Colorado Rockies

Colorado Rockies

Tuesday, February 24, 2015

Free-Write

            It was Christmas Eve. Fog stuck to the tarmac at Lindbergh field, casting an eerie glow across the whole park. I sat at the solitary picnic table off to the side, obscured by the bushes and thick mist. I didn’t say anything, I didn’t move, I hardly risked a breath. My eyes felt heavy, but I knew I couldn’t bring myself to sleep. I was cold, because my clothes weren’t exactly name brand. The sleeves were ripped up along with the legs, I wanted to go home, but I felt lost, like I had unfinished business but I hadn’t any clue of what. I just watched, observed as college students stumbled home from their late night excursions, laughing; crying; clinging on to one another. Scrambling to get home before Santa makes his rounds. Their hair a mess, the make up running down their face, making them resemble the animals that they truly are. Even in December, they trot along carelessly in their club dresses and sleeveless tops. Singing, or slurring rather, along with whatever songs they had heard in their evening before. It sickened me, their carelessness for what was around them. But I also envied them, how they were able to be so free.
Lindbergh field was our small hometown park, as old as the school. Years without maintenance caused it to fall apart. The chains holding the swings are rusted, frail from years of rain and snow and fat children. The slide is old and metal, dented and slightly rusted. I don’t think any child has slid down it in years, but it provides a nice perch to loitering teens and to the pigeons that call this park home. It borders the small community college that unfortunately plagues our town. Making the park a common short cut home from the only strip of restaurants and bars for 20 miles. I rise up from my seat, as more and more night owls stumble across the park. I walk, sluggishly, along the small stone wall separating the playground from the picnic area. I loved walking along the smooth rocks, it felt metaphoric in a way. Like one side was life and one side was death, and there I was just stuck in the middle. Barely living but not quite 6 feet under. I tipped a little towards the picnic tables, stumbled and nearly fell, but I quickly regained my balance, like I weighed nothing. Being here always set a sort of cloud-like confusion over me, where was I before? Where am I going? I just wonder aimlessly through the rocking horses and monkey bars, looking for something but I can’t remember what, or maybe, who. I just felt lost and empty, as I walked it felt as though the things around me just seemed to pass through me, like I had no substance. Something felt wrong, like I wasn’t myself anymore. I wondered over to the tree line, almost out of instinct, when I felt something crunch under my feet. Curious, I picked up the wooden cross that had fallen down from the tree to which it was nailed. A name was engraved on the horizontal piece, “Annabelle Highland, R.I.P”. Shock and confusion riddled my body, but how could this be? I felt this sudden pain, as my heart raced and my limbs ached, because in that moment, I realized I was dead.



Unfortunately, my free-write does substantiate Fanny Howe's essay. My stories do seem to be dark and dreary but for me, its simply because I like the word play in stories like that. I like how I can make the reader feel what the character is going through just by the words I use. And I feel as though a sad plot, at least in a short story, catches the readers attention more, it leaves them unsatisfied by the end, and they want to know more, read more. When a story has a happy ending, it gives the reader this sort of closure that makes it easy to forget the piece, and makes it just like a majority of all those other stories. I want my pieces to leave an impact on the reader, I want them to walk away thinking back on the story as an experience, not just another book. Another reason why I like to write these depressing pieces is because that's reality, there aren't any heroes in reality. We are made to believe there are, but they aren't heroic, in the end they do it for their own benefit, a paycheck, the glory, whatever their recompense may be, it is not sincerely because it is what is right. "Because no one is accepting responsibility. There are people in power, to be sure, but they all point the finger at each other"  This quote proves my point even further. We look up to these powerful figures who can't even take responsibility for their own mistakes. One part of the essay I do disagree with, however, is when she says "What's missing here, along with a sense of consequential action(work) and actors of consequence(heroes), is anything more than the most rudimentary sense of cause and effect.." I disagree with this because in my stories, I believe my plot ties together. Yes, this short story I did leave rather open ended, but that was my intention, to maybe do another installment or an epilogue that explains her death. But I wanted to leave the reader pondering, that is why there is no explanation. One last point I will make is I simply just love writing this way. When I'm done, I feel unburdened, like I was able to release any pent up anger or bad intentions into my piece; my artwork. I feel a sense of dismal beauty when I write in this way, it seems poetic to me, not like I'm telling a story but I'm displaying an emotion through out the writing as a whole.








Monday, February 23, 2015

Self-Deprecation Essay

    “ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO ME?” I screamed, Joe was a smart kid but it was as if everything I was saying was just going in one ear and out the other. My temper wasn’t even at a human level anymore. You know those glass thermometers? Well at the moment I felt like one, and the mercury inside me was broiling, pushing against the frail glass. Joe nodded at me, he looked scared almost, like he wasn’t looking at me anymore, but instead, a monster of some sort.

            “Please just calm down, I’m sorry I don’t know what to say” he pleaded. I don’t know if it was what he said, or how the words seemed to make it seem like he cared very little for how angry this made me, but at that moment I lost it. The mercury burst over the top and I don’t think even sedatives would have relaxed me.

            “AHHHHHHH!” I screamed, no, roared? Growled? Whatever sound it was, it was loud, involuntary and unhuman. I grabbed the chair I sat on in the mornings to do my make up, and slammed it to the ground. Screaming all the while. The chair hit the ground with a thud, its metal base making a loud ting as it bounced once or twice after its collision with the floor, and I could almost feel Joe’s confusion and dismay with my reactions. At this point, I don’t think I truly knew why I was as angry as I was, if you had asked me I would have gone off on an all too familiar tirade of the disrespect of the agony and the confusion I felt, and how things needed to change and decisions needed to be made. But I was kidding myself, nothing would change, Joe would mess up because we’re human and I would fly off the handle because that’s what I do, that’s how I operate.

            I don’t think that relaxing is in my vocabulary. I don’t know how to unwind or kick back, my life is a constant stream of feelings and most of the time, they’re not pleasant. I laugh at myself, in retrospect of course, when I get as angry as I do, because there is no in between with my emotions. There is no slightly annoyed, kind of frustrated, somewhat distraught, no, there’s calm Brooklynn, then there’s angry Brooklynn. Now just focus on this for a moment, I AM angry Brooklynn and I wouldn’t even want to be presented with that opponent. I probably look ridiculous, like one of those cartoons with the steam pouring out of their ears, all red faced and huffing and puffing. Half of the time I’m crying, because although I try to fight it, my anger tends to release itself with tears for whatever reason. I don’t know why whatever almighty being picked me to be an angry crier, but they certainly picked the wrong person, because nothing makes someone significantly less scary than a flood of tears streaming down their face. And nothing makes me more angry than when people seeing me in such a weak state, especially when I’m infuriated.

            There are some things that we have just learned to be at peace with about ourselves, and something I have come to love about myself is my sarcastic attitude. It gets me in trouble from time to time, but I don’t mind too much, keeps things interesting. Also, to me it adds a little spice to the conversation, gives it a comedic undertone. It’s also one of the only ways I’m going to express my anger with out an uppercut to the jaw. Its better I stick with sarcasm, for you and for me. I’ve come to love that though, part of what makes me, crazy ol’ me.