Category: Junior Literary

I never really realized how many incredible organisms there are that live on the seafloor.  Sea slugs are so beautiful.  They come in extraordinary colors that I never even realized occurred in nature.  When you hear the word “sea slug” unpleasant imagery comes to mind.  Past interactions with diarrhea-green slugs squirming over cement, leaving slimy trails and drying up like raisins on driveways, make one think of similarly revolting creatures that are only different in that they live underwater as opposed to in your garden.  Seeing these animals as they actually are after having built an expectation for them is completely shocking because they are almost the complete opposite of what you’d expect.  Regular slugs that you’d often see are pretty uniform; all of them fall on a spectrum of green-brown to orange-brown with less common banana slugs being the only thing to break up the dull pallet of land slug colors.  Sea slugs have very little in common with this, coming in technicolor blues, pinks, yellows, and greens.  I don’t know why all of these beautiful animals would be put somewhere where they can’t be easily seen by humans.

I started this blog a long time ago but never finished it.  I’m not sure why, but I looked up sea slugs on google images, and I was stunned by how beautiful they were and thought that they would make a really interesting blog topic.  It turns out it kind of did but only for about half a blog.  I could not stretch it out any further for the life of me, and as I let time pass, I only became less interested in the topic over time.  I am honestly terrified of this happening to me as an artist.  I don’t want to begin a million projects and lose interest in each of them before finishing any of them.  I have started so many things that I’ve chosen to abandon rather than revise as I have changed and they stayed the same.  I really want to change that about myself.  I know that if I don’t, I will never be able to be a productive writer, but that doesn’t make it any easier.  It is something that I will have to push myself to do.  I am working on a book now that I will force myself to finish, and if I get halfway through and rereading the earlier parts has become painful, I will rewrite them so that they meet my new standards.  I will do whatever it takes to make myself do this because I need to prove to myself that I can.

they say time flies when you’re having fun (i guess that means msa was fun)

last semester was… a lot, to say the least. some of yall know what i’m talking about, others don’t, and those others are either gonna be nosy and ask around or they’re gonna mind their business. i don’t think i care either way.

we’ve already established my disdain for astrology, but sometimes coincidences just really get the best of you. i was having just a genuinely horrible time, and i came across an astrology post i don’t remember the name of, probably some bs about ~what the signs need to hear~, but what really got me was that little blurb of text next to aquarius:

“coming home is not a defeat. you did something most people only dream of. sometimes all you can do is grab on to plan b and make it work. doesn’t mean that you are a failure because plan a failed. you tried your absolute hardest. you still won. so come back. enjoy the sanctuary while we still have it.”

this is the first and only time i ever considered leaving, coming home, admitting defeat. i’d actually considered resigning to the fact that this thing that i’d been wanting since i was 14 years old wasn’t what i wanted it to be – what i needed it to be.

but an even stronger voice said no. that little eighth grader who wanted nothing more than to find her people and do what she loved stood up and said resignation isn’t an option.

i was not giving up. we were not giving up. i wasn’t betraying every single thing i’d believed in and fought for since 2015.

so i stayed, but things still changed. they had to.

i was in a situation before that wasn’t good for me, and i’ll be the first to admit it. i had to get out of an environment that surrounded me with heaviness. i had to get out of an environment that tied bags of bricks to my ankles and threw me to the sea. i cut the rope and floated back up. the first breath i took was the strongest relief i’ve ever felt in my life.

there was a point in time i didn’t think i’d make it to turning 16, and a point in time i didn’t think i’d make it to going to msa, and a point in time i didn’t think i’d make it to finishing my first year of art school.

but i did. i made it to all of these. and i’m really glad i did.

There is a wire cord holding my wrist and plugged into my ears.  I hear nothing.  The computer screen in front of me begs me not to do my work.  I am three days behind and it is 4:26.  There is no time to do it now.  So I make my way to the bathroom after deciding to waste my time for the twenty-sixth time today.  I ask the cord to let go.  She complies reluctantly.  There is a caterpillar on my left eyebrow inching its way to my ear to ask me, once again, why I can’t be selfish.  “I’m not sure.” I reply.  The caterpillar swells in my right ear and I can no longer hear my own thoughts.  “I have gout,” the caterpillar replies.  I come back to my computer and the cord returns to my wrist, gripping tighter because I’ve forgotten to plug in my ears.

The girl beside me speaks but all I hear is the boy who cried rape and a metaphor of cookies and sheep.  I’ve been told I only hear what I want to hear.  No.  I just misheard.  She spoke of sexual assault and how it never stopped.  Chocolate runs from her mouth and I rush to lick it up.  I wish to speak so freely.  The chocolate is so sweet and saturated and it burns my throat like molasses until it spills over and out from the ducts of my eyes.  I have been penetrated and re-solidified in sweet chocolate.

Gilded, one might say.  That’s what I have been living in, they say, and I agree.  From the air, all I see is gold, but it is dirty and diseased below the surface.  A pile of rotting horses have been stacked on my heart.  My heart sinks.  He is not meant to hold that weight.  My first love dove down my throat to save what survived of my heart.  He rebuilt what was lost, but he took half to where he lives in England.  “Count my toes again,” I say.  He tries to teach me how to do it myself and I only remember how for a day or two.

Three things.  I have three things in the skin pocket sewed into my back:  a phone, a candy bar, and the absence of a chain I can’t find because my roommate cleaned again.

Oh my God, I ate.  I ate and I ate, and I ate all of the platters until I was ripe and full, and therefore I was EATEN, but I’ll keep throwing up in this toilet out of nervousness and misery as if it will change what I have eaten.

And the belly of the beast is lonely when it is a friend who has put you here.

It’s sad, you know?  I sat there on Sunday, and I felt it coming.  I stood beside Red Bluff with the love of my life, and I cried.  I sat on a hill, and I cried, and then I laid in the road, and I cried.  I didn’t know it was going to happen.  But have you ever gotten… a feeling?  And I took the rock from the side of the cliff, and it crumbled in my hand.  And it was dust.  Everything is dust, and we all fall down, wE ALL FALL DOWN, WEALLFALLDOWN, AND EVERYTHING IS DUST AND NONE OF IT MATTERS

When we had gotten there, we heard about a woman who had fallen off the edge of the cliff.  Maybe it was an omen.

Oh my God, I just wanted to be.  I wanted to be something for once in my life, I wanted to BE SO MUCH.

,MAYBE I SHOULD GIVE UP, BUT MAYBE I SHOULD BE UNTIL THE VERY END,

If it wasn’t May, then it would be okay.  But April showers can’t fix what flowers died in May.

I ate; therefore I was eaten.  Perhaps I should let it be.  Don’t touch the stomach acid any longer.

But it’s 11:25 am & lunch is coming.  Perhaps I should eat once again.

I have other people who depend on me that I need to do this for, other people that need me there, so maybe I should not starve myself.

Perhaps I should eat.  Eat all of their heads right off.

(This piece is inspired by Mallori’s ‘things i miss’ post)

When I was 12 years old, I wore the same size shoe as my Aunt Maudell. Hers were pointy and old-lady looking, and I usually just made fun of them. She absolutely loved my shoes. The only problem was she always refused to wear closed-toed shoes, so the only shoes of mine she would care to ‘borrow’ would be my sandals. This all sounds fine and dandy, but at the time, I had and even more prevalent hatred for shoes, and if I had to wear something, it would have been sandals.  I would constantly have to go to her house to reclaim my shoes. I hated it. I secretly loved it. I loved that someone took the time to notice something about me that they liked and would love to do for themselves.

Maudell was a dancer. She grew up in the Roaring Twenties and knew exactly which way to twist and turn to get everyone’s attention. By the time I was old enough to be taught her moves, she was almost 90. Her jiggy hips turned to shuffled little steps across the dance floor. She couldn’t swing her arms without falling, so her windmill arms hopelessly grasped the person in front of her.

People say that you start to die as soon as you’re born, but science says you only start to regress after about 25. Maudie started to die the second she couldn’t dance anymore. Or better, when she couldn’t dance on her own. She wanted to twist and turn and sweat and have all eyes on her. Her old joints couldn’t do it anymore, and neither could she.

She told me she would have rather died on the dance floor than in a hospital bed, losing her fight with cancer.

“If I can’t dance Little Charlotte, should I even bother to stay alive?”

She was straight-forward like that.

(She, with the help of my grandmother, had me addicted to coffee at the ripe age of 10.)

There was a point when I had started taking dance lessons in an attempt to impress Maudie, but we both knew dancing wasn’t my thing. It wasn’t that I wasn’t good at it, but it did not hold my lifeline and she could tell. I gave up dance when I was 10.

Instead, I started writing. I dedicate all of my writing to my grandmother because she is my bestfriend and my greatest muse, but between the lines I can hear Aunt Maudell’s voice and creaky hips.

And the sound of my sandals tapping the floor.

I like clothes.  I like the comfy kind that stretch and dangle.  I drop to my knees in baggy pants and over-sized shirts.  (my first true love is baggy clothes)

I don’t like the pants that fit at the ankles.  (I never have.)  They always made me feel exposed, like not even my ankles were safe.)  Neither did I like tight shirts.  (and as I grew, I liked for them to cover to my thighs as a form of security.)

And then I became aware.  The guys in school (who never talked to me) began to talk and look (they still never approached me.)  I didn’t think anything of it.  I only ever talked to my friends (a group of 4, mostly) anyway.

Then I got to high-school.  9th grade took so much adjusting.  (I think I’m scarred from it.)  Guys noticed too much.  They said too many things.  Did too many things.  I became so paranoid.  (This is where I gained my sharp-shooting eyes.)  I never stopped walking.  (Daily procedure: keep your head down; smile if something is said, but keep walking, fast; make it to class but stay seated as much as possible)

I joined the cross-country team that year.  And choir, track, and soccer.  (I was already in band.)  Walking was HELL.  It was actual, living, breathing hell.  I couldn’t get from Point A to Point B without some boy spitting what he thought was game.  (I just wonder how any girl ever fell for them)

Soon I met a guy who did know how to charm, and yada yada yada, we got together.  Nothing changed.  One group of guys even went as far as to threaten me and my relationship.  (I didn’t tell my boyfriend because I couldn’t have him going to jail.  He was 18 and they would’ve sent him)

Track was always bad with the football boys there.  (Track boys were at least a little more respectful.)  Long story short, I got told to bend over.  (I bought more baggy pants for the next week, which are harder to run in.)  I loved to run, but it became miserably angry. (Yes, I became the angry _____girl. (no one knew what ethnicity I was.))

Soccer wasn’t too bad.  I was pretty comfortable besides the persistent flirting and commenting from Megan’s boyfriend.  (He was no good and now has another baby on the way.)

Cross-country was (for the most part) a safe place.  One guy got mighty close to me smacking the testosterone off of him.)

Oh, and those tight pants with the tight ankles, those became my regular my tenth grade year.  I succumbed to the fact that what had happened the previous year was normal.  Although, i will say that my tenth grade year was a lot better.  I had earned quite the reputation the previous year despite what I told you above.  Everyone knew not to mess with me.  (Most everyone)  That’s when I started wearing tight things and showing off more (still not too much, I wasn’t about that.) I was still the angry ___ girl.   It was all just a front though, it think.  (i’m truly not sure.  I think this attitude melded with my previous identity)  I only became tough because I had to.

Now, I’m here and I feel safe.  I show off.  (this is too safe.)  The other day, I was reminded of the real world.  I was reminded that MSA can only guarantee that safety until graduation.  (soon, this bubble should burst.)  This scares me.

here is a compiled list of organized songs that help me be a real human: (if you listen in order, you end up strange, i think)

 

(Also, hey! The pictures kind of represent how each song makes me feel!)

New Year’s Eve, Mal Blum

Emptiness is Like a Closet Full of Your Old Clothes, Wishing

Memento Mori, Crywank

Be Your Own 3am, Adult Mom

Baby, Born Without Bones

Holy Forest, PInkshinyultrabast

Sleep Talk, Diet Cig

For A Girl in Rhinelander, Washington, Wingnut Dishwashers Union

Wolves,  Phosphorescent

Just Like Honey, The Jesus and Mary Chain

How Simple, Hop Along

Phase, Hovvdy

No One is Ever Going to Want Me, Giles Corey

Heart Sunk Hank, Johnny Flynn

The Gun Song– no trigger version, Car Seat Headrest

Codeine, Trampled By Turtles

Brave as a Noun, AJJ

Bloodhail, Have a Nice Life

 

i was all over her, salvia plath

It’s So Nice, I Tried to Run Away When I Was 6, (But Got too Scared to Cross the Street)

 

 

Being in love with an artist is heartbreaking

You are in love with him and he is in love with his ex

While you admire him, he obsesses over a woman he lost years ago because he was selfish and young

When you walk through your own home now, every wall bares a painting of a woman you’ve never met but you feel as if you know because of him

Her eyes, which should be lifeless, are filled with burning passion that is not directed at you

And you know it is not her own, but the man’s who has spent so much time trying to recreate the perfect image of her

She stares back at you with different emotions

Grief

Lust

Loss

And in the strokes of paint that create her, you see him

Your lover has a hunger you cannot  satiate because you are not the woman of his desire

But a mere substitute to pass the time

And although you love him, his work, his passions

You do not love her

You are jealous, envious

You wish she would disappear from your home, your life, him

But she will stay and so will your heartbreak

And you will try to force an incompatible morphing between you and her

In image, because that is all you have

You do not know much about her, so how could you duplicate what he recreates

And you know that you are not enough

Bratz Gone Wild

We’re stained glass soldiers, spitting sunflower seeds under
wind chimes. I’m eating lemons whole at dinner tables without
a face to impress and hummin’ in the creak of porch swings, trying
to show you I know your favorite indie band. Fog rolls in because
I like the way my breath looks in the cold— it makes me feel like
a dragon. Wind blows; you’re the big bad wolf this Halloween.

But you’re tired of that Bratz cherry lipstick, you want those
candied toxins. Yasmin can’t save you anymore, it’s all about
spitting tobacco in leather jackets with cigarette holes. Your mother
asks you why? that was a new jacket. Tell her something mysterious,
compare it to the holes in society where our taxes flood into.
Steal street signs my father paid for because you need a spine.
It’s okay. I forgive you. I’m scared, too.

We’re sippin’ Irish whiskey now, one hand on the wheel,
shooting Bambi and smoking cigarettes (because it makes
me feel like a dragon). Your new favorite music is rap—how
do I hum that? Your lipstick is red eyeshadow because
your mother will only buy you Bratz lipstick, she says anything
else is for whores. I promise not to tell. It doesn’t matter,
you leave anyways. I am left to bury Bambi’s body.

I’m sweating off Vyvanse now, screaming thunderstorms
and crying rain over lost love, huddled in blankets as I sob
into friends under bathroom counters at five a.m. I’ve got orange
fingernail paint, but only on one hand— the other is stained
black from dying my hair. I’m the champion of fight club.
I’m still scared.
I’m scared.
I still hum your favorite songs.

so like. life is exhausting. what can ya do.

a lot of things are going on all at once, and my brain can’t quite figure out how to process them.

my brain’s been like this for a while. four years, at least.

like, i used to look forward to learning how to drive and going out with my friends and planning what my sweet 16 would be like and going to college and becoming a doctor or something like that.

i used to be ambitious. used to have a drive and a passion for my future. the things idolized by tv shows used to actually be exciting to me.

then i found myself at a point where i wasn’t thinking about my future because i didn’t think i’d make it there.

i’ve gotten out of that point, thankfully, but the feeling still remains. the complete lack of understanding, the loss of ambition.

the future started to scare me. it still does, sometimes. the future means leaving monotony behind, abandoning the routine i’ve come to depend on in the past four years.

familiarity, get me through the day.

i have no idea what i want to do with my life because i thought it would be over by now.

i’ve managed to dig myself into this hole of complete and utter fear of the future. my mom is researching colleges for me because she knows how badly it stresses me out. i never really looked into colleges, never submitted my act scores to any schools, never did anything for my future.

and now i’m going through lists of schools that offer the majors i want and planning college tours this summer.

this is the future. this is what i didn’t think i’ve ever see. and thinking i’d never see it meant figuring i didn’t need to worry about it.

so now all of the worry that should’ve been building up gradually over the past few years has slammed onto my desk like mountains of paperwork at a cubicle desk. it’s all coming at me faster and faster than i can handle it.

but i think i like it? i think i’m excited for it?

all i know – all i’ve ever really known – is that i want to write. i want to be an author. i want to write books that affect kids the same way they affected me. i want to create something that’s there for somebody, something that inspires.

i’m sure i’ll figure it out eventually.

these things just take time i don’t have.