Why blog?

I have to keep a blog for my creative writing class, many assignments will be posted by some other writings, poems, or thoughts will be shared. Let me know what you think!

Tuesday, April 30, 2013

Final Short Story


One hundred seventy-five. One hundred and seventy-five 4 by 4 pasty alabaster tiles covered the small square ceiling of the purple room with gold-framed awards across the wall. I lay on a velvet couch that looked like it belonged to a queen as my curly hair dangled over the armrest. I starred up to the ceiling to count the tiles for the 200th time, every once in a while saying a few words, "I feel" "Today I" And "for a while" then looking over at a mid-aged woman who sat on a small crimson chair  with clothes that were too small and never matched, she scribbles things down. I wondered what she wrote and if she wrote anything at all. Never looking up from the notebook she would randomly spit out words "I see" "tell me more" "how does it make you feel?". At times I did not have a chance to answer before she'd fix her big square glasses and start to scribble again. I'm sure if I left she would never notice. I don't know how she does it; day after day sitting in that same chair that now bore the imprints of her blossom when she stood. Just sitting with a notebook, hearing the problems of millions of other people for hours they would complain and she would listen. Knowing not once would someone ask her how she "feels" today. I dare not ask for I knew what it was like to be on the other side to be everyone's shoulder to lean on, invisible. I could be wrong, she could be happy with her life thinking she is helping others by just hearing their problems. But is it helping when you're paid to sit and hear people complain? By analyzing their issues and informing them "why they are the way they are" like they don't already know? I knew she thought I was crazy like the rest of them. Like always she ended early, not even looking at the time, "oh Tiffany you've done marvelous today! Next week, same time?" She grabbed my papers and sped to the front desk where she whispered to the receptionist, she could never whisper. "Double her douse of memazine." And she was gone off to probably inject her face with more poison though you couldn't see a single line in her face now. I followed behind putting on my coat and picked up the prescription. Just what I needed more anti-depressants to fill my body with. The young receptionist gave me a smile. I think creeped him out because when I smiled back he gave a puzzled face and turned away. I'm a little rusty on the whole smiling thing.
                I stepped outside, the icy frigid cool Boston air hit my face and of course no one is there. I've learned not to expect him to be there anymore. He always forgot I existed. As usual I stroll down the street to Point Place a small area where two larger buildings shared a small park. There is a trail behind one building one wouldn't know is there unless they already knew, it leads to a hill that oversees the wide city. This was my home, a place I could clear go to my head for a while. I had been coming here for years ever since my mother passed away. Tall trees surrounded the area it was small but big enough for me. If I could I would build a house here and never leave. I rested my head against a tree with no intention of calling my father to remind him that he did in fact have a daughter.
I walk down the old hallway to apartment 508 with a small cold bag from McDonalds in my hand. I had worked only a few days at the butcher shop this week, sometimes if I gave customers a little extra they gave me tips, which bought my dinner for the night. I just barely reach the door when Mary came running out of her apartment. "Tiff! Listen my sister has a friend whose daughter’s roommate is like moving away and like gained a bunch a weight or I don't know but she left me some clothes I think would be perfect for you! Come come!" Before I had a chance to reply Mary had grabbed my arm and was pulling me through her doorway. Mary was the kind of person you didn't really say no to and she loved hearing her voice so getting in a word was difficult too. She was in her late 40s light brown hair and brown eyes, she was reaching the stage where you can start to read the troubles someone has been through on their face. Though she still had an amazing body, she used to be a gymnast or something of the sort until she got into a car accident and had to stop. I take a step into the house and she rants as she digs through a closet "I had it right here! Give me a second doll let me look in the other room sit sit" as she walks away I glance around the room looking at pictures of her in her younger years across the wall she did so many things. I stop at a picture of Sarah, she's holding a trophy while in a swimsuit. At times I forget Mary use to have a daughter she was beautiful and looked just like her. She had long curly hair like mine only mine was blonde like my fathers. She would have been around my age if she were still alive, I wondered if that was why Mary treated me like a daughter at times. Her way of giving love that she still had left to give and in a way she filled the gap left behind by my own mother. She came back with a bag filled with clothes and a container with mountains of homemade food. "I had some extra food from dinner I hope you like stuffed f turkey and mash potatoes" She gave me that mother smile the one you get before your mom sends you off to school with your lunch, I've missed that smile. "Thank you Mary Thank you so much it smells delicious" I picked up the bag of clothes and headed next door. She watched me with a half-smile until I stepped into my apartment. The place seemed empty with only the sound of the TV going, dishes were piled in the sink from this morning and the trash needed to be taken out. The wallpaper was starting to peel. "Home sweet home" I thought. My father laid stump on the sofa chair with a beer in hand. He had gone 2 weeks without a drink; I guess the count will start again tomorrow. Everything that the man once stood for, the marines, the country, his family, his job, everything was sucked out of him that day. I imagine all that was left in his body was a shell of skin and bone, no blood, no muscle, no heart, no anything. I watch his tummy slowly move up and down, a sign he is still alive. I open the fridge, a cup, cheese, baking soda, butcher knife, 12 pack of beer and old fruit. I was shocked to see the fridge so full. I tried my best to make the dump look descent enough so when he woke he would not be angry. I picked up the basket of laundry and placed it on the table it knocked over a book and a picture flew out. I slowly pick it up; it was a picture of me and my mother on my 7th birthday. I was dressed like a princess in a bright pink dress and lots of ribbons, my mother wore a light pink dress I use to love every time we matched. We were so happy. I suddenly got a flashback;

I was walking down the stairs to a basement, it was quiet almost too quiet. Light from the windows tried its best to peak through but the wooden boards blocked most of it. The walls were blank a light tan, some of the walls had cords and wood running along them; I was told never to touch them. Toys and stuffed animals covered most of the grey basement floor, this place that should have been scary felt safe. I scan the room and stop to see the pretty pink fabric run down the legs that lay lifeless behind the washer, I feared to see who it was though deep down I already knew. I could recognize those sparkly pink heels from anywhere. I slowly walked to the washer as tears filled my eyes scared to look behind it, scared to find out. Suddenly my father rushes to me yelling “what did you do?! What did you do!” He grabbed me squeezing my arms to try to get me to talk. Confused I yelled back, “I didn’t, I, I, I didn’t” It wasn’t until then I noticed his blue jeans and dark grey shirt were stained with blood.

 Shaking, I slam the picture back into the book. I turn to see if my father had woken up, fortunately he hasn’t moved.  Rage slowly began to take over my body; I wasn’t the crazy one he was. I went back into the kitchen, open one of the wooden draws that held nothing but junk. Putting on rubber gloves I grabbed some cleaning supplies, a bucket filled with sponges, sprays, rags, and wipes, the works. I then opened the fridge and took the knife that didn’t belong there out. Our home was simple, not many objects were around making it easier to clean.
I made the initial wound right into his wind-pipe. His eyes shot open in shock while his hands covered his neck but it was too late blood had already covered him from the neck down. He opened his mouth in want but nothing came out. He could not scream; he could not talk. I continued stabbing him, over and over, it was like I could not stop for the first time I did not have control over my body, over my actions.
Forty-two, forty-two knife wounds made zig-zags up and down his torso and arms. I was quickly swimming in a pool of my father’s blood, here I was thinking he was empty inside when warm dark red blood pumped its way around, a waste, I thought. My father lies shaking, still gripping his neck it takes him great effort to breathe but somehow he gets a pattern going. He stares at me as if I were a stranger, an intruder, who sneaked in in the middle of the night to hurt him but I wasn’t here to hurt him, I only wanted to make things right, make things fair. I leaned over him, tears streamed down my face as I looked through the man who was once my world and whispered, “What did you do?”
My father was not the smallest man but with the help of the new knife set Mary got me for my birthday I managed to cut him down to a more manageable size. His organs, bones, body parts and bloody clothes fit nicely into three bags. I spent the rest of my time pouring the pounds of blood I mopped up into buckets down the drain of the sink. I was always taught to be an efficient cleaner; I scrubbed on my hands and knees wiping down every inch of the apartment. I took the three trash bags down to the dumpster; we had three in the apartment complex. I took one bag to each dumpster working fast; I remembered the garbage truck came early on Thursdays. Carefully I placed the large bloody sentiment into a container and then into the fridge not sure why I wanted to keep it fresh. Three-thirty in the morning when I finished and finally rested my head on my pillow counting down the hours until I had to be up to fight through another day. I dreamed about the love I use to have, the love he use to give and I swear I could still hear his heart beating in the fridge.

Short story

Ink Blot 
Anna Famuberk

Breathe. Anna just breathe, nothing else matters but that sweet refreshing cool taste of air. Every time I tried for that beautiful thing we all took for granted, heavy bitter blood and dry smoke took its place. Filling my lungs like the helium dwelling in the bright hot pink balloons that still stayed tied to the thin branches of the tall oak trees around the garden. I watched six blue birds dart from their home as the sounds of the machine guns released their silver bullets. The butterfly cages fell on their side, the clowns dressed up like babies laid lifelessly in the rose bushes, the chainsaw juggle-list was no longer whole, I never knew the inside of a human body was so dark and gruesome with so much blood. The young horses ran wild; I could almost see their hearts beating against their chest. Pipper, my loyal brown lab laid still next to the baby circus elephant that seemed to be sleeping. How much I wished they were all just sleeping.
Like fingernails scratching on a chalkboard, the historical screams from the people trapped inside clawed at my ears. The place I once called home now burned down in flames. I could feel the heat like a warm summer’s day. How I had missed the warm weather and cool breeze of Cape Cod. I could remember the day I finally came home from that god awful boarding school my parents had sent me. I had announced that there “must be a grand party” with everything exotic, clowns, horses, fire tricks, the works. The best money could buy at any cost. Even though I knew there was none left, my family had fallen into debt. They talked about some great depression and banks closing but I did not care, I wanted it all.
The thought of the last words I told my mother made me want to throw up. She had worked all night sewing my new royal blue dress with lace so elegant, I finally felt like a princess. My dear father worked three jobs and sold his precious car to make this event happen.  I would do anything to take it all back. For just another chance at being a good daughter, the daughter Mr. and Mrs. Famuberk deserved. I wondered where it had all gone wrong. It was at that point I had finally felt the pain from my bullet wounds start to take over my body.
A man emerged from the dark smoke; he threw two machine guns on the fresh cut grass. I could not detail his face only the bright white skull and cross bones on his black T-shirt caught my eye, it seemed untouched unlike the rest of his young body covered in ash and blood. This was the same skull I saw tattooed on his tan thick finger as he pulled a single shot martial pistol towards my head. I could never forget the dark sick feeling I got when we locked eyes. His, beautiful green like mint leaves, filled with anger as if the devil himself dwelled within him. I had not always believed in God but I knew if there was evil, this evil that took so many lives; there had to be good. My tears formed lakes as I closed my eyes and said my first prayer.

Poet's Choice

I watched intently
As the hands ticked from one to another
Small bubbles reached the surface
Can you breathe?
My mind kept loosing track
A perfect stranger
Her faith in my hands
Could God understand what she was praying for
Thin drops of sweat roll down my cheek
Its the same pain and when i wake
I hear the same wave of silence

Found Poem and Blackout/Erasure/Cut-out Poem

Lives of Strangers

Peeling walls
The fire
The boy
Scratched bright like sparrows
Bathing in sweat, full speed
Behind at the height of dancers
Love eyes sparkle

He reminds them
Dangerous, he talks of laws
On sex, menstruating women
Something about sin and expiation
Seems full with life
And justice

A sestina


Hi, I'm dory!
And this is a picture of chico!
He's a young fish that.. no Nemo!
His name was nemo, or elmo?
Any who he was taken from the ocean
And is trapped some where in a tank

A bird saw him in that tank himself
 Im dory by the way, did i say that?
I forgot a lot of things here in the ocean
I'm looking for this fish chico, hes lost
Elmo's dad Marlin is very worried
We are in an adventure to find nemo now

See nemo touched the butt and was taken
With the help of tank or crush? a turtle guy
And some sharks, we'll find elmo and they will announce
That I dory helped and yes
Whale its beneficial in this ocean actually.

Haiku and Senryu


Calming wind chills spine
Breathing in out out in
Just slow down the time

Rough hot dry concrete
Cool dark red pool grows big
People stop time stops

Tik tok tik tok stop
Down there ants march one by one
Tik tok tik tok go

She steps into hell
Winter got cold, her eyes
Straight to her soul

Monday tuesday wait
marking off the days again
Thursday friday come

Trust her Trust him trust
Pinky promise me again
Trust you Trust Bullshit

Sunday, April 7, 2013

Performance Poem

It is a letter to a loved one but contains features of several prompts

Twin of My Enemy

To the heavens, I call out

Come back, come back
With laughter and joy
With no regrets
Come back with
Hide and seek in the park
And dancing in the kitchen to your favorite  songs
With your million excuses and goodnight kisses

Come back, come back
With the screams behind my door
Hundred phone calls just to hear my voice
That twisted smile
Sneaky ungrateful devil
Twin of my enemy

I ask not why
Because I know why
The taunts, the bullying, coming home with black,
And blues, the thrill of the needle
The voices in your head
I ask not WHY but HOW
I ask not why a man would rip himself from the world
But HOW COULD a man rip himself from the world?
Not why he chooses the pills over family
But HOW COULD he choose the pills over family?
Not why he took another man’s life
But HOW COULD he take another man’s life?
Not why he left
But HOW COULD he leave?
Leave me?

Butterflies in my stomach, like the first day of school
Waving goodbye as you stood at the corner scrambling
Through the box of pictures as I pack
The rest of your things
My mother had said this over and over
But now I see
I truly am, my father’s daughter

To the heavens I call out
Come back, come back
With laughter and joy
With no regrets
Come back, come back
With no gun, no anger
No bullet in your head
Sneaky ungrateful devil
Twin of my enemy
Please, please
Come back