grimmwritings

[grimmwritings]

The Church Grim

February 12, 2019

I stood in the church graveyard, no idea how I got there. I remembered my house, I was off for the day. My daughter was at school and my husband at work. I watched television from the kitchen, nothing exciting, some crime show they ran during the day to keep old ladies occupied in their retirement. I made my lunch, a simple sandwich with chips on the side. A glass of milk to drink, I added a little of my daughter’s chocolate syrup that she used in her coffee. I thought she would never know.

It was dark. I was cold. Those were the first things I noticed, as cliche as it sounds. I knew where I was, of course. The Stirling town church courtyard, I went there my whole life. I spent my life in that small church, I walked my first steps down those stained carpet ailes. The church was old, older than most. The townspeople built it in the 19th century, all came together for the sole purpose of building a place anyone could go if they needed help. It was pretty much the only thing our town had. A Dollar General. A Dairy Queen. A library. And that church.

I looked down to see a black dog standing in church courtyard. I almost didn’t notice him against the dark grass. He was big, but he wasn’t frightening. He panted and looked up at me, sat right in front of my feet. I asked who he belonged to, looked for a collar. He didn’t have one. I asked him if he knew how I got there, and he nodded his downward, just once. And suddenly I felt calm. It all made sense.

My ancestors helped found the town, they wrote stories; the first person buried in the graveyard was doomed to never cross over, they were supposed to help the others to the other side. They protected the graveyard from evil spirits, some people even said the devil himself. Nobody wanted that responsibility for their loved ones, so they buried a dog. A big, black dog, and he was supposed to guide lost spirits and protect them. He rose to his feet, and I followed. I smiled as he lead me away, it had been a long time since I had felt that safe.

***

I saw a doggie. He was big. I had a dog at home, so I wasn’t scared. My dog’s name was Macy, she liked to lick the food off my fingers after dinner. Momma let me eat in bed sometimes, she let me do it a lot when I was sick. Macy climbed into my bed, and when I was really little Momma would yell at her, but Momma pretended like she didn’t see Macy when I got sick. Momma always looked really sad when I was sick. Macy would lick Momma’s face and Momma would smile. She didn’t do that a lot when I got sick. Macy was a good doggie. The big doggie looked good. It let me pet his head, I was gentle. Momma said I had to be gentle when I pet doggies on the head, because sometimes they didn’t like it. That doggie was nice though, it let me pet it on the head. It even licked my finger! It licked me just like Macy.

Momma and I drove to the church every Sunday. We visited Grandma in the field out back. That’s where I was, that field. I liked the flowers, the yellow and white petals fell around the stones in the ground in the summer. Momma always said God made it pretty for the people who had to cross over. Momma said Grandma crossed over in the church field.

I was in a bed with Macy, but it wasn’t my bed. Momma said we were at the hospital. She said they were gonna make me better. Momma said Macy couldn’t come, even though I asked her real nice. Momma said Macy had to protect the house while we were gone, but she was cryin’ so it was real hard to hear her.

The big doggie put his nose to my hand. I think it wanted me to pet him again. I pet his head and he jumped up on me to lick my face. I laughed real loud. Momma said it was okay to use your outside voice as long as you were outside. The doggie tried to lick my ears, but they were ticklish so I pulled away a little. The doggie got off me and ran around me in circles for a little bit. It bit at the sleeve of my jacket and tugged. It pulled real hard, but he didn’t growl so he wasn’t angry. It pulled again, so I followed the doggie. It was a good doggie.

***

I was relieved. I was tired of being sick. My daughter, bless her heart, took care of me for so long. She brought my grandson, little William. He was twelve, and loved baseball. My daughter hoped that would get him into a good college, get him to a bigger city where he could have a real career. She loved growing up in the town, she told me many times, but there were only so many jobs there. I wanted William to grow up somewhere he could be successful, even if that meant leaving. My daughter thought about leaving for a while as well, somewhere closer to a city, but her husband refused. He worked for the church, maintained it and such. He was a good man, just stubborn. They would be alright, they were ready for me to go.

I was so tired, but I wasn’t in any pain. That was my first clue. My bones had ached for so long, the absence felt strange. I looked behind me and saw the dusty, white steeple of the church. I hadn’t been able to go in years. Jason, the pastor, had been coming to visit me on Sunday afternoons, ever since I couldn’t drive myself. He was a very kind man, he visited anyone who couldn’t make it to the service.

A dog came to sit at my feet. I looked down at him and smiled. I loved dogs. He was a good dog, I could tell. He opened his mouth and it seemed to stretch into a gentle smile. I knew exactly who he was and why I was there. He had been there for centuries, guiding those who were so lost, so confused.

“I know where I am. You don’t have to guide me,” I explained to him in an voice that no longer wavered. He squinted his eyes and panted, happily. “You knew that. Thank you. I never liked to be alone.” I smiled down at him and he finally got to his feet.

I was ready to go. I followed the dog as he padded away from the headstones. He lead me into the woods behind the church. I liked those woods, they looked so beautiful during the day. At night moonlight streamed through the branches onto the ground. It was a good path to follow.

***

My father married some hodunk woman from Stirling, and decided some time in a small town would make me a better son. He made me pack up all my shit, leave behind all my friends, and move somewhere where the biggest attraction was the fucking Dairy Queen. I started Sophomore year of high school with a graduating class of 50 people. Small town kids were always annoying, but nothing was more annoying than the same annoying small town kids, day after day. I studied hard and managed to get into a school far away from Stirling, a relatively big city. I graduated and never looked back, never came to visit my dad or stepmom.

That damn church. I moved away from that church years ago, moved away from Stirling years ago. I didn’t remember how I got to that church again. I stood in that graveyard I had spent my life trying to get away from. My stepmom begged me not to leave, but Stirling suffocated me. I’ve never felt anger crackle like lightning through my body more than when I lived in Stirling. Everyday was an exercise in self-restraint, trying not to lash out at people I knew weren’t trying to anger me. The people in Stirling didn’t know any better, they’d always lived there. I was forced to move there.

I looked down to see a big dog, he was huge. His fur was darker than any dog I had ever seen before. His eyes were dark black, but they shone the reflection of moon. He sat in front of me, calm. I didn’t remember him walking up to me, he just appeared. I missed dogs, that was the one thing I hated about bigger cities, there was no room for pets. My stepmom was afraid of them, so we never got to have one in Stirling either. The kids in Stirling told this old story over and over about the church, about the black dog that helped spirits cross over.

The dog nudged at my hand. I smiled for the first time in a long time. I kneeled down and scratched behind his ears, ruffled the fur on his neck. I hated Stirling, but I knew it was time to go somewhere else. I stood and the dog trotted away from the graveyard. I followed.

***

Ella Mae looked beautiful in white. When they opened the doors, the light from the stained-glass window coated her in the light of heaven. She stood in the doorway and I felt all at once that I had met an angel, managed to trick one into loving me. It was the happiest day of my life, our wedding. I turned back to look at her, and she smiled at me. My heart stopped, for just a moment I was afraid it wasn’t real. She walked towards me and the colors shifted along her dress. I carried her into our home in Stirling. We were happy.

I stood in the graveyard next to the church. I didn’t remember how I got there. I loved that church. I made my best memory in that church, the stain glass tinted my memories in hues of bright color. I saw that window, reflecting colorful sunlight onto the grass behind it. I grew up in a nearby town, maybe 45 minutes from Stirling. Ella Mae grew up in Stirling, that’s how I grew to love the place. Ella Mae lived her life in that church, wanted her children to grow up there just like she did. The little graveyard out back was beautiful, the headstones were softly nestled into the grass surrounded by gentle wildflowers. I hated to think I might have crushed one.

A black dog padded through the wildflowers in the graveyard. His tongue hung out of his mouth, it was bright pink against the rest of him. He was so stark against the bright colors of the field. He sat in front of me, tail wagging. I smiled and laughed, Ella Mae had told me the local legend that went around the schools when she was a kid. The black dog that protected the graveyard, apparently he was the first preacher’s dog. He looked so kind, but I didn’t want to go.

“I can’t go yet. My wife is alone, she’ll be so sad. We don’t have any kids, she wanted them so bad. She’ll be all alone in that big house,” I said to the dog, smile fading from my face. His tail stopped wagging, and he made a high-pitched whine, laying down on my feet. I chuckled, resigned. “I don’t have a choice, do I? You can’t do anything to take me back, you’re here just like me.” I leaned down to pet his soft ears. “What a brave boy. I’m not ready, but I’ll follow you anyway.”

The dog licked at my hand and stood. He tugged at the hem of my jacket and I relented. He walked towards the forest behind the graveyard, and I followed.

***

I sat on the church’s front porch, rocking back in forth on the chair that had been there long before I was born. My wife, Heather, always said old rocking chair were better than new ones, even if they were made with better material; I’d always had my doubts, but maybe she had a point. I set my stained coffee cup on the wooden table next to the chair. Being a preacher was rewarding, but it was nights like those that made me fall in love with my job. Fall was well underway, so I was comfortable sitting outside as long as I had a light jacket and a cup of coffee. I heard the crickets chirping in the fields around the church, and brought out my worn bible to plan the sermon for next week. Until I heard the soft padding of paws coming towards me. I looked up with a smile to see a large, black dog sitting in front of the rocking chair.

“Hello, there. I haven’t seen you in a while. Have you been busy? I know I have. Lots of funerals around here lately,” I commented, setting my bookmark back into the worn bible and set it next to my coffee.

I held out my hand towards him, and he put his head closer to me so I could pet the soft, thick fur on his neck. After a few minutes, I drew my hand back and Grim moved to the side of my chair to lay down. I picked my bible up again, rocking back and forth, planning the next service to the soft snores of the ancient guardian next to me.

#originalwriting

[grimmwritings]

Unsatisfied

March 18, 2019

People always described you as dedicated and goal-oriented. It was a nice way of saying that you got an idea stuck in your head and wouldn’t let it go until you got what you wanted. That’s why you were always sure, one day, that you would find out what was behind the government fence. Sure, officially, they said it was the last area still tainted by radiation, but you always thought they were hiding something more.

Strict warnings hung from a twelve-foot chain link barrier. You grew up about a mile from the fence, the warm tones of sunrise on winter mornings was actually kind of pretty against the rusted metal. You drove next to it on your way to high school every day. That’s how your parents got the house so cheap, with a beautiful pale blue exterior and a slight chance of certain death by poisoning. They told you that as long as you were outside the fence, you should have been safe. But, places were always less expensive the closer they were to the fence.

They said the land inside the fence was the last area contaminated by the radiation and the resulting mutated creatures. No grass padded the strangely dry and cracked soil. But you always thought there was something more disturbing than some deer with six eyes lurking inside the fence. You always said it looked duller inside the fence, as if the world became something else once you crossed the threshold. The red soil faded to some sort of dark brown and no flowers ever grew inside the fence, but you always thought even the sky looked different beyond the boundary. It didn’t freak you out at the time, the fence was something you were born and raised with. The bikes, summer pool parties, ball games in the street, and the towering fence of conspicuous government secrecy. A normal childhood. It was something nobody ever talked about.

You were eighteen when you moved into your shitty apartment a few cities away. You and your friends from high school moved in together, you all knew it was smarter for you to get a job right away rather than mess with the systems of higher education. You found work in a factory that assembled computer monitors; fourteen dollars an hour was nothing to scoff at from your point of view. Your stained off-white walls showed too many cracks from previous tenants that you couldn’t hide with posters. The stove in the kitchen was crusted with all sorts of mystery food the management hadn’t bothered to clean up and the doors to the cabinets were only held by one delicate brass hinge, but it was yours until you could get your shit together.

You still lived right next to the fence. You were closer than ever before, practically able to smell what was going as you sat in bed. If only you knew how to place the scent. Cooking meat? Hot metal? Gasoline? Old fabric and faint detergent? No. You grew fascinated with it. The dull hues of the world beyond begged you to stare farther than possible and learn something you could never unlearn. The cracks in your window pane diluted the beautiful view and you opened your rotted window, waiting for something to wander into your view. You ate your lunch under the thin shadows of barbed wire and warning signs. You could smell rust as you took a bite of tuna salad on crackers. Salt and rust. You brought it up in conversation more and more. Your friends started to keep their distance to avoid talking about it. You could tell they were worried, but they didn’t bring it up. But you felt a pull in your chest and an empty space you never noticed before. The closer you went to the fence, the heavier the air grew. The darkness beyond the fence had weight, it had substance, and it was the first thing you noticed that filled the empty space inside of you. The real world outside the fence ceased to feel so real.

Your work switched from being a decent paying job to something that kept you from your real desires. Time ticked slowly on as you stared at mixes of green, yellow, and silver. Circuit board. Wires. Solder. The land beyond the fence. Your roommates went from family to interruptions. They should have known they needed permission to enter your room. You knew something was changing, and you would have said for the worst, but you couldn’t help yourself. The food you ate no longer tasted like anything. Sawdust would have tasted better, as long as it was in your mouth when you crossed over. Television seemed empty of anything real. Who cares about this celebrity or the next or the next? You were the only one around you who seemed to actually be awake. You stopped texting your brother.

You knew at some point you would have to climb the fence. There was no way you could have just dropped it and lived your life. An obsession does not fade away, it consumes until there is nothing left. It sinks its teeth into your flesh and does not unsnap its clenched jaw until it is certain you are dead and red juice drips from your meat to the ground. It was with this knowledge that you put on your heavy coat and boots, several pairs of socks shoved onto your feet. As if you were going on a mountain hike. That was what you told everyone anyway. You couldn’t risk them trying to stop you. This was something you couldn’t let them taint. Not this. You didn’t pack any food, everyone knew it attracted the weird animals. As much as you wanted to see what the fence really hid, you weren’t eager to die before you could see it. All you had was one water bottle and an insane motivation to satiate your ravenous hunger for knowledge of what laid beyond the fence.

It turned out barbed wire wasn’t that hard to cross if you came prepared. All you had to do was lay your heavy coat across it and hop over. Really, it was easier than you thought. You dropped down to the dead earth with a shock to your knees. You hissed on instinct, breath visible in the night desert air, but quickly abandoned the thoughts of your own well-being. You took a deep breath and a smile graced your face for the first time in a long time.

This was what you needed. After this, you could go back to living your life. You could go back to normal. You could reconnect with your roommates, spend more time with your family, and dedicate yourself to doing well at work. All you had to do was satisfy the parasite in your brain named ‘dedicated and goal-oriented’ and everything would be fine. It was simple. Easy.

You took a few steps forward. The wind left your cheeks red and your nose started to run, but you never felt better. The empty space inside of you started to fill, like a dusty canteen with water. You felt the cold sting your fingers, but curiosity drove you.

It was then that you saw the headlights. Your breath stilled. Your heart slowed. You felt cold sweat run down your spine, to your aching knees, and eventually your cold toes. You didn’t know how long you stood like a startled squirrel. You only remembered the soft rumble of the ATV’s engine. It was strangely more soothing than silence. The person in the government black motorcycle helmet stopped gracefully twenty feet in front of you. You saw them press a button on the side of their helmet, and they began to speak into their radio.

“I need backup in section 24G, I have someone who climbed the fence and needs to be escorted back across,” they said before removing their helmet. A man with a well-groomed beard spoke to you in a calm, authoritative voice. “You have crossed into a restricted area. Some people will be here soon to help you cross back over. No formal punishment will be put in place, but you won’t be able to legally live less than 100 miles from the boundary for your own safety.”

His words hit you like the whipping wind, while your own remained trapped in your throat. A prisoner of sheer shock. You couldn’t move away from the fence. It would ruin your life if you never got to find out what secrets they had been taunting you with. They couldn’t keep you away. It would ruin your life, your work, your relationships, everything. They just couldn’t.

And yet, they did.

#originalwriting

[grimmwritings]

Ikea Furniture

February 8, 2019

“There’s no way this is right,” Aunt Katie said, holding the creased instructions. At least three other women looked over her shoulder to see. My Mom leaned over the stained, olive green couch and grabbed at the instructions to take them out of her hands. I sighed and walked over to sit next to my sister on the other couch across the room as I realized I was too short to contend with the mob of aunts and cousins.

“No, it is. These two pieces fit together. See?” Uncle Nico held up two of the wooden slats for his wife to see. The rest of the men kneeled on the questionably beige carpet. Some gestured for Nico to pass the two slats over to them for inspection. My younger cousin, Logan, stood over my father’s shoulder trying to help, in whatever way a ten-year-old thinks he can.

“I don’t see why we can’t look it up on YouTube.” My younger sister, Cassidy, twisted the end of her braid and scrolled through her Instagram feed.

“Do you really think that will help?” I asked, scoffing at the ridiculous number of family members in one room. “We have the actual directions and nothing is getting done. Dad isn’t going to believe someone online can build it better than him.”

“Jo! Go get the mallet out of Aunt Maggie’s garage!” My brother, Nathan, yelled from across the room. I could hear him scratching the dry skin under his beard. He never moisturized like his wife told him to.

“But of course, my liege. May I also have the pleasure of fetching you a cool beverage?” I asked him and heard Cassidy snicker next to me. Nathan flipped me off, after checking to make sure Logan wasn’t looking. Uncle Nico slapped him in the back of head, touching the greasy hair I knew he hadn’t washed in at least three days. Neither Nathan or Uncle Nico looked like they regretted it. My mother laughed, trying to hide it from Aunt Katie by sipping from her cloudy glass of wine.

I left the living room and passed through the half-finished kitchen where Nanny cradled a mug of tea, talking to Aunt Maggie. Nanny was giving Aunt Maggie pregnancy tips she obviously wasn’t listening to. Poppa sat on the opposite end of the glass dining table, secretly feeding the dogs scraps from the dinner plates everyone had forgotten to clean up.

“Jo, how are things going in there?” Aunt Maggie asked, desperate for a way out of the conversation.

“Nathan told me to get the mallet from your garage. Is there anything you want me to grab while I’m out there?” I asked.

“Oh, Joanne, could you grab the formula I brought over? I want to go ahead stock Maggie’s kitchen.” Nanny asked.

“Of course. I’ll be back in a minute.” I said, opening the door to the garage.

The garage air was thick with humidity, but wasn’t any hotter than the packed living room. The shelves spilled pieces from old play sets and packaged food Aunt Maggie bought in bulk with coupons. One rack held tools she owned, but wouldn’t ever use on her own. I lifted the small mallet from its place and tapped the heavy end against my leg. I walked over to the hand-me-down fridge and opened it to try and find the formula. My phone buzzed in the back pocket of my jeans, I pulled it out to answer the call with my free hand.

“Hey, Jo. Mom wants you to check to see if she left her phone out in the garage while you’re out there.” Cassidy said.

“Yeah, I’ll look. Can you ask Nanny where she left the formula? I don’t see it in the fridge.” I moved expired foods around with the mallet, trying to locate the baby yellow packaging.

“Hey Nanny! Jo wants to know where you left the formula in the garage!” Cassidy yelled into the kitchen instead of walking over. I glanced around looking for my mom’s phone. Someone was probably sitting on it in the living room. I heard the faint mumble of

Nanny’s answer through Cassidy’s phone, as well as the ever-growing confusion surrounding the crib. “She says she left it on the counter next to the dish soap.”

“Oh, okay. I see it. Tell Mom her phone isn’t in here. Any progress?” I said, reaching to grab the box next to the dish soap and some older sports drinks.

“Absolutely not. Right now there’s more drinking than building.” She laughed, voice tinny through the phone. I heard the offended cries of the adults in the living room.

“I swear, if they would all leave the room and leave me with the pieces and the instructions, I could finish it in half an hour.” I held the phone to my ear with my shoulder, the formula and the mallet in my hands. “Gay women are the Ikea masters.” I tried to open the door while balancing the mallet in the crook of my elbow and waited for Cassidy to respond.

“Jo?” Cassidy sounded quieter than usual. “You were on speaker.” The words hit my ears slower than she said them. I stopped in my tracks. All I heard through the phone was stiff silence.

“Oh.” I took a deep breath, and finally opened the door. I kicked it shut and the click was the loudest sound in the house. I set the formula on the kitchen counter. Aunt Maggie, Nanny, and Poppa all stared holes into my shoulder blades. I turned and walked with shoulders pulled back into the living room. Everyone swiveled their heads to look at me at once, save Logan who didn’t know what was going on. I set the mallet down next to Nathan. “Y’all can keep looking at me all you want, I’m not going to take it back. I know for a fact I could finish this crib faster than all of you put together.”

#originalwriting

[grimmwritings]

Walking Under Asteria

January 24, 2019

Her favorite things in life were the stars, and she always loved Paris, ever since she took that trip abroad her junior year of college. I suppose that’s how I found myself pacing the pavement of Paris well after midnight, though I didn’t particularly care for the city or the stars. Well… I didn’t before I met her. It wasn’t even nice outside, it had just rained and I was shivering as the wind gnawed and nipped at the skin on my face. Paris doesn’t feel so romantic when you’re constantly sniffling so snot won’t run down your face. I was lost, too. The brilliant blue light of my phone’s GPS made the soft yellow of the street lamps look dingy and dull. The dirty sedans lined up along the eerily empty streets certainly didn’t help the atmosphere, but I suppose I was willing to put up with substantial circumstances to feel some sort of connection to her. Was I desperate? Definitely. Was I hell-bent on going anyway? Beyond a doubt.

My feet toddled in rain boots that were a tad too small for me, I had fished them out for the first time since college. I was short one sole. She would have hated that, always so precise and particular about what she put on. It drove her crazy that I never cared, as long as my body never had to battle the bitter cold. Though, I suppose she always had my hands to heat hers. Gloves replaced her warmth on the walk to see the stars she sewed into everything she designed. I licked my lips, all too aware that I had chewed through my chapstick ten minutes into my journey.

It’s difficult to get directions to a place that doesn’t really deserve an address. A purposeless pier over a pitiful pond isn’t noteable to many people, save her. I heard about that pier nonstop, fantastic phone calls about how her favorite place in the world was France, but this was her find. She told me about the stars, how they glistened and gleamed for her gaze alone. The laughs she let out and lilt of her voice lead me to love those luminous little spots of light, if only because she lived for them. Those dots demanded to be doted upon and she delivered in drastic odes. The two of them twisted together, twins, Asteria and her stars, one and the same.

I grumbled through grass, wondering if she had made the same aggravating trek. Were her feet seeded in the same spots as mine? Did she deign to focus her mind on this meager meadow? It seemed too regular for her to ever have set foot on real estate that didn’t run a red carpet for her. She probably hurt a high-end pair of heels hiking here. I guess she figured this field was worth it. She always loved to romanticize the runts. She loved pressed peonies, polaroid pictures, and posh party gowns. She loved saving the small stuff from big events, she saved our prom stubs from when we swayed together senior year. She pinned the stars into her hair that night. I was always so small next to her, a mere mortal meandering behind a marvel, a everyday entity in company with her extravagance. I suppose that’s why I thought she might be able to love me.

I came to recognize the place from her photos, a small pond surrounded by struggling black eyed susans and filled with slick seaweed. Someone had arranged a few rocks to rest on, what Asteria had referred to as the pier. It felt like I walked into a place of power, because she portrayed it as one. I sat on the slapdash stones and laced my legs together, hearing the splitting squeak of my rain boots against one another. The reflection of the stars rebounded off the still surface of the pond. At last, I looked up.

The place was kind of shitty. The butt of my jeans were damp and cold from the slimy rock pier. My toes had gone numb twenty minutes into my walk, despite the thick socks I had put on for just that reason. You could see the stars, but they were few and far between and boring to look at. She was always the one who romanticized things, I was always the one to keep her on the ground. Maybe that’s why I was bored out of my mind after three minutes. Maybe that’s why she left. I went to France to find a piece of her, and that was stupid. I should have known that place wouldn’t mean anything to me without her there; whenever she took me stargazing I never actually looked higher than her face. I guess I did some romanticizing of my own.

#originalwriting

[grimmwritings]

Girls Take Care of Each Other

January 18, 2019

It’s not like I broke his nose. He was fine, maybe some bruising. It was like he got a little nosebleed. I crossed my arms, pulling the hood of my sweatshirt farther over my face.

Who decided mustard yellow linoleum was an appropriate flooring for any setting? The way the fluorescent lights reflected off of the tile made me wanna puke. The chair I sat in wasn't much better, the school board had definitely picked it in the 90s. I could hear the secretary typing on her keyboard that was way too loud for it to be from within the past ten years.

The doors at the school always opened loud and slammed shut with the same supersonic force. That’s how I knew it was the beginning of the end; that heavy door opened and my father walked in. I felt the air compress my heart to half its original size as he ignored me in favor of the secretary. His suit jacket hung from his arm and his dress shirt rolled up to his forearms, his skin poured out angry sweat. He gave his name to the secretary and she picked up the phone.

“Mr. Greene, Mr. Swanson is here with Sarah. They’re ready whenever you are,” she paused for the principal to answer. “Alright, I’ll send them in, Mr. Greene.” She hung up the phone and spoke to my father. “He’s just through that door on the right. It’s got his name on it,” she explained.

I stood and followed my father at a distance, hoping he might forget he had a daughter at all. I entered the door to the principal’s office and took a seat in the chair on the left, a carbon copy of the one in the waiting room. I wondered if I puked on the tile if it would be the same color as the floor. Mr. Greene cleared his throat and organized the papers on his fake mahogany desk. Mr. Greene looked like any school principal: a middle aged white man who was starting to lose his hair and trying to make up for it with a salt and pepper beard.

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Swanson. I appreciate you leaving work to help resolve this matter,” Mr. Greene said. “I’m sorry to tell you, but Sarah has assaulted another student at this school,” Mr. Greene began, “The family of Andrew Markham has decided not to press charges as long as the damage isn’t too serious. We do, however, need to discuss possible punishments for Sarah.”

I clenched my hand that I had been hiding in the sleeve of my sweatshirt. It was raw on the knuckles and hurt where it was scraping against the fabric, but even that was better than my father seeing it. I felt the shame gather in my knuckles, different than when it usually gathered in the tips of my ears. My father looked at me, brows furrowed and eyes mixed with disappointment and anger. I resigned myself to this tile floor being the last thing I ever saw.

“What happened?” My father asked the principal. I knew he wouldn’t ask me. He didn’t trust me to tell the truth.

“From what I’ve heard from other students, she hit him in the nose after getting annoyed with his whistling.” Mr. Greene stared at me accusingly.

“That’s not what happened,” I interrupted, knowing it wouldn’t matter.

“I don’t want to hear it,” my father snapped at me.

The rest of the meeting went on and they discussed how many days I was suspended for. I had to write a formal apology to Andrew. I would be in detention for several weeks after I returned to school and banned from social activities. Then we left. I got in my father’s car without a word, the seatbelt hot to the touch and it’s click deafening. We began our drive home in silence. The only sound was the air conditioner trying to fight the summer heat.

“I didn’t punch him because I was annoyed,” I finally tried to explain.

“Don’t. Just … don’t, Sarah. I had to leave work to come get you, only to find out my daughter is well on her way to being a delinquent. You’re very lucky his family didn’t decide to press charges,” He scolded me, looking at the road to avoid looking at me.

“Every girl at school hates him. This poor girl was just trying to eat lunch. She’s so shy, she never speaks in class. She was eating a banana when he whistled at her. She ran off and I saw tears in her eyes. She was so embarrassed. I couldn’t take it anymore!” I hurriedly explained so he wouldn’t stop me again.

“He’s just a stupid boy, Sarah. You’ll have to deal with them all your life. Just ignore him. You had no excuse to assault him!” He shot back quickly.

“He needed to learn that he can’t just keep getting away with whatever he wants! Boys don’t get a free pass just because they’re boys!” I yelled, frustrated.

“Boys don’t get a free pass. You need to stop being so sensitive and learn to deal with your problems like an adult.”

“I’m not sensitive, he was being an asshole. He was tormenting that poor girl. Somebody had to do something.”

“Tormenting, Sarah, really? I would hardly say whistling at a girl counts as torment.” He gripped the steering wheel tighter.

“Girls deal with enough sexual shit everyday without assholes like Andrew making them uncomfortable in a place where they’re required to go to get their education!” I yelled at the brick wall that was my father. “You just don’t understand because you’re a man. You never had to deal with everything that girls go through.”

“Really? I don’t understand at all? I’m a husband and a father, and I don’t get it?” He asked, disbelieving.

“No. You don’t. And you know what? I don’t regret punching Andrew. Maybe now he’ll leave the girls at school alone. And if he never messes with at least that one girl ever again, I’ll have made enough of a difference. Nobody even talked about punishing Andrew for making that girl cry. Girls have to take care of one another. God knows the men in our lives never will.”

#originalwriting

[grimmwritings]

An Essay on the Effectiveness and Possible Applications of Social Punishment in Public High Schools

April 16, 2018

High school punishments and incentives are ineffective. Freakonomics by Steven Levitt and Stephen J. Dubner introduce three kinds of incentives: economic, moral, and social. High schoolers are barely making minimum wage on top of a seven hour school day; an economic or financial punishment just can’t work like it does for the blue collar workplace. Students under eighteen barely have a view of “right” and “wrong”; moral punishments mean nothing to them yet. We need to punish high schoolers the same way they seek validation: socially.

Economic punishments work wonders in middle class places of business. If you do something wrong at work, you don’t get paid or you’re forced to take time off. Detention doesn’t seem like an economic punishment until you consider the phrase every boss on television utters at some point: “Time is Money”. Detention forces students to either stay after school or come in on a Saturday. Most students that work either start their shift right after school or work through the weekends. If a student can’t make it to work because of detention, it becomes a financial issue. High schoolers and their parents make different levels of income, and an economic punishment means little to students that don’t have to work because their parents make enough money. Detention therefore punishes the poor more than the rich, punishes the students that take responsibility, and punishes students that have to work to support their family. Just because you cheated on a test doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be able to eat tonight.

Moral punishments are mostly self-inflicted in the adult world. In-school suspension (ISS) is a consequence where students come to school and do school work, but are isolated and forced to “think about what they’ve done”. High schoolers are still developing their moral standards, and still considering what is “right” and “wrong”. If you punch a bully to protect a friend, is that right or wrong? Administration clearly says “wrong”, but the student may never feel guilt over what they’ve done. They’ve done something right in their eyes, they’ve protected a friend. Students have justifications for what they’ve done; that’s why they did it in the first place. The student regrets getting caught, not breaking the rules. ISS isn’t that bad to a high schooler because their moral guidelines are just that: guidelines. If you put a student in ISS for an immoral action, you only make yourself the unjust villain in the student’s mind.

Social punishments such as shame, embarrassment, and ridicule are how high schoolers punish one another, so it’s time schools learn to use that. Of course, detention and ISS can be effective punishment at times, but only because they contain an aspect of social punishment. Students dread the social tension at home when they tell their parents they have detention. ISS is only effective because isolation from friends is a strong motivator for teens. Levitt and Dubner in Freakonomics write, “We all learn to respond to incentives, negative and positive, from the outset of life… If you are spotted picking your nose in class, you get ridiculed. But if you make the basketball team, you move up the social ladder.” Levitt and Dubner use high school as their example for social incentives because high schoolers are such socially motivated people. Students crave social rewards such as more friends, popularity, or a better reputation. It only makes sense that an effective, yet fair, punishment would be to take away the thing students most actively crave.

The extent of social punishments needs to be considered; we can’t pin a scarlet “C” on the chest of every student that cheats on a test. Social punishments shouldn’t be ridiculously severe, just integrated into current school policies. It’s very simple to weave negative social incentives into current punishments. Extracurricular activities should be largely affected; students who do something against the rules shouldn’t be allowed to participate in school social events. This, of course, has already been implemented in extreme cases. However, why should we wait for the extreme? Expulsion from school social events for a certain amount of time should be the first resort, and time would vary with the crime. Isolation during activities like lunch or other free time should become normalized. Punishment such as detention should be phased out completely or used as the very last resort. ISS should be updated or rethought into an effective social isolation punishment. School consequences without social motivations either absolutely deter some students or absolutely don’t matter to others because of individual circumstances. But regardless of wealth or strict moral compass, social desires are the only thing every high schooler has in common. It’s time to make school punishments mean something.

#originalwriting

[grimmwritings]

Post-Mortem Market 2

April 11, 2018

The first thing I noticed was that he didn’t walk in slowly. He stumbled in, grabbing onto every object he could in order to stay upright, all the while covering the shelves in blood. The man left orange smears on whatever he touched. His eyes were frantic, but nothing I hadn’t seen before. He was a middle aged white man, dressed in a fairly nice suit and shoes brightly shined.

“Welcome,” I said, mostly to stop him from destroying anything else I would have to clean up.

He turned to me, as if suddenly aware of my presence. He scrambled over, leaving bloody handprints on my counter. It was then that I noticed that he wasn’t the one bleeding— injuries weren’t carried over here. And the blood was mostly coming from his hands and forearms, nothing on his chest or head.

“You. Who are you? Where am I?” he asked desperately, but he wasn’t frightened like the others. He demanded answers; he didn’t ask for them. I didn’t appreciate the attitude.

“This is the Post-Mortem Market. You can take one item from this place with you into the afterlife. Pick wisely. Many don’t.” I smirked, hoping to knock this man down a peg.

“I’m dead?” he asked.

“Yes. Now get on with your shopping. You annoy me,” I snarled.

He pushed off the counter, eyeing me until he no longer could. Boring everyday people were bad to deal with, but anyone who wasn’t confused when they found out they were dead was never a good sign. Anyone who rolled with the punches that quickly was dangerous; either they had been trained that way or the life they led meant they had to avoid those who had been. This generally meant either they were in the military or a criminal. This man seemed like the criminal type. I picked up the newspaper detailing the important events of his life.

Mark Seabren. He was born June 13, 1970. His mother ridiculed him mercilessly. He was attacked at home, but relied on his mother for everything. He was desperate to please her, to make a good living and pay her back for all she had done. When his mother died, he couldn’t cope. He kidnapped girl after girl, bringing them back to his childhood home. He forced them to replace his mother, but one by one they all failed, never getting it perfect compared to his delusion. He disposed of them at the body farm where he worked. He thought no one would notice a few extra. When the last victim was so close to what he wanted, the police showed up. Mark held a knife to her throat and took her as a hostage. A new officer with an itchy trigger finger shot him. The last line read: “Serial killer shot, latest victim in critical condition.” My forehead creased after the last line.

“Hey, you. Whoever you are, you said I could take anything in here with me into the afterlife, right?” Mark smiled at me, but looked devilishly pleased. Even his breath was far too warm to make anyone comfortable. His skin was probably damp and cold as well.

“Yes, anything in here except what belongs to the store. That includes me, the shelves, and any other store property. Those are the rules,” I said automatically, reciting what I had been for eternity.

“Perfect.”

I didn’t trust his smile. It wasn’t kind and fond like someone remembering a childhood toy. It wasn’t small and mixed with sadness, like that of a customer who saw his dead mother’s necklace. This was the smile of a man who knew exactly which item he was walking out of here with, and knew his motives were sinister. My eyebrows drew together as I slowly put the horrifying pieces together. I was reminded of a name from not too long ago. Bailey Tresler, and her sister April.

My feet took me out from behind the counter, against my training. I knew I should have stayed where I was. Human affairs were exactly that, human. It wasn’t my job or my place to interfere. I always thought boredom would be the worst thing I ever had to deal with. Even serial killers picked boring items: knives, photos, tokens from their crimes. I walked to the iced section, but I knew what I would see long before I ever reached her. A woman lying on ice, eyes calmly closed, but heart still beating slowly. There was an item description below her. Victoria Hearthmen, age thirty-two. Mark’s last victim.

“Yeah. That’s what I thought.” I nodded and Mark slid up behind me.

“You’ve seen this before?” he asked, probably not really caring for the answer.

“You two were in the same accident. You’re dead and her life hangs in the balance. It’s equally likely that she lives or dies, depending on your decision,” I said. The words were forced out of my mouth like some horrifying script. I knew it was what I was supposed to say; those were the rules.

“What decision would that be?” he asked.

“You can choose her as your item and take her with you into the afterlife. She will die, but she will follow you and you will never be without one another.” The explanation pushed its way out of my mouth, no matter how badly I wanted to keep it from him.

“That’s what I thought.” Mark smiled. “Perfect. That’s exactly what I want. I want to take her with me.”

I’d only ever had about five cases of a person being able to take someone with them. Modern medicine made it possible, and mostly it was car crash victims together. Normal people, a mother saw her child, a husband saw his wife, a man saw his dog, a girl saw her sister, and now a serial killer had seen his victim. I only had so much time to do anything about this, and in a lot of ways, it could go wrong. I had a boss, people watching me to make sure I did my job correctly. Surely this wasn’t what the rules had intended. The higher-ups did this to keep families together: humans cared enough about one another to hang onto each other even in the afterlife. This was never supposed to happen. Victoria had suffered enough in life, and now she would suffer in death for eternity.

“I wouldn’t advise that.” I shrugged, desperately trying to hide any insubordination from those higher than me.

“Why?” he snapped quickly, like a child who was having his toy taken away.

“It is generally defined as an immoral action. Those who perform immoral actions tend to face unfortunate consequences. This may be a chance to redeem yourself, even to a small extent.” I could really only say things that were the truth; I would be removed quickly if they suspected anything.

“I’m already going to Hell, right? Why not take her with me? She was nearly perfect.” His smile was sickening, even to me. Victoria must have been terrified.

“I cannot say for certain your end destination,” I replied.

“Shove off, man. You told me the rules. You’re trying to stall. Why do you care? Are you even human?” He crept close enough that I could smell the cologne he used (it probably had a name like Swagger) and I desperately tried to force my face into the infallible expression I normally wore.

“We’ve been here since death itself,” I answered, regulating the tone of my voice with a lot of effort.

If I could only stall long enough, Victoria would either die herself or be saved by the doctors. If she no longer had an equal chance of dying or surviving, she would leave here. There would be no more option. Even if she had to die, it was better than being bound forever to the man who kept her in fear.

“Then you couldn’t possibly understand.” He shrugged and picked up Victoria. “Quit trying to stop me. I’m leaving here with her, no matter what you do. She is my most treasured item.” He rubbed the smooth skin of her cheek with a smile.

The most terrifying part was probably that he meant it. He would do anything to leave this store with her. No matter what I said, he was taking her. He genuinely believed that he cared for her. In his mind, she was his to take. Everything I could try to save her was against the rules. So I guess I would have to break them.

“Why take her as a replacement when I can show you the real thing? Your mother, Clarisse, I can take you to her.” I began my bargain, and now the clock was ticking. I only had so much time before management figured out I was breaking their codes.

“How?” he questioned, feet skidding to a stop.

“We watch over the afterlife. I know exactly where she resides. You have to be part of the staff to travel between here and the residential areas, but I can take you with me.” I tried to take up as much as time as possible, giving the doctors whatever time I could before management showed up.

“Why would you do that?” he asked, now wary of me.

“I am simply bored. I’ve seen people choose the same objects over and over. People choosing people isn’t uncommon, you’re not special. But I’ve always wondered why they would, when their loved ones are so close now.” I tried to project the same boredom I’d felt for millenia. I looked towards Victoria, noticing less color in her cheeks than before. “But if you want an actress portrayal, that’s up to you.”

“You can take me to see my mother? You aren’t lying?” he asked hopefully, a small smile tweaking at the sides of his lips.

“Why would I? Like you said, I’m not human. Why would I care about which object you choose? I simply want something to interrupt this tiresome routine.” I watched Victoria’s breathing fall slower and slower, creeping to a halt.

“Can I still take her with me?” He pointed to Victoria, speech reverting to that like a child’s. There was a disturbing amount of innocence in his question.

“Do you really think your mother will want you to bring her replacement? She’d be offended at how poor a job you’ve done.” I desperately tried to replicate the speech patterns most abusive parents use, to mimic his mother. I only needed a few more seconds.

“Do you really think she would mind?” he asked.

“Wouldn’t you, if someone had the audacity to replace you?” I sneered. My eyes glanced down at Victoria with a feeling of relief.

“I guess.” He frowned, but looked at Victoria, only to find a plain white mannequin in her place. “What happened?!” he shouted in rage, throwing the mannequin onto the tile floor.

“Victoria died. I imagine right about now she’s walking into her own market,” I replied with a smile.

“You tricked me!” he screamed, grabbing me and slamming me to the ground.

“I did. But you still must pick an item and walk out of here. It’s how the rules work.” I felt no pain, an advantage of being one of the managers here.

“My mother. You can’t take me to her,” he realized.

“No. But you’ll never see her if you stay here. The sooner you walk out of here, the sooner you’ll be reunited.” I couldn’t understand why he would want to be with the woman who hurt him, I just knew he did.

He reluctantly let me go, only to walk over to a shelf and pick up one of the first items he saw. A golden necklace with the initials RGC. I recognized the name of one of his victims, Rebecca Grace Coulson. I’m sure he stole it from her as a trophy of a kill. He took the necklace in a clenched first and stormed out as violently as he had stormed in. I knew my time was up.

“Cashier #3047, you are officially released from duty at the Post-Mortem Market.”

#originalwriting

[grimmwritings]

Heart Defect

March 9, 2018

Ba-dump. Ba-dump. Ba-dump…

Silence.

My sister says she can feel her heart stop sometimes when she’s lying down. I asked what they can do about it, and she said nothing. I asked what happens to her, and she says sometimes she passes out. She says it feels like she’s not breathing even though her lungs work just fine. I guess sometimes it feels like you’re dying when you have heart murmur.

All the women in my family have at least one heart defect. My sister just happens to have two. My mother told us a few years ago we all share the same problem: we always put in more than we get in return. Care too much only to grow a fruitless garden. Love too much and attract those who are incapable of returning the affection. She told us to be careful. Our hearts were born big and made of glass, and she’s afraid someone will shatter them. It’s a mother’s job to protect her children from the same miseries she suffered.

My sister and I wear our faulty hearts on our sleeves, hers a little more still at times. Our hearts are free to give and if they crack it was worth the time they spent in someone else’s hands. No one will ever be able to accuse us of not giving enough, not spending enough time, not loving with our all. We walk unchained from the fear that someone will hurt us. We know they will. When our hearts finally stop, we have an AED in the laundry room ready for one another.

#originalwriting

[grimmwritings]

Lady Caesar

March 7, 2018

I feel the cool gold of the collar on my neck; the smooth weight of past riches presses into me like a reassurance. I feel the velvet squeeze of this dress on my thighs, pushing me to walk like a winner. I feel the heat of frustration and shame radiating off the others, flamed faces declaring they can win it all back. I feel the vibration of the satin jazz through my shoes, buzzing away the tense knots in my shoulders. I feel the rough green fuzz of the table, hands lingering behind me as I walk to an empty space. I feel the weight of ceramic chips anchor down my left hand while I rub two together in my right, the slight grating grounding me as I place my bets. I feel myself tremble as the emptiness of my hands transitions me to tension. I feel the nervous release. I feel the click of the wheel spin round and round until it finally slows. I feel lucky.

#originalwriting

[grimmwritings]

Missing

February 22, 2018

Panic. That’s how it starts. Sound disappears, save the blood pounding in your own ears. You told him to stay right there, you only took your eyes away for a second. You scan the crowd desperately, trying to remember the color of his coat or hat, something to lock onto. Where is he? Is someone hurting him? Kidnappings only happen on television, right? You scream his name, wet and raw. People look at you and judge, they think you’re a horrible parent. That couldn’t matter less. Findhimfindhimfindhim. He’s probably somewhere feeling one thing. Panic.

#originalwriting

[grimmwritings]

One Love

February 14, 2018

Philautia- Self Love

I am beautiful. My eyes are dark and deep like pools of warm honey. My voice is rich and smooth like red velvet. My mind is bright and loud like fireworks. I am perfect. I am a good person because I try to be. I don’t need your validation to look at my body and smile at what I see. I am hilarious, even if no one else laughs. I value myself, and I will not put your needs above mine. I am important and nothing you can say will lead me to think otherwise. I won’t date a man just because he’s the only who tells me I’m pretty. How can I love anyone else if I haven’t learned to love myself?

Ludus- Childish Love

She’s helping him from a fall on the playground. She makes him a flower crown out of the weeds that surround the school, hoping these will dry his tears. She becomes his protector, mean words deflected by an imperfectly brilliant smile. She teaches him to dance around the roots of a tree and tells him tales of the beautiful creatures that live inside. She’s too young to know that this is love, she just knows she never wants him to be sad again.

Philia- Platonic Love

His hand rubs over my back as I track the tears down my cheeks. There’s no judgement here, only support. This, he, is my stronghold. Breaths break in sharp fragments, but he is soft and warm. He counts. Up to ten and back down again. When I return from the haze of pure fear and loss, he stays. From college to the birth of my first child to the loss of his mother. He stays. A brother in arms, no weapons required. We fight together facing villains of grief, panic, and cruelty done by no physical man, but by the will of our master.

Agape- Humanitarian Love

They ask why I became a minister. I’ve always believed and loved God, but Church was never where I spent all my time. I spent my time with people. Veterans whose ribs and minds were more broken on the streets of their homeland than enemy soil. Mothers who regret their timing, but put their child over anything else, just to make sure they had a better life. Older brothers and sisters who sacrificed their minimum wage paycheck again and again so their little sibling could smile just one more time. Why did I become a minister? Because I think I understand how God sees the world. How can you see this soldier, this mother, these children and not feel love for them?

Eros- Bodily Love

Soft sides to sharp hip bones, all under a blanket of smooth skin. She bites her plump lips that color from her blood pumping and rushing to her face. Her breath comes in hot pumps of steam and we share the air that seems to get thicker by the second. Time doesn’t seem to come in hours or minutes, but through the heartbeats I feel under fingertips. She’s the only thing anchoring me to reality in the heavy fog where nothing outside this room matters. Only one thing exists in this moment. Her.

Storge- Parental Love

He’s so fragile. I don’t think I’ll ever say differently. No matter if it’s the first time I hold him or he’s walking across the stage to grab doctorate diploma. He hasn’t seen what I’ve seen, doesn’t know the dangers that are waiting for him. But how do I balance protecting him and making sure he learns from his own mistakes? At what point must I give up the responsibility and privilege of watching over him? It’s difficult and no one ever tells you if you’re doing it right until you see the grown results. Maybe it’s part of a parent’s love to know your child will say they hate you at least once.

Pragma- Longstanding Love

I know he doesn’t remember my name because he calls me Angel. I label everything in the house with sticky notes, hoping maybe this time the name will stick with him. He’s frustrated and so am I, but it’s a labor of love. I know he doesn’t remember I’m his wife because he asks who hired such a beautiful girl to check on him. I tell him I do this for free because we’ve always taken care of each other. He insists on making dinner for me even if he has to ask for help every step of the way. One day he’ll slip away, I can only hope he’ll pull me in with him.

#originalwriting

[grimmwritings]

Statue Woman

February 13, 2018

I can’t be their friend. I am their leader. The second I endear myself to them, I’ll lose their respect. If they see my tears, they will cease to trust me with the hard decisions. Leaders are lonely because if you have loved ones, you have weaknesses. People don’t want other people to guide them. People make mistakes, people crumble, people are weak. People need figures to lead them. Figures, legends, are mythical. They show Herculean strength, Athenian wit, or some other godly tendency. Real leaders are never as strong as the stone statues we put up to remember them.

#originalwriting

[grimmwritings]

Advice from a Woman at 100

February 1, 2018

Don’t ever let them say your generation is the worst, they said that about mine too. Don’t be ashamed in indulging in what your parents make fun of. Popular culture is called that because it’s popular. Snapchat your friend, communication is fluid. Drink Starbucks and freak out when the pumpkin spice latte comes out, it’s delicious. Get tattoos just for the aesthetic, turn your ribs into the most beautiful part of you. Read Twilight and debate over the love triangle. Fill your brain with whatever takes your mind off the lies my generation is feeding you. You’re not lazy, you’re exhausted.

Don’t get married and have kids just because everyone else does, it’ll make the world a better place. Build your career before your love life, a paycheck won’t leave you because your crows feet are setting in. Or skip the paycheck. Spend your last dollar on perfume in Paris, and spend weeks on paintings that no one will ever buy. Be a creator when everyone around you is a destroyer.

Play with computers. In your generation, everyone is a technological genius. The way you have access to information is beautiful. Be on your phone for hours. Know everything that’s going on in the world and your friend’s Instagram feed. Play games that rot your brain, it’s the only way you’ll make it through the news. Listen to your music loud enough that it destroys your ears. You’ll still be a better listener than anyone who came before you.

Dress how you want. Show off every curve you’ve earned over the years, you’re beautiful. Never leave your sweatpants, you can’t trade comfort for anything else. Dress for yourself, screw him if he doesn’t like your shirt. Dress for him, if it makes you feel good when he compliments you. Wear so much makeup that you melt in a pool, if you feel confident nothing can stop you. Refuse to wear anything that changes your appearance, you know you’re perfect. However you look, own it.

You’re only young once. Don’t let older people bully you into keeping quiet at a time when your voice can shout the loudest. Don’t let them bury you under dirt when this is the only time in your life when you can climb mountains. There’s nothing wrong with your generation, just like there was nothing wrong with the one before it. The only time anything goes wrong with a generation is when they try to put down the one that comes after it. If you learn anything from your parents’ mistakes, learn to love who comes after you.

#originalwriting

[grimmwritings]

He Said, She Said

February 1, 2018

He said, “Her friend came over and ruined our date.”

She said, “I was begging for her to come rescue me.”

He said, “The worst that can happen on a date is tension.”

She said, “The worst that can happen on a date is that I never see my family again.”

He said, “The eleven o’ clock curfew is annoying.”

She said, “I go out in the dark unless I have mace in my purse.”

He said, “This is fantastic. What’s in this?”

She said, “I’m not drinking anything unless I see them make it.”

He said, “I plan to run, lift weights, and work on abs.”

She said, “He watched me stretch and followed me to the treadmills. I guess I’ll leave instead of lifting weights, just in case.”

He said, “I’m gonna go over to Jared’s house, his sister is really hot.”

She said, “Caroline’s brother stares at me every time I spend the night at her house.”

He said, “Matthew is hilarious!”

She said, “Whenever Matthew makes a joke about women, I get really uncomfortable.”

He said, “That waitress was really into me, we were flirting back and forth,”

She said, “He’s creepy, but if I upset him my boss will scream at me.”

He said, “Look at this awesome Halloween costume I got, it’s terrifying!”

She said, “If I want a costume that’s going to cover all of me, I’ll just have to make it.”

He said, “Where did I park again? This parking garage is huge.”

She said, “Pretend you’re on the phone so they think someone will care if they take you.”

He said, “I’m scared of prison. Don’t drop the soap, you know what will happen.”

She said, “I’m scared of the sidewalk. Don’t wear short skirts, get drunk, wear headphones, or leave the house alone. You know what will happen.”

He said, “She says she’s been terrified all her life.”

She said, “He says there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

#originalwriting

[grimmwritings]

Frequencies

December 13, 2017

Active noise-cancelling headphones. My item I never leave home without. They work by using a microphone that takes in a frequency and creates its total opposite. The end result: perfect silence. No gentle thrumming. No screeching discord. No anything.

My sister and I don’t look alike. She has blonde hair and stormy eyes that can’t settle on blue or grey, gently shifting between the calming sea and silent clouds. She’s between fair and tan and has the stars splattered across her nose that get darker when she spends any time in the sun. She’s light and airy, her hair giving the illusion of a golden halo. I’ve got brown hair and eyes that change between the green of seasoned leaves and the brown of potting soil. I’m strikingly pale, unless I spend hours in the sun, but even then you can see the tan lines from the work clothes. The lines fade in the winter and suddenly my three freckles are visible against a canvas of snow. I’m heavy and weighted, brown hair like the reality of solid ground, dark, dependable, and sturdy.

She’s practised and measured. Her bedroom has a pure white aesthetic. Her silver mirror matches her silver lamp that matches her silver shelves that are so polished you can see attentiveness in the reflection. Her notes are color-coordinated with the binders she keeps her intricate, balanced schedule of social events and school. Her neat handwriting comes from years of careful practice, making sure every thought is easy for others to read. I’m improvised and panicked. My own mess and chaos makes me feel comfortably crowded. I’ve got enough half-finished projects lying around to fill the bed, my thoughts moving too quickly to focus on one thing. I keep journals that skip from one reality to another, perfectly cohesive if you’re the one who wrote them, purposefully scrambled to confuse anyone who stumbles upon them. My own handwriting took a summer to reach something that looks beautiful from far away, but is still absolutely illegible up close.

She’s soft and gentle music. Words that accompany guitars whisper the structured flow of her thoughts. She plays her music softly, but over the speaker. She fills her environment with everything she is. I’m deafening, an orchestrated cacophony. Violent symphonies of battle music that inspire a quick pace of twisting, turning, and crashing unconventional thought. I blast my music loud enough to damage my hearing in the future, but through headphones. I’m desperate to block out the sounds around me.

We’re two opposing frequencies. She’s a low, gentle hum and I’m a high, piercing note. If we’re out of sync there are explosions of deafening sound never meant to meet in one place. But when we find harmony, we cancel each other out. Our frequencies align and the result is something peaceful where there is endless possibility and support. The end result: a perfect, blissful silence.

#originalwriting

[grimmwritings]

Week

November 28, 2017

Sunday- She’s dressed in a white sundress, her hair up in neat braids. She smiles gently at your worries and radiates warmth, but she comes with a sense of duty. She’s responsible. She does the things you should have. She encourages you to spend time with your family. She only cooks comfort food. She’s all soft edges, drowning in the clothing she buys a size too big. She’s made of blankets and hot drinks. She watches the rain with you on the porch.

Monday- He dresses in wrinkled khakis and a bright button-down. His hat is always on backwards, so he wears sunglasses to shield his eyes. He tells you that you look tired, pointing out the dark circles under your eyes. He reminds you of due dates, but ignores his part of the project. He’s always moving, a procrastinator that feels his own brand of panic. He eats the crunchiest foods during the study session that you desperately need. No matter how many times you tell him you don’t want anything to do with him, he’s obsessed with seeing your misery firsthand.

Tuesday- He’s dressed in a loose t-shirt and sweatpants. He’s obviously given up, but only shows up to things because quitting would require a break in his overall stasis, deviate too much from his regularly scheduled program of thought. He replies to questions with groans and grunts. He’s kind, but never goes out of his way to make gestures. He’s never spiteful, because that requires energy. He always seems to have Starbucks, but it’s never hot, only lukewarm.

Wednesday- They take naps in a state of complete calm and allergy medication no matter what season it is. They doodle in sharpie on their arms and eat foods that no one else will try. They watch conspiracy videos way into the early hours of the morning They write poetry and never let anyone read it, but they don’t lack in self-confidence. They’re the loudest person in the debate, convinced that the authority is outdated and spouting information that hasn’t been updated in twenty years.

Thursday- He’s familiar and kind. He’s been in your class since kindergarten and always smiles at you in the hallway. His laugh is low and rumbles at a frequency that automatically calms you. He smells like clean laundry and gives the best hugs, tight enough to comfort but loose enough that you can break it at any time. He looks frightening because of his stature, but is actively caring to try and counteract it. He’s quiet and encouraging, living life for everyone but himself.

Friday- She’s subtly gorgeous. Her shirts are designed with lace and her pearl earrings are as white as her teeth. When she walks in a room, she speaks to an enraptured audience, because her words will determine what’s hot and what’s not until the next time they can see her. She’s leader of the seven car brigade that travels to Sonic after a football game. She’s perfectly tousled and glowing with no makeup on. She’s the girl you hate and love for being so beautiful, even though she’s never been anything but nice to you.

Saturday- She’s got dark makeup and heels that can puncture a liar’s lungs. She wears her vices on her sleeve like the tattoos she gets on a whim. She’s got too much free time to fill and a desperation that she needs to do something memorable with it. She schedules her Uber in advance because she knows she won’t be driving home tonight. She’s got just enough money to blow on one fantastic event and be broke for everything she actually needs, and she relishes in it. She’s the most tempting ticking time bomb you’ve ever met.

#originalwriting

[grimmwritings]

I Don’t Need a Hero

November 27, 2017

This world doesn’t need another hero. We live too often in the world of Marvel movies and morals. Children dress up like Spiderman and people go to conventions to celebrate the good, the white men in spandex. But then why are there still so many people hurting? Because heroes have morals, guidelines on how villains are to be dealt with. Heroes leave things for the legal justice, and even vigilantes have connections to the police department. But when you can’t trust the legal system, how are things supposed to get better?

This world needs a monster. We need someone in the dark with rows of teeth and razor sharp claws. We need someone who will do what needs to be done, put the fear in others that they put in us. We need someone who will take care of things and make sure the real monsters never come back with good behavior or an innocent verdict. We need someone with no morals, someone who feels no guilt over the destruction, to protect us. We need results and actions that will have a real effect. We need to know the monster won’t blame us for accusing the criminal. Because if you can’t trust justice, you pray for vengeance.

#originalwriting