Relevant

Sentimentality

Dead Fish Afternoon! I miss you all so much. It was so great to work with you over the past week, and I could not be more proud of you all. I hope that many of you will stay involved with the blog and with each other. My email address is mitchellr@susqu.edu and you are all welcome to email me any time you like, for any reason. If you all want to add your email address as comments to this post, we can get a good contact list together. Alright! Here we go, the first writing exercise in the post-camp era.

Since I'm feeling so sentimental, I thought we could take a look at sentimentality in fiction. Where better to look, then, than to young adult fiction. We all had plenty of laughs at the melodrama of Twilight last week, lines like this beauty, "It was nice to be alone, not to have to smile and look pleased; a relief to stare dejectedly out the window at the sheeting rain and let just a few tears escape." We can all laugh because we know, looking from the outside, we can see how sentimental these lines can be. But, sadly, these are mistakes we can make ourselves. We can all write lame lines, even characters. Your challenge this week is to take a character from young adult fiction, Twilight, Harry Potter, Percy Jackson, The Hunger Games,  anything from the genre, and write a scene (scene, scene, scene!) that reveals character and motivation in an earned and felt way, rather than cheaply or melodramatically. I think this should be a fun one. Be ambitious. Be imaginative. Be writers.

Oh, and one more thing, in the spirit of this exercise, I'm jumping head first into The Hunger Games today.

Bobby doesn't always...

Princeton Voice

Hey guys! I miss you all like crazy. Bobby, bring on the prompt! Can't wait to see what everyone posts.

If you want to see our site, the Princeton Voice, in its initial phases, please visit www.princetonvoice.com. As of now, it only has my work on it (which isn't very good, to be quite honest) but it should give you an idea of the basic skeleton. We're still working on a log-in page and the submit work column.

Please let me know if you would like to contribute work! If you have anything that's ready, send it to me in an email (anithaahmed@gmail.com) and I'll put it up right away. I'd like to have a solid base of work before I make it totally public.

Miss you guys tons and tons!
Love,
Anitha

Restless (The doesn't suck as much version)

Restless, we called it, when she got like this. Coming straight home from school and arriving a good fifteen minutes earlier than normal because she couldn’t help but walk faster, propelled by some itch inside her to move. She’d take two steps into the kitchen then out the other side and straight up to her bedroom. These were the nights we’d hear pacing and furniture moving across the halls, and her bedroom light would still be lit when one of us got up to pee at three-thirty in the morning. She’d take on projects behind that door, and every piece of her furniture would suddenly sit on opposite corners of the room by the time she made it to breakfast the next morning. By the next day they might be somewhere new again.

These were the nights we forgot the alternative was a near-dead daughter, drooping in melancholy at the dinner table and not moving from that table until she had to drag herself up the stairs to bed in the early evening.

“Manic depressive.” The doctors had told us as we sat on too cushy couch pillows and avoided his words by studying the inspirational messages in brushstroke on the walls, “She’s bipolar.”

The words seemed too harsh, much too crazy, for a girl who was not even old enough to drive a car. Bipolar. The words left a sour taste in his mouth that he wanted to spit onto the green carpet.

Well here she was again, scooting up the stairs almost as soon as we caught sight of her. Miles of to-do lists were draping down the hallway behind her, following her as she went and only growing longer. Her mother gave a sharp cry about dinner. She couldn’t fight her forward momentum, though, and continued up the stairs with some incomprehensible murmur that sounded something like “homework.” He wasn’t disappointed, nor even a bit surprised. Nothing scared her more than the prospect of a family dinner on nights like these. I didn’t blame her. I wouldn’t be able to stand my mother’s eyes following every movement of my fork. Then again, I didn’t blame Carol from staring either. That utensil moved much too quickly between her mouth, eagerly waiting its dinnertime portion, and her full plate. Not once did she let it linger long enough to pick anything up. Though we heard her stomach give a grumble of protest, she would get straight up from the table and shoot right back to her room. Her dresser grated against the tile floor.

I glanced toward my wife for a moment, and she rolled her eyes and turned back to her mashed potatoes. She’d tried to fight it enough already. Enforcing bedtimes on school nights did nothing more than force her to hide alone in the darkness during those early morning hours, in hope that no one could see. She hadn’t fooled us though, as I caught her soft trod against the ceiling of my study down below. The beat of her toes from above formed the perfect rhythm to finish grading papers to before the sun found us. Her footfalls grew heavier as the night went on, and I noticed the nights she pretended to sleep, finally leaving the furniture in its places, that beat was ten times as quick. Ten times as restless.

I  imagined her up there, the darkness stifling her much too productive mind. While bedtimes tried to blanket her in silence, her mind buzzed to the sounds of due dates and appointments she probably didn’t have.

She used the little light she had to count the tiles as she paced from off-white wall to off-white wall, the dresser banished to the far right corner so she had a straight path between the two. Twelve blocks there, twelve blocks back. He’d counted once too, just by the sound of her feet against the floor, and snuck up to her bedroom when she was still at school one day to check if he was right. He was. After a few hours though, somewhere between the time of night when his coffee went cold and when he finished the cup and went to get another, that rhythm would tire her. She’d begin the little games with herself and count tiles by threes, then fours. Four steps there, three back. Then switched. But even that could not hold the monsters back forever. He knew because last month, right after final exams had finished up, he was kept up much later than he intended reading a particularly boring term paper. It was then, as he was scribbling a thought about a thesis shift into the margins, he heard her muffled screams. They were not the loudest, she couldn’t risk her mother finding out she’d broken bedtime rules again, but they were loud enough to unsettle him and force his pen back down on the desk.

The night had already unnerved him, and the unexpected cry had knocked all clear and rational thought from his mind for a few moments. The sound was off-putting, to say the least.

As a professor, he spent most of his days looking for the logical answer, tangible representation of an absurd world in which they lived, but what was tangible about this? A young girl pacing alone in her bedroom as the clock hand past two o’clock and the sun was still hours from being seen. But this seemed like even more than that. His logical mind begged the question again and again, what could possess a girl just barely fifteen to scream out to no one but the walls? 

He could see it now, though. The tiny ants, lacing pathways across her skin as they scurried through her veins through her blood vessels, painted long streaks up and down her arms in a sickening black color. He could so perfectly picture the sickening ripple of their movement beneath the skin. She knew the monsters had been coming all day. He had seen it in her eyes, that raw and powerful fear gripping her tightly beneath those soft hazel irises. Maybe he realized now why. He could feel the tidal wave of ants sweeping and spreading through her suddenly as she closed that thin door on the rest of her household.

They raced out of her pores, an army of black ocean waves pouring out from within. Their legs hit the ground, spreading over the walls with the sound of needles, and drawing patterns of pinpricks in the wallpaper. Such a sound might be silent if given off by one, but it poked holes in the very film of her eardrums when played by such a mass. They all chanted together her mother’s and my favorite word, though each at a separate beat so the sound became constant. As soon as one trumpeter broke free from his place, another immediately filled its silence. Restless. Restless. Restless.

She wants nothing more than to let a scream crash through her bones, rip the bugs from her lungs and spray them out with the sound. That might break through their methodic chant, she thought, and break its hypnotic spell, the one which propelled her ever forward. She wanted nothing more than for them to leave her.

Soon the walls swelled outward, the room flooded by their tidal waves. She tried to continue her strides, though her pace was slowed. Trekking through the bodies which latched themselves to her feet was much harder than her usual quickstep over the smooth floor. As her feet fell one after the other to the ground, she heard them crunch beneath her shoes and the sound echoed through my study down below. One thousand bodies crushed in a single step. But plenty more soon filled their posts on the tiled battlefield.

The insects gushed out of her from every inch of skin exposed, and even some tunneled through sweatshirt sleeves out into the world. The moving puddle at her feet grew deeper. Soon she was afraid she’d be breathing them in with her air. Then they’d coat the hollow of her lungs with restless legs. Soon they would crawl on every side of her, inside and out, darting in and out of her eye sockets and under her toenails. Soon she’d be nothing more than a floating object in that sea of restless legs.

With her next breath there they were. She sucked them in, and the only way she knew she might take her next breath was if she screamed. And so she did. It forced its way out of her. A final wave crawled up her esophagus and she spit them out with a long shriek. She felt choked, yet never once did her body reach that way. Breathing insects felt natural, less demanding than air. In the next instant the tides shifted with a beautiful inhalation. Time slowed finally to a painful pace, much closer to that of the world around her. Though she felt every tiny creature which crept in and out of her innards, their march seemed calculated now. It flowed softly, the trickle of stream more than the gush of a waterfall.

When I heard that sound tonight, imagining her lungs filling with air, I couldn’t allow myself to sit there, perplexed, forming theories rather than solutions. I pushed the chair away, trudged up the stairs, and search my mind for the right words to say to her, or even the questions he could possibly ask.

My footsteps clacked down the cherry floors must have alerted her, as her own sounds stopped quite suddenly. He could feel the waters fall back, blackness shrinking around her. Maybe my own sounds broke through the needle sound. His hand gripped the doorknob and in the short seconds before the door swung inward, he felt the room clear. The ants receded and suddenly ceased to exist when finally it opened.

“A-are you okay?” He managed. He grew even more concerned when he caught sight of her crouched there in the middle of the floor with her knees clutched to her chest as if she was hiding away or futilely attempting to protect herself.

“Just fine.”

It was unnatural the way she shot up from her position on the ground and scooted towards her desk, feigning interest in the papers laying scattered there. As she did, he imagined a single ant lingering beneath her sweatshirt sleeve, just out of his sight.

 “Are you sure? You seem a bit…” He studied her for a moment, mulling over his next word, tasting it for just a moment, “restless.”

“Really. I’m alright.”

I took a deep breath, then struggled for a few moments as no words came to me. Finally, I nodded “Don’t wake your mother,” and left the room.

I retreated to the safety of my study; my body slouched forward in my desk chair. It wasn’t thirty seconds after I left that room that I felt her pacing vibrate the floor again. Leaning forward in my seat, I propped my elbows against the mahogany and ran my hands through my hair, as black as the army filling her room again.

I looked up at the ceiling and swore I could practically see where her foot landed on the other side. Then, the slightest movement in the corner closest to the sound caught my attention. A single line of ants, looking harmless, escaped from a crack in the ceiling. I immediately turned my gaze back to the term papers, trying to convince myself I hadn’t seen a thing.  I couldn’t help but mutter the word, “restless.”

Perfectly Normal

            The fire enveloped my hand, tender and loving like a mother embracing her newborn. It was warm--not hot--warm. I withdrew my hand from the flame, noticing the hungry way the tongues of fire lick at my hand as the wisps sweep the length of my hand, creeping from my palm to my fingertips. Lifting my hand, I examined the damage. A bit of flaking and a few patches of angry red blotches along the back. Why? Why can't I feel what they feel? A black glove reclaimed its place on my right hand, chafing against my burnt skin. Disappointed, I suffocated the controlled flame with the lid of a pot and slid it underneath my bed. I crawled on the bed and creaked open the window. Waving my arms like an inhospitable host, I dismissed the fumes of the fire that I had so painstakingly created.

            When I was thirteen years old, my family moved from Vietnam to Colorado. I couldn't speak English well, so I was teased. The teacher, who held no sympathy for, as she called them, "yellow" people, turned a blind eye. My classmates were delighted. They took pleasure in poking me with sharp sticks, pulling on my braid and stepping on my sandal-covered feet. I never cried. I never complained. But they became more daring, more vicious. Sometimes, my backpack would disappear, found days later in a trash can. Tacks constantly covered my seat. I always made sure to check before sitting, but one time I forgot. As soon as I sat down, they started howling, but it gradually faded to horrified whispers. They expected me to jump up and yelp with pain, but I just sat there, a crimson pool forming underneath my skirt. Someone screamed.

         I left that school soon afterwards, not because of the teasing and the pranks, but because of the whispers and the glances that would follow me, an endless shadow. I couldn't stand the way they looked at me, like I was a freak. I'm not a freak, just your average seventeen year old Vietnamese girl. I shop at the mall, listen to One Direction and gossip about cute boys. I'm normal. I wear a bow in my hair, a butterfly so pale blue that it could flutter away at any moment and be a part of the sky. I'm normal. But I know that's not true, I'm not like everybody else. No matter what I do, I'll never be like my peers. I won't feel what they feel: the soft, smooth skin of a baby's bottom, the coarse fibers of a familiar carpet, the warmth of another human being. I can't stand it, I can't stand being different. I need to feel what others feel. I need to be normal.

           I stand over the well, staring down its open maw, hungry to consume me. It's too dark to see the bottom. The darkness dares me to jump; it beckons me to abandon my fear and lunge down its seemingly endless throat, to fall for what must be hours and fill its stomach. But I don't.

Restless

 (I really cannot decide whether I absolutely loath this piece or not.)

Restless, they would call it when she got like this. She scoffed at the word. Restless didn’t begin to cover it. That simple word spoke of the things tangible, explainable, and real. It brought images of over excitable children fidgeting at the table while the grownups finished their Christmas dinner and their presents called from the next room. It was something more real than that, yet somehow less concrete.

Restless couldn’t account for the ants scurrying through her veins. Their tiny little feet, if one could even call them that, traced criss-crossed paths through every inch of her being, hurrying just below the skin. She could feel each of their legs move independently through her. Every one was an explosion of nerve endings, a sensation like nothing she’d felt before. If she didn’t get up and move with the beings, allow each step of theirs to take her two of her own, she felt they might consume her. Fill up her insides and spill out her ears in impatient ocean waves. So she let them take control. The room was only so big, though.

Her mind buzzed with due dates and to do lists stretching for miles. In her saner moments she might have realized she needed to do none of those things, but for now they flew past one by one, each becoming for a second the most important thing in the world, and the most stressful. She played games to calm it, counting the blocks on the tile floor as she passed them. Twelve blocks there, twelve back. And again. And again. Restless. But this couldn’t keep hold of her attention for too long. She began to take the steps in twos, then threes and fours. Four blocks there, three blocks back. There she went, white-washing wall to white-washed wall. She had needed to move the dresser against her closet door to give her a straight path between each wall, though the test of her strength quieted her demons for a few moments.

Her mother called from the downstairs kitchen. Dinner was ready. Sure she felt her stomach give a soft growl, but she couldn’t fathom for a moment the idea of sitting down at a table. They might catch her, whatever chased her across those floor tiles. And even worse, the idea that she might have to face her parents’ eyes glancing sideways at her subtle rocking back and forth in her chair while she lifted the fork over and over, never once letting it linger long enough to pick up any food, sickened her. Restless, they might call her. Just the thought of hearing the word again shaped her hunger into overwhelming nausea.

She let the ants carry her to the top step, where she shouted down something incomprehensible that vaguely sounded like “homework” and hastened her step back toward her bedroom. She shut the door just in time, as the first tidal waves rolled in. She had been expecting them, though never was she fully prepared. Bugs raced from her pores, darting out across the carpet until it was stained black. Restless each one repeated at a slightly different beat, so the word overtook her senses. Restless. Restless. Restless.  The walls swell outward as the waves beat against them. She wants nothing more than to let a scream crash through her bones, rip the bugs from her lungs and spray them out with the sound. She wanted nothing more for them to leave her.

As her feet fell one after the other to the ground, she heard them crunch beneath her shoes. One thousand bodies crushed in a single step. But plenty more soon filled their posts on the carpeted battlefield. Soon the walls began to crawl with them. So many she could soon hear the legs move one by one, needles poking holes in the wallpaper as they pass. The sound, silent by itself, overtook her ear drums and pricking those pinholes in the thin film of her eardrum. When one tiny pin lifted, another immediately took its place. Over and over. The sound restless.

She felt the room grow smaller, as they gushed in and spilled outward from her. Soon she’d be breathing them in with the air. Soon they would crawl on every side of her, inside and out, darting in and out of her eye sockets and under her toenails. Soon she’d be nothing more than a floating object in that sea of restless legs.

Finally, it forced its way out of her. A final wave crawled up her esophagus and she spit them out with a long shriek. She felt choked, yet never once did her body reach that way. Breathing insects felt natural, more beautiful than air. In an instant tides shifted with a beautiful inhalation. Time slowed finally to a painful pace, much closer to that of the world around her. Though she felt every tiny creature which crept in and out of her innards, their march seemed calculated, flowed softly, the trickle of stream more than the gust of a waterfall.

As the waters fell, the blackness shrinking around her, she caught sight of a shadow beneath her door. The harsh clack of her father’s footfalls on the wood floor broke through the needle sounds and the doorknob turned. In the short seconds before the door swung inward, she watched the ants recede and then cease to exist, no longer running restless through her.

“Are you okay?” Her father seemed concerned, catching sight of her crouched there on the tile, clutching her knees to her chest as if protecting herself, or hiding away.

“Just fine” It was unnatural the way she shot up from her position on the ground and scooted towards her desk, feigning interest in the papers laying scattered there. As she did, she felt a single ant making its way up her arm beneath her sweatshirt sleeves. “Really. I’m alright.”

“Are you sure? You seem a bit…” He studied her for a moment, mulling over his next word, “restless.”