ink-blots-and-memories

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I don't owe you an explanation... And I guess I'm not owed one either... It probably wouldn't make any difference... Even if you knew my side, I'd still be the bad guy in your eyes... So why bother... My heart sealed itself off again as soon as that call ended... And the silence that followed it was the lock shifting into place... I clearly didn't matter nearly as much to you as I thought... So why bother with explanations and excuses and reasons... It was always going to end like this, wasn't it...

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If you wondering, I'll be fine. I'll be hurt and confused for a while. I'll be angry for even longer. But one day, I'll let the anger melt away. Don't worry about the memories, I'll keep the good ones. It's what I deserve.

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Did it ever matter? All the effort, all the patience, all the kindness... All the warmth I embraced you with... Every time I let you cry on my shoulder or scream into my ear... All the warm nights and shared secrets... Did I ever matter? Or was the string thing us together always this fragile?

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If you wanted to talk, you wouldn't have sent the hounds after me... If you wanted me to stay, you could've asked... If you wanted me to treat you like a child like everyone else, you should've told me...

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When I was younger, I used to climb a lot. We had dozens of fruit trees around our yard and I would spend my days finding out how far up I could climb. How close to the sky I could drag myself.

That was before we actually lived there. Back then, it was my grandma's house and we’d visit every day. When we moved in, my father made it a personal mission of his to cut down every one of those trees.

He said the yard always looked too cluttered and he was just trying to make it look nicer. I took it as a personal offense, as a nine-year-old would take most things, of course. He was the villain for a great while due to that stunt.

When I was younger, I used to have the longest hair in my class. My mother would spend hours brushing it and putting it in a nice ponytail. She enjoyed watching it grow through the years. My father would pat my head and tell me how beautiful I was.

That was before public school. As the years continued, I began to dread the routine of having my hair done, my mother stopped brushing and putting it up for me. I noticed other girls in my school with short, wispy hair that looked so soft to the touch. When I started high school, I chopped off my hair within an inch of my scalp.

He said the ‘tomboy’ look never went well on girls and he liked it longer. I was grounded when I told him that his opinion wasn’t a big factor in my hair decisions. He hasn’t called me beautiful since that day.

When I was younger, my favorite outfit was a brightly patterned sundress. I wore it everywhere I was allowed to for years. Paired with my favorite boots, it made me feel pretty. It made me love how I looked.

That was before I realized what style was. Now, I won’t say that I have a good sense of fashion, but I can appreciate how I feel in a nice outfit. As I got older, I found that dresses made me feel uncomfortable in a way that is too much for words. In my sophomore year, I bought the pieces for my first suit and tie.

He said I looked like a boy and he shook his head. I can never find the words when it comes to my father. It has never made sense to me how someone so wise could understand so little.

When I was younger, my sister used to tell me all about the boys she liked in her classes. We would talk for hours about their eyes or their hair or their handwriting. My parents thought it was adorable.

That was before I started thinking about romance. Now, I could spend hours detailing the sharp curve of my crush’s lips when she smiles or how her eyes reflect autumn leaves. Suddenly, it wasn’t as fun to discuss our attractions. On my seventeenth birthday, I came out as gay to my family

He hasn’t said a thing to me since.

#writer #excerpt from a story i'll never write #writing #free write #written #writers #writeblr

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Counting Trees

For my parents, my move to college was like a knife to the heart. I’m the last child of three, so my move signified their official transformation into empty nesters. Tears have been more common around my mother than words. It wasn’t like I was going out of the country like my brother. I was only moving four hours up the state. It was only logical. This school offered the most financial aid, if the world worked differently I would be going to New Hampshire. Although, my mom might not make it if I was out of state.

When my mom and I took off on the awaited drive up to the school, I had made a playlist of upbeat songs and my mom had brought tissues. It had taken a week for my father to finish his tune up on my truck, not that I minded, it was older than me after all. Driving away from my hometown, where I had lived my entire life so far, I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face. I glanced out the window as we merged onto the interstate. The trees blurred past, impossible to differentiate from each other as the car picked up speed slowly, but I already knew there were five hundred and eighty-one trees between the interstate and my house. There would be about six hundred more trees before my mom had used all of the tissues she had packed in her purse. 

Growing up, I never saw my mother cry. Back when I was six or seven, she always had a warm smile and smelled like the kitchen, where she spent most of her time. Our kitchen was one of the biggest rooms in our house. It had an island that I could never reach without my brother lifting me and a pantry that was perfect for hide and seek. It was off-limits when the stove was on because once my sister tried to touch the swirly lights on it and my mom got really mad. 

When I lived there, most of the days mixed together. In elementary school, I had no reason to worry about what day it was or what month it was. I had no worries in the world, no taxes or jobs or big assignments to stress over yet. The only reason I kept the year straight was to remember when my birthday was and how old I’d be. The calendar was basically Easter, summer, school, my birthday, Halloween, and Christmas. Everything else was some floating day in the year that I knew existed but didn’t put much thought into when it popped up. Every day was spent going somewhere in the car. My sister and I would argue about what movie to watch in the backseat and only get five minutes in before we reached our destination. Mostly it was to or from school. I only started paying attention to where we were going after my brother left the house. Then my sister got to ride shotgun, so I’d spend my time staring out the window and memorizing how many trees we passed between the school and our house, since they weren’t going anywhere. Two hundred and sixty-three. 

That’s how I know we were on our way home from school the first time I saw my mother cry. She had gotten a phone call, which wasn’t surprising because she used her phone a lot while we drove home. After she picked up the phone, she turned onto a street and parked the car. I was confused. I knew the entire way home and this wasn’t a road I had ever been down. I remember asking why we had stopped here, enough times to earn a slap on the arm and glare from my sister. We were silent, except for my mom on the phone. Then she was yelling. I looked at the trees outside. I thought about if these would count as on the way home since we’d stopped. That would add at least seven. It was windy and my birthday was coming up, which meant the leaves were littering the road like snow if it snowed in Florida. I looked up at the sky when I got bored with the trees. It was cloudy, but not rain clouds, just a lot of pretty, white ones. I rolled down the window to let the wind rustling in the trees fill my ears instead of the high volume conversation going on in front of me. Then my mom rolled it up with her control and locked the windows.

We sat there for a while, my mom yelling into her phone and me staring out the window and my sister doing whatever it was that she did. When she hung up, my mom threw her phone into her purse. I looked up as she did, I wanted to ask when we were going home. The words caught in my throat when I saw her slump onto the steering wheel and let out heaving sobs. Her breathing sounded weird like it was too hard for her to fill her lungs completely, so she was stopping and going. My sister hugged her back, but I couldn’t reach, so I just asked who had called. That got me another glare from my sister. 

“Progressive,” my mother replied, lifting herself from the wheel and wiping her eyes. As she started to drive away, she kept taking deep breaths. I was glad her lungs were working right again. “I don’t know how I’m going to tell your father… we’re going to have to file for bankruptcy.” I didn’t know what she was talking about or why she got a call from a lady in a lab coat, but my sister looked like she had just been slapped in the face. That night was fun, though. I remember that because that was one of the rare nights that my brother pulled me into his room to play video games. I never got to play video games unless I begged all night and I didn’t even have to ask then. 

The next few weeks brought more fun days. Some days, we got to leave school early so that Mom could meet someone. I never met them because she’d drop us off at the house my grandma and my aunt lived in before she went to meet them. My dad played pretend with me once and showed me which walls of their house he would tear down to make extra rooms. One day, we came home to boxes in every room of our house. For some reason though, I just got yelled at for building a fort in the living room. Over the weekends, Dad let my sister and I paint walls on the outside of the house. He even let me climb on the roof with him to kick off all of the dog toys we accidentally threw up there.

Then things started getting weird. I’d get home and wouldn’t be able to find all of my toys. Somehow they’d ended up in the boxes in my room and I had to dig them out almost every day. Then I got yelled at and the boxes were made off-limits. Things started disappearing around the house too. One day, the pictures in the hallway were gone. Then all the plates and bowls in the china cabinet followed suit. I told Mom that I thought there was a ghost taking all of our stuff and she just looked around the house and sighed. One Saturday, we had a garage sale, which is usually fun because we get to look through all of our old stuff in the storage room. This time, though, I kept finding furniture from my room and from the house out in the driveway. I told my dad that we were selling the wrong things and we needed to put them away and he just laughed. 

The last day I spent in that house, it didn’t look like my house anymore. The walls were bare and all of the rooms were void of furniture and appliances. At first, it was fun because there was more room to run around and I didn’t get yelled at when I ran down the hall. Then my mom looked around and said, “Say goodbye.” I didn’t understand what she meant. We never said goodbye when we left the house. When we walked to the car to go over to my grandma’s, I looked at the yard because there were tire ruts everywhere from people parking on the lawn. Before I crawled into the backseat, my eyes found the orange and black sign at the edge of the road. “For Sale” was printed on it. I didn’t know what those two words meant then, but I did know that one of those signs had shown up when my friend down the street had left town. I knew it meant that no one lived in that house anymore. 

I don’t remember much of the time it took to move into my grandma’s house. It felt like we had no more than left our old house when there were rooms set up for all of us in theirs. The days still blended together for a while. I tried not to think about our old house, which wasn’t hard since we weren’t living there anymore. I just recounted how many trees it took to get home. Two hundred and forty-five. Everything was changing, but those trees were still there. I didn’t understand why we lived at my grandma’s until one day at recess, one of the kids in my class came up to me and said, “What’s it like being bankrupt?” I didn’t know what that meant, so he told me. As I stood there listening to him, a veil lifted off of my mind. 

I started asking a lot more questions after that day. It would be a few years until I fully understood what had happened that month. Slowly, the picture became more and more clear. Eventually, I learned to laugh at the jokes about my family’s income. It was easier than letting myself hurt over things I couldn’t change. I’d stop making birthday lists and start applying for jobs. I’d learn how to sew holes in my clothes and glue my shoes when they started to rip. I’d ignore my friends’ fancy cars and learn to love the character in my old vehicle. I’d stop counting trees. I wouldn’t need to anymore. 

So, as we unpacked my car at my dorm, I breathed in the new air and looked around at the trees and welcomed this next step. I wouldn’t be counting the endless trees between me and home. Soon enough this would be my home and I wouldn’t have to worry about how long it would stay my home. Then someday, somewhere else, farther away would become home, when I take the next step. 

#writer #free write #written #excerpt from a story i'll never write #writing #short story #memories #memoir

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Walking into school on the first day of sixth grade was one of the scariest moments of my childhood. My sister and I were sent to the cafeteria since we were early. That one building was as big as the entirety of my last school. And there were more kids in there when we entered, than my last school had ever had in attending. We watched as everyone mingled as if they’d been friends since birth. 

To be completely honest, I’d never been in a cafeteria before that day. The private school I had attended was run out of a church, we ate in our classrooms. From everything I’d read in books and seen in movies, I was expecting a lot worse. It reminded me of a grocery store: the high ceilings, the white tiles, the fluorescent lights. I always felt like I would get lost in a grocery store. My siblings were probably to blame for that fear, they’d leave me in aisles and run away so I couldn’t find them. I’d lost count of the times my mother would find me crying in an aisle because I didn’t know where anyone was. 

Middle school felt kind of like that. Like I was left in an aisle and couldn’t find anyone familiar. It didn’t help that at every turn, some part of my background bled through. I wasn't raised in a public school and it showed. My handwriting was different, since they'd stopped teaching cursive a few years before my classmates started school. My language was different, because I hadn't been around that many kids my age, so I spoke like the adults that I spent my time around. Everything was different, but it was as if I was a child thrown into a pool to learn how to swim from exposure, it took a bit of fear, but I survived and now I know how to swim because of it.

#writer #written #free write #excerpt from a story i'll never write #writing #short story

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I met my best friend in a chemistry class in our sophomore year of high school. We became closer than I'd ever been with anyone else. In the winter of my senior year, she came out to me. But that's not exactly the best way to put it… She told me, through a letter, that I had made her gay and she didn't know how to handle that. My response was one of encouragement and support, because that's how I'd want someone to react if they were the first person I came out to. Within myself, however, a storm started brewing that I wouldn't completely notice or understand for months to come. 

For weeks, she expressed her feelings for me, until I felt I couldn't do anything except go out with her. Our first date was a hike through a preserve I like to visit when I wanted to clear my head. We walked for hours, I listened to the breeze as it whistled through branches and her soft voice as she talked my ear off about psychology and sociology and theories. I'm not one for social sciences, but that was her favorite thing to talk about and who was I to stop her. I simply lost myself in the nature the enveloped us as if the trees were ready to wrap us up in hugs and let us escape forever.

After that date, I felt calm. I always feel calm when I'm hiking. While we driving home afterwards, she told me about how she'd write me a letter every week when we left for our separate colleges. I didn't know it then, but I have very deep set commitment issues. And when things get serious, I have a tendency to implode. That storm inside me was growing and soon enough, it would become a hurricane and take down everything I'd built for myself in the past four years of my life. And nothing would be the same. 

#writing #excerpt from a story i'll never write #written #free write #writer #short story

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My father’s favorite thing about me used to be my hair. He said it reminded him of his sister’s. The flowy chestnut locks that would weave down to the small of my back. My sister and I would pretend we were mermaids when we swam in our pool, long hair flaring out underwater like a princess. I would get compliments at every family gathering. For most of my life, I was the beautiful, little girl with beautiful hair to match.

As I got older and looked deeper into myself and who I was, I stopped enjoying having my hair fall down my back. On the last day of school my eighth-grade year, I convinced my mother to take me to a cheap salon to get my hair cut. It was a small establishment that was well off the beaten path, my mother knew the owners. When the woman cutting my hair asked me how I wanted it, I showed her a picture of an actress with a pixie cut. 

“She wants to look like a boy,” my mother said, laughing and rolling her eyes. It wasn’t true then and it isn’t now. 

The hairdresser began by gathering my hair into a ponytail and cutting it off. The scissors made a sharp noise right by my ear. I focused on the walls mainly, the dark amber color which didn’t help to reflect any light in the room. As the scissors continued their assault, I felt a weight lift with every strand of hair that fell to the ground. And maybe I would never be the beautiful, little girl again, but for the first time, I felt like I was closer to being who I was really meant to be.

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Just like I said. Illegal adoption.

https://abcnews.go.com/Blotter/immigrant-mom-loses-effort-regain-son-us-parents/story?id=16803067

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its christmas eve and look whos on tumblr

all of us

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The cool breeze of air conditioning hit me like a wave. Gently whirring to the side of the entrance. Stopping me in my tracks, making me close my eyes to appreciate it a bit more. The LEDs on the ceiling shined bright on my eyelids. The store was basically a really organized warehouse, but the lights were so bright. It was brighter than any warehouse I'd been in. Not being able to help myself, I glanced up at the artificial lighting. I could just about hear the buzzing of the electric in them. The glare burned my retinas, changing my perception of the colors around me. As my eyes wandered around the ceiling, chasing the black spots across my line of vision, I caught sight of a balloon stuck in the rafters.

'Happy Birthday’ Amazing how someone could let such a luxury slip through their fingers somehow. Most likely shrugging it off and going about their day.

As I slumped through the aisles, the scent of the bakery on one end of the building caught my attention, but I wouldn't let it sway me. I saw more food than I could imagine. It was almost overwhelming. My stomach started whimpering at the sight. The colorful labels and shiny, sealed lids. I revelled at a child a few feet away, begging for a box of chocolates as he munched on a bag of chips in his hand. Loudly crushing the bag and screaming when his mother didn't answer right away. Amazing. So clueless, so spoiled. His mother absentmindedly threw in his request and made her way down the aisle.

The rows of food soon turned into rows of appliances and houseware. Everything was new and rust free. It was spectacular. Anything you'd ever need was on a shelf here. A display even showed how some of them worked. A blender mechanically spinned with a light hum and a timed toaster oven, ticking, ticking, ticking. After more walking, those rows finally turned into the place I needed. Rows of color and stuffing. The odd scent of cotton catching my nose. Running my hands across the soft materials on the shelves and scanning the numbers on the racks, it only took a few minutes to find the cheapest one. The cardboard around it popped lightly as I picked it up. It wasn't too soft, compared to the rest, but it would be enough… it had to be.

My knuckles turned white as I held the blanket to my chest, forcing myself to forget the awe inducing atmosphere. To forget the soothing elevator music playing quietly. Forcing myself to remember why I had to slip in here in the first place. Heading towards the registers as fast as possible. It was only during this walk, when I was less distracted by the brilliance of the store, that I noticed them. The eyes. All staring at me.

As I walked past stranger after stranger, they stared. Some with concern, others with disgust. They tore through me. From my dirty face to my ripped up clothes. My ratty hair to my skin and bones. An elderly man scoffed a few feet away, glancing at the blanket in my hands and then back to my face. Almost glaring at me. As if he knew too much about me with just one glance.

Letting one hand move to my front pocket to clench around the wad of bills I had saved, I continued walking. Continuing to walk forward was my only option. Until it wasn't. With a click of his boots, a tall figure blocked me just as I had caught sight of the check out area. The blue uniform and bulky build told me all I needed to know about the man. Security guard. He glared down at me, making me feel even smaller than I was. The strangers staring turned into strangers mumbling. They grew louder and louder. Almost drowning out the sounds of the store

He cleared his throat deeply, loudly. Just as he was opening his mouth to spill out a prepared judgement though, I shoved the handful of cash in his face. Before he could say anything or glance up from the bills that were drifting down to the ground, I was running in the opposite direction. As I reached the exit, I took one more glance at the humongous building, the powerful lights. And I let myself feel the last bit of air conditioning, hear the last bit of music.

Then I was racing down the sidewalk. Listening only to my footsteps until I skidded to a halt at the alleyway. Tapping my shoe against the dumpster to my right twice, I walked around to find my friend in the same place as when I left. The snow having fallen softly on their face. With a quick quirk of their mouth and the bleary opening of their eyes though, I knew I wasn't too late. Wrapping her in the new blanket as the whistling of the cold December wind picked up.

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As a child, every four years, my family took a trip up to Wisconsin to visit my grandfather. His house was close to a cabin, of sorts, that reminded me of a junkyard. We’d work on wood projects and go on walks and go fishing. Everything we could pack into the three days we would spend there. Until he’d get tired of us and send us back home.

Everything I’ve really needed to know about life, I learned from my grandfather.

“Never leave the house without your ‘lucky hat’.” This wasn’t always a physical hat, sometimes we would wear a button or carry a stone. Our ‘lucky hat’ was anything we gave the power to make us feel we could do anything. We had all the luck in the world with it.

“Make sure to curl your mustache and pretty up your hair.” Even if you’re just going outside to sit on the porch, look as presentable as you would look if you were going to a restaurant.

“Write the first happy thought you have every morning.” Keep a collection. To remember and reuse if you can’t seem to think of one.

“ALWAYS smile at the squirrels in the morning.” You can pretend they smile back and then the first thing you smile at will be happy to see you smile.

“Don’t put orange juice in your coffee.” It’s just not a good idea.

“It’s not empty, that’s just what it wants you to think.” Technically, he meant this to mean that if you put water in it, nothing will be empty anymore, but I am disgusted by his watery ketchup, so I took it as an optimistic view on life instead.

“No need to buy dinner when it costs the same for a parking ticket to the lake.” If you have the chance to make your own food for yourself, don’t buy it already made, that’s half the fun.

“Swing back, swing forward, don’t hook grandpa in the head.” Keep control of the pole when you’re fishing or no one is going to want to fish with you anymore.

“Always check the garage sales before you check the farmer’s market.” Deals man, all the good deals.

“Living lavishly doesn’t have to mean living expensively.” Find somewhere that makes you feel like you’re the richest person alive. Even if it’s a field with a tent.

“If someone drives by, wave, you don’t know how their day is going.” Self explanatory.

“If you can’t remember the lyrics, make up your own.” I’ve heard ten different renditions of ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ and they keep getting better.

“Don’t let anyone tell you how much ice cream you’re allowed.” Pretty self explanatory.

“Family’s always there for some reason, so don’t feel inclined to visit all the time.” You don’t have to be around your family every day, sometimes you just need to be by yourself.

“Never hesitate to stop on the side of the road and pick some flowers.” An act that I witnessed so many times. It just makes your day a little better somehow.

“Take a deep breath on your morning walk… just make it away from the cows.”

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It's settling. The dust is calming down and I can hear the relieving sounds of the crowd shaking it off. The surrounding buildings come into view and my sigh couldn't have been bigger. The skyscraper down the street was still standing, though a few of it's windows were now in shards on the sidewalk below. Although a few cars had been dented by debris, there was no wailing. No immediate mention of pain. No distraught voices calling for help. Which could mean that the help is too late, but I have to believe is because this disaster chose not to harm the individuals who witnessed it. There are scrapes and bruises. On the city and the people. But their is still foundation. Still a starting point that will not be taken away. Through the settling dust and rubble, there is still the chance that the disaster can be known as a miracle. After all, the woman standing a few feet away is alive, with messy hair and disheveled demeanor. She is standing, I am standing, so many around the city are still standing.

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What is more common? The feeling of rage or the feeling of love? To many these two have that certain ideal. That bright, burning shade. It is the shade of the veil over your eyes when you are offended. But at the same time, it is the color of the passion that overflows from every pore when you see… them. It is desire and it is furiosity. Vibrant flowers and holidays. But also angry marks, memories that are better forgotten, as if they could be. It is pain, as it flows out of you. Life, dripping out, from where it used to be safe. In that way, it could be sadness, as it seeps away. In short, it is the romance and the rage, the pain and the sadness, the beauty and the death. The heat of the fire, no matter what the feeling. Whether it is is flaming desire or heated anger. Burning tears or smoking looks. The fire and the flood of emotions that drips down with it.

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Before many things, I am bland. Compared to my surroundings, I am boring. No decorations, no color. From any viewpoint, I am forgotten. Of course, there's not much there to be looking at. Taking up a small portion of the small room. Like I said before, upon first glance, I am nothing. But when you open me, I come to life. Knobs and needles and wires awaiting your command. Sitting, patient and lovely as ever. Still start in color, but beautifully bold in energy. The vintage aura seeping from my cracks could rejuvenate many. In this moment, I am splendid.

And of course, it only gets better when you put me to work. As you lay the flat weight onto my back and dig the needle through, I crackle and pop to your satisfaction. Then, with a catch and a brief pause, the sound bursts out from every corner. Spilling onto the carpet and invading the air. Making its way swiftly to your waiting eardrums.

It's discouraging to think of how little I am when alone. When it's just me, there is no pizazz. No excitement. Just a bland object lying in a room, gathering dust. But then, so are my companions while they are not with me. Sitting gathering dust all the same. For of course, a record is nothing without a record player.

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How? How is this possible? What happened to the water? To the deep blue atmosphere? Sinking into my surface and giving me the life I’ve cherished. The life which was slipping away as I thought of it. Drying out of me like a beached whale. All there was now was the blistering sun and the coarse, unwanted sand. Not the same as the soft grains which I had laid in years past. The sand, where I grew, where I flourished. This dry, sticky sand was the very ingredients of damnation. To think the crabs I’ve been acquainted with actually enjoy going back and forth between our paradise and this burning, plot of hell. Why has it come to this? Any other form of death would be preferable. Even the slow terrifying anticipation of extinction from those disgusting mammals who think they own the water, would be more honorable than this. Dried out. Laying, dying, burning. With no strength to fight and no hope of survival. This was it. Ther rest of my plant may wonder where I’d gone, if I was okay. Maybe a stinking crab would be the one to relay the news. I’d been beached and that was the end of me. Maybe he’d laugh, thinking of his own invulnerability to this monstrous killer that is the sun. That is the sand, stealing my moisture, my life. For what? For it’s selfish need to kill what it wants when it wants. Maybe this very sand is upset. Upset that it’s been stepped on all it’s life. But how does that give it the right to take it out on me. What did I do? What did I ever do to deserve this?