Table of Contents

Zero Decibels. I…..Hearing Begins, the introduction II…..Moon Prose + revisions III…..Moon Poetry + revisions IV…...Moon Haiku + revisions V…..The Flirtation + revisions

Railsongs.

I…..Railsong + revisions II…..3 Parts to Pain//sour III…..We real cool by Gwendolyn Brooks IV…..Hipsters on a Train

The Fifth Octave.

I…..break (bayou) by Suheir Hammad II…...Tree III…..In lieu of bacon IV…...A V…...10 word story

Thunderclap.

I…...Unmistakable + revisions II…...November by ursula hegi III…..The Meadow + revisions IV…..Leaves + revisions V…..Carmen Sandiego + revisions VI…..A Bit Stuffy + revisions

Hearing Begins

At this moment I would like to take a pause and reflect on the experiences that I had during this camp. I

would like to use the silence, the apprehension before the main event, the curtains­about­to­open, the

jitters, to speak directly to my teachers. All of you have been wonderfully instructive and caring over the

developement of myself and my classmates as individuals and budding writers. Mr. Zein’s seriousness

and focus, combined with his power to turn the universe upside­down and take a cosmic laugh, and his

thorough knowledge of poetry and years of experience has really taught me a lot about style, influence,

and content that reaches people. Ms. Lenaya’s stunning wardrobe, fresh outlook, critical yet supportive

analysis, and understanding of the inner workings of stories has helped me to dive into great poetry and

prose and find the gems beneath their surfaces. Last but certainly not least, is Ms. Vivienne, who

brought an entirely different voice and feeling to the class which I enjoyed. Her awkward humour, the

way she could expand upon the littlest subjects and turn them into entire theses, her ability to encourage

and see through to students while still being honest and direct, her captivating stories, and strength of

character were only part and parcel to what I really think was the shining point in what she brought to

our class. She had so much passion! Her depth, knowledge, and enthusiasm for such topics of life that

people like myself have only yet scratched the surface of was astounding, and hearing her go from the

Harlem Renaissance to gender studies to etymological research to body politics was extraordinarily

informative and thought provoking. Anywho, I really enjoyed my time at this camp, even when I got

1000% soaked in the rain, even when I had to re­apply deodorant 3 times in 7 hours because it was

90+ degrees and I had probably walked a few miles just to get around campus, I got the chance to

meet a diverse group of kids who I got pretty close to and who I found I had a lot in common with. The

class taught me a lot more than I had even expected to learn. It was here, seeing the works of other kids

in my age group, that I was really able to fully grasp my own personal taste and define my personal

writing style through comparison with others. Moreover, for the first time I got to intensely study what

makes great stories, great poems, and even great haikus tick; and that’s a very powerful opportunity.

Some of the only criticisms I had were that in workshop I like to edit other people’s works so I gave a

lot of edits, but often for my work I didn’t have many comments so I didn’t know what to revise exactly

or the comments were vague so the revisions didn’t have much to stand on. Now, onto the book! I

designed my portfolio to take you through the moods expressed and contained in different volumes,

measured in deciBels. The first half, the poetry section, begins with a quiet midnight ambiance, at the

silence through which thoughts can be emitted, zero deciBels. Next, is a little amp in the volume, with

the brief interlude of a section I call Railsongs. The Railsongs are written through the noise of everyday

life, the loudness it can achieve, poetry with a 90 deciBel background, formed in the rush everyone lives

in. Next is another shift in tone and style, with the fifth octave, a volume near that of bass tones and the

instinctual, natural beats that course through our bodies. These enable a natural percussion that sounds

through the Finally, the shift to prose rolls in loudly, like a Thunderclap, 130 deciBels of story.

Formation (original) The moon hangs, like a pendant upon the tapestry of night sky, its fabric embroidered with glimmering stars. However, the earth was born, faceless and crude, a dingy ball of clay hurtling around a nondescript corner of the universe; in a fuss of energy and fire. It was there. By the time the earth made first kiss upon the heel of man it had long known a companion, watchful preserver. It is a demure thing. Sole preserver of the light in darkness, it sits and watches over the tide. It washes a pale glow along faces in the evening time. Man, bewildered in the present, seeks to know where he came from, and to retrace his step. Origins have been sought from the wise one, the doctor, the preacher, the astrologer, the thinker, the physicist, and the dreamer. Throughout the centuries it has made its humble glow to the stymie of man. “Where did our earth, our lives, our thoughts come from?”, we ask. In this self­absorbed stupor, we too often neglect the loving care of the Friend. So concerned­­ with pinpointing our inception, our birth, our genesis, that we forget; it was there. By what fiery blast did it come? By what raging spew? By whose tender, loving hands? By what accident? Or could it have been love, that joined the two?

Genesis (revised)

The earth was born, faceless and crude, a dingy ball of clay hurtling around a nondescript corner of the universe; in a fuss of energy and fire. It was in those days full of the desperate, flailing newness in our world that a friendship too was born. Thus, by the time the earth made first kiss upon the heel of man it had long known a companion, watchful preserver. It is a demure thing. Sole preserver of the light in darkness, it sits and protects the tide. Sweet caresser of the lover’s cheek, it bathes dark faces in its light. Man, bewildered in the present, seeks to know where he came from, and to retrace his step. Origins have been sought from the wise one, the doctor, the preacher, the astrologer, the thinker, the physicist, and the dreamer. “Where did our earth, our lives, our thoughts come from?”, we ask. In this self­absorbed stupor, we too often neglect the loving care of the Partner. So concerned­­ with pinpointing our inception, our birth, our genesis, that we forget; it was there. By what fiery blast did it come? By what raging spew? By whose tender, loving hands? By what accident? Or could it have been love, that joined the two?

I. The Introduction (I wrote the original on a piece of paper and lost it) I wax and I wane, The luminary, I, peering from the foreground of foliage, shy, skittered into your web by chance, Happenstance, the Fly, A little fissure in the psyche, slowly seeps a grey ooze; unto the life. Toxic, Poison, and yet unwounded, slowly slipping out of life. Who ever cared about a sick girl, in a sea of mangled strife?

Question (original)

I see the moon ask

How did we get here, by chance? Never asked for this.

A Question (revisited) I and the moon ask How did we get here, by chance? Never asked for this.

The Flirtation

He eludes me

and yet it is all part of the game.

Platonics see the way I gaze at him from the window

and grow fear,

feebly they sling their dissuasions

and they cascade upon two mutes

­just drizzle­

Because they cannot fathom what I see in The Phantom

or the fact that really,

its what he sees in me.

Such a coy sadism

to lie with all the others

while I, meanwhile, cannot sleep;

because desire aches and bleeds,

And there’s no aspirin for this love.

He wants me to beg.

So I get all ragdoll,

trying hard to balance on my knees;

It’s cute really,

the way I gaily skip into the void

Too young for the world to hold any

­sentimental value­

I permit to toss it off.

But with a shake of his head he knows better,

“maybe when you’re older”,

he says.

So now ensues the Flirtation.

I let care hang off me rakishly,

And don the skimpiest outfits of heed,

so that he will abandon mistress Mercy

and take me.

Railsongs (original) There is a man singing on the metro. Passengers pour into the doors they sit; slumped in their defeated curves Silent and waiting for the train to move so they can get on with their lives forgetting, this is their lives. It is a Hindi song, and overflows with sweet melodic trills Air conditioners battlele fiercely with the oppressive summer regime above my head, and, a rubenesque Venus fans herself in long, drowsy strokes Unsung to western ears, the undulations in his voice fall as a hypnotic ear nectar. Everyone around me bows into their devices performing the ritual obeisance. Like divers, they lean, they look as though they might fall in. He closes his eyes and lets the silky refrains spill into the carriage, but he veils them, modestly beneath the protests in the bus’ gears. There is a woman covered with beady black moles, face down to feet she sits like she hates each one of those things. But I want to tell her that those are her stars, and she is the everloving galaxy. I saw a puddle once, rainbowed with crude oil, each shared a complex geometry that puddle was the ocean to something. And I think, what did I do to deserve worlds on top of worlds and worlds beyond, below, inside me? the answer is “nothing”. And they are puzzled at the tears.

He sang himself a a lullaby, and tucked himself to sleep.

Railsongs (renewed) There is a man singing on the metro. Passengers pour into the doors they sit; slumped in their defeated curves Silent and waiting for the train to move so they can get on with their lives forgetting, this is their lives. It is a Hindi song, and overflows with sweet melodic trills Air conditioners battle an oppressive summer regime atop my head, and, a rubenesque Venus fans herself in long, drowsy strokes Unsung to western ears, the undulations in his voice fall as a hypnotic ear nectar. Everyone around me bows into their devices performing the ritual obeisance. Like divers, they lean, they look as though they might fall in. He closes his eyes and lets the silky refrains spill into the carriage, but he veils them, modestly beneath the protests in the bus’ gears. There is a woman covered with beady black moles, face down to feet she sits like she hates each one of those things. But I want to tell her that those are her stars,

and she is the everloving galaxy. I saw a puddle once, rainbowed with crude oil that puddle was the ocean to something. And I think, what did I do to deserve worlds on top of worlds and worlds beyond, below, inside me? the answer is “nothing”. And they are still puzzled at the tears. He was singing himself a lullaby, he tucked himself to sleep.

3 Parts to Pain // Sour, or what you will I

You know, it’s very hard to eat cereal when you hate yourself. Pitiful, shame­filled tears get into the milk and they’re really not enough to change the taste but some ridiculous part of your brain insists, ‘it tastes funny!’ and now you can’t eat it. It’s probably better that way anywho. I grow upset with my body, become very cross with it. I critique it, lambast it, give it counsel, tried my best to raise it right. The body is my child, in fact, and it has a very long name: ugh so fat hideous disgusting revolting nobody will ever want you worthless garbage jr. Kind of has a nice ring to it. I want your compliments but they don’t do anything for me, I would whine without them but I take no joy by being doused in them. Pour me in them, submerge me in them, stick my head under them, watch how I gurgle and drown under them. No matter how long I swim I won’t find this moby dick of self­esteem, and they don’t call me Ishmael.

V Everybody kept saying that, I was waiting around for it to get old, wincing every time it was used in expectation of the fall and upon whose lap the stale joke would lay bitterly for the last time. I’d seen it happen enough before. Every time I came to the metro I would look around for crazy, disheveled, or overdressed people. Remembering each morbid gif, each scarring account of someone flinging themselves, past all given instinct, towards the moving train and underneath its wheels, across its face. I’ve heard the conductors plead with us, “please step away from the platform”, “please do not block the doors, they will close on you”, and with every shuffled closing of the doors, every screech and thunderous wind of the train incoming there was a tightening in me, a hesitation and expectation of the worst, the sickening grind. And when I walked across the street I walked around all the manholes because my friend fell in one but he caught himself, but he could’ve not caught himself, he could’ve been anyone. So I switch off the news now most of the time just to spare myself from the routine self­strangling on paranoia, and wonder if there’s a website where we can trade in paranoia for real fear, something substantial, something not to laugh at.

X I saw a headline today that said, ‘eminem is starting to actually resemble an m&m’ and I thought, ‘my, that’s an important headline.’ I mean, it’s not like people are getting blown out of the sky and their mangled carcasses are getting looted for money to spend on drugs and other numbing things that make one stupid to all inane realities. Of course not. But back to more important things, eminem is apparently getting fat it didn’t seem like it to me and just hearing the word m&m is frightening because if I lose my precious neuroticism over my body and the way I appear I might lose my hallowed position as a Knight­of­the­societal­round­table. See, it’s really quite a fun club which basically revolves around (many puns intended) everyone standing in a circle and wishing they had whatever the person in front of them has. And the payoff? Toothless men without homes tell you ‘you’re such a pretty lady’, or at least that’s what you think they said, and you go on about your day. The bonus reward is that you get to spend a few minutes scrubbing your mind of the pity and sadness you feel closing in around you and keep your eyes forward so you won’t think about it. Cuz if you did think about it then all the terrible things there are to think about that surround you everywhere would just sort of boil and fester in your mind like a stew of foul­smelling greens; and you’d stay in your house all day and become a writer or something. And for GOD’S SAKE, DON’T BECOME A WRITER.

Hipsters on a Train, too (a tip­of­the­hat to Ms. Gwendolyn Brooks)

­Too Cool­ to look at you,

We wear shades.

­Too Cool­ for common sexcloth, Only androgynous shape.

­Too Cool­ for human interest,

Just our technology.

­Too Cool­ for ambiance, Solely underground LP’s.

­Too Cool­ to carry weight,

Mere skin and bones.

­Too Cool­ to speak to the other, ­Too Cool­ to touch one another, ­Too Cool­ to love eachother,

Mere skin and bones.

­­­­­­­­­­­­­ ­ break (bayou) ­ ­­­­­­­­­­­­­­

Suheir Hammad 7

view our lives through the prism hurricane

check what got flooded check what salt preserved check what wind kissed

you feeling me see how we waded see how we waited

monarchs danced around us muttered lies

murdered in fives and tens and twenties

[…] [we] forced paths irrigated soil migrated bloodlines coiled around our aching spines

[…] check how we crunk check how we dip check how we slide we loud and muted you hear me”

[p. 25]

The Tree, me.

Peeled down and stripped to the bare. Bone.

Pummel me into white sheets, write.

The pen, ink, forest fire.

Burn. Burn.

Spread me around, circulate.

Breathe. Oxygen out through my green,

leaves. Feed the fire,

fan the flames. See what I touch,

that which is changed. Slim into black

forms mimic the night.

You open your nose, In. out.

Inhale me, my bark, my roots

And stick your hands into my soul,

feel. the earth around your fingers,

reveals. The lore, a myth,

the truth.

In lieu of Bacon I eat pain for breakfast and then I lick it off my fingers I’m aware that it is undignified but it’s ­good­to­the­last­drop­

A Ratio of dead

Does math take away the pain? We do art to scream.

Ten Word Story I checked my pockets, but he only took my virginity.

Unmistakable (original) The loitering ghosts of breakfast still hung in the air. Coffee stained ceramics and fussed­over newspapers were cloistered on the table. Everything in the room seemed to remain in an obedient silence. Some irrational fear of shattering said silence made my stockinged footsteps ginger as they swept across the carpet. I felt wrong for this room. All the furniture was poised, even the leftover dishes were artfully ajar. And who was I? Nothing but a girl in a dress, bright red and weary from overwear, still clutching the smell of stale cigarettes and wine. I sat in a chair at the table and stared at the wall, not really looking at anything, but hoping that by staring into the blankness I might become nothing at all. I saw myself in my minds eye, imagining myself sitting so still I could become art, like a statue. I wanted my picture taken, perhaps the window light slashed across my pale face, and my disheveled position rendered me that tousled, unkempt gorgeous for a slim window of time. But I remembered myself. I was nothing like this house, and nothing like those who lived in it. I could never be as chic and gaunt as Noelle, as long and barely there as Esme. They were French; svelte and alluring, perfectly attributed with all of those unfathomable angles that make them perfect when they stand still, graceful when they move, and somehow vaguely artistic when they are a disheveled mess. I had tried to be all of those things. That’s why I now sat in a chair, letting precious seconds of my life drip through my fingers as I peered into a wall, replaying in my mind scenes from a night filled with false laughter and short­lived, inebriated joys; all done in an absurd red dress. I had tried to be as cold and sophisticated as the French girls, and the ceramics, and the poised furniture. But there were too many warm wells of passion in me. I wasn't hollow I was rotund, not callous but tenderly empathetic; in the end I was sad and alone. Glancing over, I saw myself in the flowers at the center of the table. Whereas everything else in the room was in fashionable matte neutrals, they sat luridly vibrant in a ceramic cup. Flooding the quiet corner with fuschia, they didn’t match the room. They had been a gift from some painfully optimistic boy to Esme and Noelle, who couldn’t care less about him and shoved his flowers in a pot without even thinking, and tossed his sweet note card on the floor somewhere. Nonetheless, they were lively and exuberant, elegantly curved and bowed, especially those blushing in the slant of window light. They didn’t fit into the chilly room’s atmosphere. But nonetheless their beauty was, unmistakable.

Unmistakable (renewed) The loitering ghosts of breakfast still hung in the air. Coffee­stained ceramics and fussed­over newspapers were cloistered on the table. Everything seemed to remain in an obedient silence. Some irrational fear of shattering said silence made my stockinged footsteps ginger as they swept across the carpet; feeling wrong for the room. Is she okay? She’ll be alright. She’s going to get her mascara all over the carpet. We’ll pay someone to clean it, allons dormir. All the furniture was poised, even the leftover dishes were artfully ajar. And who was I? Nothing but a girl in a dress, red and weary from overwear, still clutching the smell of stale cigarettes and wine. I sat in a chair at the table and stared at the wall, blank , hoping I might become nothing at all. I saw myself in my mind’s eye, sitting still so I could become art, like a statue. Perhaps the window light slashed across my face elegantly, maybe my disheveled position rendered me that tousled, unkempt gorgeous for a slim window of time. But I remembered myself. Wine­glasses chime. Lonely pangs. A drink to remember. Strange arms. A drink to forget. A certain burn. Tears. I was nothing like this house, or those who lived in it. Not as chic and gaunt as Noelle, not as long and barely there as Esme. Models, French. Svelte and alluring. Perfectly attributed with those unfathomable angles that make them perfect when they stand still, graceful when they move, and somehow vaguely artistic through every disheveled mess. Oh don’t mind her this is our exchange­girl, American, excuser ses manières. I had tried to be all of those things. And that’s why I was sitting in a chair now, letting the precious seconds of my life drip through my fingers as I peered into a wall. I let my eyes glaze over, turned over in my mind scenes from the night. Each revolution flashed scenes of tinny laughter and short­lived, inebriated joys­­ performed in an absurd red dress. Cruel laughter. Everywhere. Around the ears. Crashing into them. Hard waves. I had tried to be as cold and sophisticated as the French girls, and the ceramics, and the poised furniture. But passion welled in me, I wanted to drain it out. I wasn't hollow I was rotund, not callous but tenderly empathetic; in the end I was sad and alone.

I don’t have anything to wear Esme. It doesn’t matter, put on my old red dress it’s much too big for me now­you should fit it. What did you do, diet? Every model diets, mon dieu, elle est stupide. Glancing over, I saw the set of flowers at the center of the table. Everything else in the room was in fashionable matte neutrals, they sat luridly vibrant in a ceramic cup. Flooding the quiet corner with fuschia, the flowers decided not to match. An invite. A Chance. Nervous bees. A buzz. They were a gift from some painfully optimistic boy to Esme and Noelle, who couldn’t care less about him. Thoughtless and young, they shoved his flowers into a pot and moved along. A sweet note card lay on the floor somewhere. What should I wear with this? I don’t know, what about that skirt? This? Her fashion sense is not as god awful as we imagined eh? Nonetheless, the bouquet was lively and exuberant, elegantly curved and bowed; a few petals blushed in a slant of light from the window. Lifting one out with a light pinch, I brought it to my nose and shuffled to the window. Paris heaved and buzzed below. Daybreak. Linen sheets. Sunrise. Full Hips. A yawn. Soft belly. A smile.

Kai­Rhys, aged 12

A Dark­eyed beauty, something heavy in his brow, mind tilted skyward.

Eione, aged 10

“A glimmer, a laugh that rose and walked, that’s her.”

The Meadow (redone)

The north wind swept a broad stroke over the meadow. Long grasses trembled, as though tickled. A

sigh rippled through tree leaves, and the wildflowers bent back, leaves outstretched, to receive.

Something golden blanketed the air; even the flying creatures slowed, drunk on its nectar. The earth

gave a satisfactory thump beneath each tap of Kai­Rhys’ walking stick, and the grasses laid beneath his

young feet. When he felt squarely in the middle of the meadow, his familiar spot, he lowered himself

down and sat, looking. A dark­eyed beauty, something heavy in his brow, mind tilted skyward. He

closed his eyes to hear the wind, to hear every individual tree say something, to hear the branches resist,

and the grasses shiver, just as Master Amal­Bek’lan had taught him. But, in between the wind’s

symphony, he could make out a piercing golden tone. His eyes fluttered open and his muscles tensed,

and as it neared he could begin to hear the faint outlines of her words­

Women don’t raise their arms

their bangles never chime

Men no longer sing

their swords scrape instead

Children do not play

their voices never ring

when will it be alright again in Persis?

A girl came bursting forth out of the thicket, hair flowing and singing to the top of her lungs; until she saw

the boy in the clearing. Her song died abruptly in the air and she stood, her white tresses catching up

with her still body. A tense silence passed, intersected only by the wind. “Hello!” he said, arching his

neck slowly in a customary greeting. The singing girl quickly turned on her heels and sped off into the

forest without a word. His eyes lingered in the space she left for a long while before returning home.

Mother (original) I strapped Tabitha into her velvety blue car­seat, periodically grunting out “uh­huh”s to her incessant chatter. She was an early talker and, for as much fanfare as we had made over that revelation, it quickly dawned on me that that meant the prattle that now clogged my ears would arrive before my motherly patience had set in. I took a firm grip on the van’s door handles and powerfully slammed it closed, the only way it would shut without guiltily sliding open once on the road, and settled into the front seat of our purple van myself. Sitting in the elevated parking lot I looked out over our house. It was small and cozy, me and Shawn’s first house together; everything was still so new. He had painted the porch a silly color of red that was extraordinarily noticeable to anyone in the parking lot, but that was alright, I was still learning about him. I was still learning his smell late in the evening after work, still learning how the hair on his arms felt at 2am while cradling his first, soft child. Now I was learning about pre­school, and the special way 4­year­olds who love to read and talk play with other children on their alphabet­teaching carpets. As the motor began to hum the onslaught began, “what shape is a stop sign?” “what’s our address?” “can we get a bike?”. The radio was fixed on the Tom Jointer morning show, its regular station, and playing Michael Jackson, “that voice is a boy and not a girl?”. But in between commercials they would play the news about 5 people who died today in something or other, “he said 5 people died?” “yes, Tabitha” “are they our family?” “no Tabitha, we don’t know them” “oh.” We were in the city during the the springtime now, so the leaves were plentiful and casting little kaleidoscope shadows across our windows and sunlit faces. Looking up at these leaves she asked me, “are leaves alive?” “yes, Tabitha” “so leaves can talk?!” “no, Tabitha, leaves are not conscious that means they don’t have thoughts and things like that” “oh.” “mommy. What does it feel like to be dead?” I nearly stopped the car entirely and caught a strange chill up my back. “Tabitha, being dead is not fun, you can’t feel anything at all. Don’t ask questions like that” I asserted, with a little waver in my voice. The question was innocent, but Tabitha could sense the tension in my voice and quieted down.

Leaves (reimagined)

I strapped Tabitha into her velvety blue car­seat, periodically grunting out “uh­huh”s to her incessant

chatter. She was an early talker and, for as much fanfare as we had made over that revelation, it quickly

dawned on me that that meant the prattle which now clogged my ears would arrive before my motherly

patience had set in. I took a firm grip on the van’s door handles and powerfully slammed it closed, the

only way it would shut without guiltily sliding open once on the road, and settled into the front seat of

our purple van myself. Sitting in the elevated parking lot I looked out over our house. It was small and

cozy, me and Shawn’s first house together; everything was still so new. He had painted the porch a silly

color of red that was extraordinarily noticeable to anyone in the parking lot, but that was alright, I was

still learning about him. I was still learning his smell late in the evening after work, still learning how the

hair on his arms felt at 2am while cradling his first, soft child. Now I was learning about pre­school, and

the special way 4­year­olds who love to read and talk play with other children on their

alphabet­teaching carpets. As the motor began to hum the onslaught began,

“what shape is a stop sign?”

“what’s our address?”

“can we get a bike?”. The radio was fixed on the Tom Jointer morning show, its regular station, and

playing Michael Jackson, “that voice is a boy and not a girl?”. But in between commercials they would

play the news about 5 people who died today in something or other,

“5 people died?”

“yes, Tabitha”

“are they our family?”

“no Tabitha, we don’t know them”

“oh.”

We were in the city during the the springtime now, so the leaves were plentiful and casting little

kaleidoscope shadows across our windows and sunlit faces. Looking up at these leaves she asked me,

“are leaves alive?”

“yes, Tabitha”

“so leaves can talk?!”

“no, Tabitha, leaves are not conscious that means they don’t have thoughts and things like that”

“oh.”

“Mommy. What does it feel like to be dead?”

I nearly stopped the car entirely and caught a strange chill up my back.

“Tabitha, being dead is not fun, you can’t feel anything at all. Don’t ask questions like that”

I asserted, with a nervous edge to my speech. The question was innocent, but Tabitha could sense the

tension in my voice and quieted down. As we rolled under the cool trees, I could see her gazing at the

leaves that passed by. I know she saw the ones that were alive but unthinking, the ones that were dead

and felt nothing at all. I tried to calm down but it was not her question that unnerved me. The problem

was; I did not have all the answers.

Brother (original)

I have only just learned to sit and as easy as the older people make it appear, it takes an awful amount

of contractions and maneuverings in your belly to do it; I guess they have practice. I exercise my new

skill on the beige carpets, going a little grey, of our living room. My sister Tabitha and I are plopped

squarely before the T.V. and she sits on her knees, paying rapt attention to the Carmen Sandiego

something or other program and mouths the words to the theme song, her eyes glued to the screen. For

all the intense focus she was devoting to the show, one would have rendered it a sacred program, but I

for one didn’t much understand its appeal. The words weren’t uttered in the slow, sing­songy way I was

accustomed to, and the action appeared rather random to me; but I took delight in seeing the brilliant

colors and flashy designs seeping out of that magical box. Tabitha would, at seemingly random intervals,

emit a torrent of laughter. Out of both some innate, instinctual desire to repeat others and the sheer

humour in seeing her erupt into giggles, I would laugh with her too. The show was long; however, and I

grew bored, swiveling my head over the room to search for some activity. The tall white bookshelf had

a certain appeal but climbing it could prove disastrous (as it has time and time before). There were an

array of CD’s and tapes within the rotating CD­tape deck, but I was almost certain Tabitha would have

a tantrum were I to scatter those marvelous, shining disks. About to give up, I caught a whiff of my

sister’s hair, slick and a little sticky with the fragrant oils my mother had used to style it into a series of

springy twists. Holding each twist were multi­colored balls, wound tightly around the kinky coils.

Suddenly, an idea presented itself. Leaping into action I took one of the twists and pulled as tightly as I

could, feeling the texture of the combed locks beneath my hands. Unfortunately, I had underestimated

the effect this would have on Tabitha’s temperamental 4­year­old moods, and grew startled as she

toppled off of her knees, tapped her head against the glass table and proceeded to scream at the top of

her lungs. In a fit of pain and tiny rage she jumped up and down, stomped her feet, wagged her fists,

and grew redder than I knew a girl of her color could. To all the commotion my father came upstairs

and set a questioning eye upon his incomprehensible, fuming daughter and guilty­looking little son.

Carmen Sandiego (revised)

I have only just learned to sit, and as easy as the older people make it appear, it takes an awful amount

of contractions and maneuverings in your belly to do it; I guess they have practice. I exercise my new

skill on the beige carpets, going a little grey, of our living room. My older sister Tabitha and I are

plopped squarely before the T.V. and she sits on her knees, paying rapt attention to the Carmen

Sandiego something or other program, mouthing the words to the theme song, her eyes glued to the

screen. She was devoting intense focus to the show, but I for one didn’t much understand its appeal.

The words weren’t uttered in the slow, sing­songy way I was accustomed to, and the action appeared

rather random to me; but I took delight in seeing the brilliant colors and flashy designs seeping out of

that magical box. Tabitha would, at seemingly random intervals, emit a torrent of laughter. And thus, out

of both some instinctual desire to repeat others and the sheer humour in seeing her erupt into giggles, I

would laugh with her too. The show was long for my 2­year old attention­span; however, and I grew

bored, swiveling my head over the room to search for some activity. The tall white bookshelf had a

certain appeal but climbing it could prove disastrous (as it has time and time before). There were an

array of CD’s and tapes within the rotating CD­tape deck, but I was almost certain Tabitha would have

a tantrum were I to scatter those marvelous, shining disks. About to give up, I caught a whiff of my

sister’s hair, slick and a little sticky with the fragrant oils my mother had used to style it into a series of

springy twists. Holding each twist were mutli­colored balls, wound tightly around the kinky coils.

Suddenly, an idea presented itself. Leaping into action I took one of the twists and pulled as tightly as I

could, feeling the texture of the combed locks beneath my hands. Unfortunately, I had underestimated

the effect this would have on Tabitha’s temperamental 4­year­old moods, and grew startled as she

toppled off of her knees, tapped her head against the glass table and proceeded to scream at the top of

her lungs. In a fit of pain and tiny rage she jumped up and down, stomped her feet, wagged her fists,

and grew redder than I knew a girl of her color could. My father came upstairs to all the commotion and

set a questioning eye upon his incomprehensible, fuming daughter and guilty­looking little son.

A Bit Stuffy (original) It was ridiculously hot, as D.C. always was in the summertime, and my lungs struggled to wade through the moisture as I gulped down the humid air. Of all days, now I decide to wear a silk blouse? I chastised myself for the poor outfit choice while clacking. Clacking across the red metro tiles, my hips fighting the stiff fabric of my pencil skirt. Clacking across the concrete leading up to my office late late late. The thought of my boss, her disappointed glares beneath razor­sharp winged eyeliner and her pointed displeasure with me every time I stepped into her presence didn’t particularly help with the growing wet spots at the crux of my arms. I loved where I worked. I worked for a chemistry firm and chem had always been my favorite subject in high school. What’s more, the building was sleek and modern and although I’d never let on, to speak of this would be certain occupational death, but sometimes I just sat around in my office and looked at things. I looked at the courtyard in the center that everyone was too busy to sit in, with its ivied terraces, bubbling fountains, and cooly shaded benches. Sometimes I’d pretend to sigh like every professional too busy for joy ought to, and really I was inhaling the cooln cleaning­solution­smell that circulated through the air vents. Nearly all the walls and doors were made of glass, as well, so I checked myself out in passing, making sure that my black­girl bun didn’t look too messy. Sufficiently pleased, I click­clacked past the receptionist, making sure to give her a smile so I had permission not to look at her anymore. She gave me that warm matronly smile like everybody else in this office does, why does everybody treat me like a kid? I’m 25 years old for god’s sake. I pressed the elevator button which illuminated with a tangerine’s glow and stepped into the elevator and oh crap that cute guy is the only one in there. He was leaning rakishly against the inside corner while doing something on his phone and I walked in there with my head down, careful not to stand too close to him but close enough to him so I don't’ come off too creepy or too aloof. All these mind games were making my head hurt. I’m pretty sure he didn’t even look up from his phone.I took the opportunity of a few seconds to take some surreptitious glances at cute office guy. What was his name? Storm or something? Something sexy like that. My cubicle­mate Dana and I had often watched him stalk commandingly across the floor of our office and whispered like little kids probably why nobody takes me seriously. Somewhere around when I had started to stare at his dark, slick hair and the whisper of stubble along his chin and took notice of his versace belt I also happened to realize that the doors were not opening. He noticed at sort of the same instant and looked up from his phone, then looking at me. Wow, his eyelashes are­

“uh, what’s going on?” he asked me. “I uh...um I don’t know”

I had tried for a second there to formulate a reason and then I remembered that I was a secretary not an elevator technician.

“Hmm. I’ll try to ring the emergency thing” he said, stepping in front of me and tapping the red telephone button. We didn’t get a response and I could feel little beads and rivers forming deltas and spilling down my back. He didn’t seem to worry much though and began to chuckle,

“I guess we’ll be stuck in here for a little while huh? I’m Gray, I’ve seen you around the office right?”

is he actually talking to me “oh, yeah­yeah we’re in the same office I’ve...um, seen you. I’m Anais?” “Nice to meet you Anais” he said and offered me a firm handshake, looking professionally into

my eyes. I caught the gaze for a second and then looked down at the floor, instinct. I thought he wouldn’t notice but he said,

“What? Are you shy or something?” and gave a little smirk. I just nodded. He thought that was pretty funny and said

“that’s cute” all I could think of is what Dana’s face would look like if she saw this. He took out his phone again, I thought he was going to call somebody to fix the elevator, which probably would’ve been more useful given the circumstances but instead he said,

“you wanna give me your number?” *angels singing* I pressed the buttons so fast I missed a few and had to retype it but that didn’t matter because I was really happy, and sweaty, and happy, and I saw sweat begin to pool at the creases of his nose too. My head abuzz with excitement I suddenly remembered something crucial. My face turned red but luckily you can’t tell that beneath all the brown, and I stammered bodily, making jerky movements towards the elevator pad buttons because I hadn’t hit the key to take me to level 4.

A Bit Stuffy (revisited)

It was ridiculously hot, as D.C. always was in the summertime, and my lungs struggled to wade

through the moisture as I gulped down the humid air. Of all days, now I decide to wear a silk blouse?

I chastised myself for the poor outfit choice while clacking. Clacking across the red metro tiles, my hips

fighting the stiff fabric of my pencil skirt. Clacking across the concrete leading up to my office late late

late. The thought of my boss, her disappointed glares beneath razor­sharp winged eyeliner and her

pointed displeasure with me every time I stepped into her presence didn’t particularly help with the

growing wet spots at the crux of my arms as I walked through the door. I loved where I worked. I was

a secretary for a chemistry firm and chem had always been my favorite subject in high school. What’s

more, the building was sleek and modern and although I’d never let on, to speak of this would be

certain occupational death, but sometimes I just sat around in my office and looked at things. I looked at

the courtyard in the center that everyone was too busy to sit in, with its ivied terraces, bubbling

fountains, and cooly shaded benches. Sometimes I’d pretend to sigh like a good, professional girl when

really I was inhaling the cool cleaning­solution­smell that circulated through the air vents. Nearly all the

walls and doors were made of glass, as well, so I checked myself out in passing, making sure that my

black­girl bun didn’t look too messy. Sufficiently pleased, I click­clacked past the receptionist, making

sure to give her a smile so I had permission not to look at her anymore. She gave me that warm

matronly smile like everybody else in this office does, why does everybody treat me like a kid? I’m

25 years old for god’s sake. I pressed the elevator button which illuminated with a tangerine glow and

I vaguely remembered the front­desk lady telling me that it’s air conditioner was broken just great. I

stepped into the elevator and oh crap that cute guy is the only one in there. He was leaning rakishly

against the inside corner while doing something on his phone and I walked in there with my head down,

careful not to stand too close to him but close enough to him so I don't’ come off too creepy or too

aloof. All these mind games were making my head hurt. I’m pretty sure he didn’t even look up from his

phone.I took the opportunity of a few seconds to take some surreptitious glances at cute office guy.

What was his name? Storm or something? Something sexy like that. My cubicle­mate Dana and I

had often watched him stalk commandingly across the floor of our office and whispered like little kids

probably why nobody takes me seriously. Somewhere around when I had started to stare at his dark,

slick hair, the whisper of stubble along his chin and caught a whiff of his Versace cologne I also

happened to realize that the doors were not opening. He noticed at sort of the same instant and looked

up from his phone, then looking at me. Wow, his eyelashes are­

“you know what’s wrong with this thing?” he asked me.

“I uh...um I don’t know”

I had tried for a second there to formulate a reason and then I remembered that I was a secretary not an

elevator technician.

“Hmm. Try ringing the emergency thing” he said, pointing at the red telephone button in front of

me. We didn’t get a response and I could feel little beads and rivers forming deltas and spilling down my

back. He didn’t seem to worry much though and began to chuckle,

“I guess we’ll be stuck in here for a little while huh? I’m Gray, I’ve seen you around the office

right?”

is he actually talking to me

“oh, yeah­yeah we’re in the same office I’ve...um, seen you. I’m Anais?”

“Nice to meet you Anais” he said and offered me a firm handshake, looking professionally into

my eyes. I caught the gaze for a second and then looked down at the floor, instinct. I thought he

wouldn’t notice but he said,

“What? Are you shy or something?” and gave a little smirk. I just nodded. He thought that was

pretty funny and said

“that’s cute” all I could think of is what Dana’s face would look like if she saw this. He took out

his phone again, I thought he was going to call somebody to fix the elevator, which probably would’ve

been more useful given the circumstances but instead he said,

“How about you give me your number?”

*angels singing*

I pressed the buttons so fast I missed a few and had to retype it but that didn’t matter because I was

really happy, and sweaty, and happy, and I saw sweat begin to pool at the creases of his nose too. My

head abuzz with excitement I suddenly remembered something crucial. My face turned red but luckily

you can’t tell that beneath all the brown, and I stammered bodily, making jerky movements towards the

elevator pad buttons because I hadn’t hit the key to take me to level 4.