struggles girls went through growing up. Boys’ voices cracking were funny and cute while everything else was taboo. It was like a secret, one that the world wouldn’t tell me. It was then I started to realize that boys and girls were viewed differently by the rest of the world, and once I learned this, it was something I would never forget.
“What did you do in school today, Honey?” my mother asked me as I came home after school that day. “Did you learn anything?”
I thought about this as I dumped my backpack on the kitchen table and bent to give our dog, Blizzard a scratch on the head.
“No, not really,” I said, not looking at her, the first of the lies I would begin to tell my mother.

[Thursday]

Dear running path,

It’s been a while since we’ve met.
I’m sorry; I’ve been busy.

I miss those mornings at the break of dawn,
Just you and me in perfect rhythm,

My shoes laced tight,
Gravel crunching beneath my feet,

The wind blowing through my hair,
The next curve out of sight.

Easy was never how you played your game,
Each run a challenge,
Each finish a dream.

Now I know you haven’t been alone.
If I’m not there you must move on.

I see them there,
The joggers and walkers.

I envy their easy steps,
Then sigh because I miss you.

Running path, I ran away from you.
But now I’m ready. Can I come home?

Love,
Kaitlin

[Thursday]

Insomnia
What keeps you up at night when all the world’s asleep?
The lights outside my window,
The noises from upstairs,

A persistent beeping car,
Some party down the street,

The pillow that’s a little lumpy,
The hot socks on my feet,

The scary grumbles that a house makes
after everyone’s asleep,

But most of all the worry,
of what the morning brings.

[Thursday]

Waiting for a Storm

A low rumble in the distance
The smell of iron in the air
A cool breeze lifts my hair
My head tilts towards the sky

The smell of iron in the air
My heart beats faster
My head tilts towards the sky
Thunder booms and Lightning strikes

My heart beats faster
Yet rain will not fall
Thunder booms and Lightning strikes
A torrent builds a world away

A cool breeze lifts my hair
A low rumble in the distance
A torrent builds a world away
Yet rain will not fall

[Thursday]

The Forgetting Place
The house on the corner of Adams and 3rd Street was huge. It was the kind of place that belonged in a book rather than the reality of my small Texas town. I gazed up at it from the backseat of my mom’s car, dreading the moment she would finish her phone call and come to walk me up those creaky steps to the front door.
“Now, John, you know Tuesday won’t work. I’ve got class and the girls are in school. Maybe Friday will work.” She stopped talking as the mysterious John replied.
“Well, I suppose that will be alright. I’ve got to go. I’m dropping Claire off at Mary-Sue’s. Okay, talk to you later,” she finished. I could see her rolling her eyes in the rear view mirror.
She closed the phone. It was one of those prehistoric cell phones that looked like nothing else in the world but a brick.
“Okay, sweetie,” she said turning around to face me. “You ready?”
“Do I have to go today? Can’t I just go with you?”
Her lips narrowed into a thin line, eyebrows raised. “I’m sorry, Claire, but I have to go run some errands. You’ll have fun with Aunt Mary.” Ever since the divorce, Mom always seemed to have “errands.”
The big white house belonged to Aunt Mary. She wasn’t really my aunt. She was my mom’s and pretty much the oldest person I had ever seen. Every Wednesday while my sisters were in dance class, I came here. My mom had tried to put me in the dance class too, but after one day spent bawling my head off and refusing to put on my ballet shoes, she decided that maybe dance wasn’t my thing after all. She was right.
Mom hurried out of the car and grabbed my backpack and me and started up the steps, assuming I would follow. I did. I pushed the doorbell and got ready to wait. Aunt Mary wasn’t very quick on her feet. An eon later, she came and opened the door.
“Hey there, Aunt Mary!” my mom said brightly kissing her on her withered cheek and handing over my backpack. “Here’s Claire. I’ll be back in a few hours. Have fun, Sweetie!” She bent and kissed my head and discreetly gave me a little shove towards the door before hurrying back down the steps to her car and her errands.
“Come on in, Claire. I’ve got a snack for you in the kitchen,” Aunt Mary said smiling down at me. I followed her inside the dark house without speaking. Aunt Mary only used the rooms at the back and so the rest of the house was always dark and quiet with antique furniture that looked too delicate to be sat on and glass cases of dolls that stared blankly at us as we passed. It scared me a little.
The thing wasn’t that I didn’t like Aunt Mary. She was like a second grandmother to me but older. She always smelled like lavender water and green things from the hours she spent in her garden and baked like it was going out of style. What I didn’t like about Wednesday afternoons was the boredom. Aunt Mary didn’t have cable, all the toys she kept were older than my mom, and besides the wide back porch and the kitchen, the rest of the house was off limits. Today she set me on the porch with my glass of milk and crayons, instructing me to amuse myself while she finished up some weeding outside.
I did as I was told for a while, but I was young and curious, so it wasn’t long before I abandoned my milk and coloring and set off to discover the mysteries of the big white house. Or at least find something to do. The cavernous living room was dark and cool and felt nice compared to the hot porch. Finally, I came to a door along the far wall and opened it with no hesitation.
I was surprised to find a music room, for Aunt Mary never talked about music. There was an old stand-up piano along one wall, some yellowed sheet music resting on top. I approached it soundlessly running my small hand along the cover. A cloud of dust rose up surrounding me. I coughed.
“Claire!” an angry voice called nearby. I jumped. I knew I wasn’t supposed to be here. Aunt Mary came storming into the room a few seconds later, and I was caught like a deer in the headlights. “Claire Blackwell! You know you aren’t supposed to be back here!” Her voice was like I had never heard it before, sharp and loud. I shrank back, hiding my dusty hand behind my back.
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “I-“
“There are no excuses. You-,” she stopped suddenly and I looked up in surprise. She was staring at the piano like she had seen a ghost.
“What’s wrong, Aunt Mary?” I asked my voice still timid and wary of more yelling.
“That was my husband’s piano. I don’t believe I’ve even seen it in years. Only the maid comes in here. I do believe I had forgotten about it.”
“Uncle Roger played piano?” I asked curiously. He had died before I was born.
“We both did. We used to play duets in the evening after supper.” She said almost absently as she walked over and sat at the bench. She opened the lid and ran a bony hand across the keys, inaudible music escaping.
“Will you play for me?” I asked. Her back stiffened but then Aunt Mary sighed.
“Come here child,” she sat and patted the bench beside her. I climbed up and got as close to her as I dared. Aunt Mary clenched both hands tightly and then hesitantly set her hands and began to play. The piano was out of tune, warped by weather and neglect, but I don’t remember ever hearing something as beautiful as when Aunt Mary played that day. As I sat there watching her hands flying over the keys, I thought, well dance isn’t the thing for me, but maybe music is.

[Thursday]

Pointless Arguments
“Do you ever want to run away?”
“Of course not. I like it here. I’ll stay.”
“Don’t you get tired every once in a while?”
“Not really. It’s just not my style.”
“Wouldn’t you like to forget your worries?”
“Maybe, but I’ve got a lot to do. Please hurry.”
“Can’t you throw caution to the wind?”
“I’m not like you. It feels like a sin.”
“I just wanted you to go with me.”
“Away with you? Oh, now I see.”
“You do?”
“I love you too.”

[Thursday]

A Recipe for Disaster
(Use Cautiously)

First, imagine the worst possible scenario
Then multiply times 10,

Combine with some terrible luck
Which can be found on my doorstep 24/7,

Check the cupboards for some misery (there’s always some lying around)
Sprinkle as desired,

Let’s toss in some weather just for flair
A hurricane or fire will go quite nice,

Next, mix it all together and what do you get?
My life.

[Thursday]

Don’t Look Under the Bed
The trunk beneath my bed
Is open just a crack
And I just can’t resist
Seeing what’s inside

A memory escapes
A million more remaining
So I take the time
To see what was forgotten

A blanket for a baby,
Soft and yellowed with age

A drawing of a duck,
Colored proudly just inside the lines

Report cards and research papers,
All emblazoned with red A’s

A garter from Gretna Green,
Lost for several years

Photos from a life time,
People captured in a moment

So many things forgotten
Just waiting to be found
These memories are mine I know
But looking at them now,

I feel like the stranger.