For better or worse, it’s February 14th and that means love (or, depending on your point of view a horrible reminder that you are single or an exploitative capitalist holiday) is in the air! True love, sorry – I have to get this out of my system: Anyway, true love is a concept that permeates our system and the holiday, …
‘Tis the season – for pumpkins. Carving pumpkins is a long held American Halloween tradition that’s on par with, well, pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving. For those not already familiar with our Story Shots as a series, Story Shots are short creative nonfiction pieces (generally but not always in the form of a story) in which our writers all write with the same theme in mind and come up with vastly different stories for your enjoyment.
In college, I squatted between classes into a miniature chair—knees crammed to chest—and faced seven pairs of eyes.
“Tummies touching the table, please,” I said in the only place I said words like “tummy.”
I let Kyndal start the bread basket and passed a bowl to CJ, his hair as orange as a clownfish, as orange as a corn snake.
“Teacher, I don’t want those,” he said with a fantastic lisp, eyeing the willowy vegetables. “I just want ranch.”
“Just take a look-at-it bite, bro.”
CJ took the tiniest carrot with a martyred frown and shoved the bowl to Frankie. She took five slender sticks and blinked with the narrow eyes of a Cabbage Patch doll.
“I like carrots,” she said in that pious way so absurd for a four-year-old.
“Good.” I spoke slowly. “Carrots are healthy for us. They are good for our eyes.”
“And even milk!” CJ said.
I rubbed his buzzed head, his hair as orange as the leaf pile outside, as orange as the carrots he hated.
“Yes, milk makes us healthy too.”
“When my mom eats carrots, she even sees in the dark!” he said.
“Oh, yeah?” I said anyway.
The wobbly rotation of dishes finished its first lap.
Frankie frowned. “I can’t see in the dark, even when I eat carrots.”
“But I see fog!”
“Well, that’s good.”
CJ’s meatball slipped from his fork and hit the floor with a splat. Goofy laughter erupted from the table, and every preschooler stabbed their own slippery globes of meat.
I put on my most dangerous Teacher Face before a dozen slick meatballs could fill the air.
“Hey! Where do our sillies belong?” They froze, rearranged their impish faces, and licked solemnly at the gravy instead, their round cheeks already smeared and brown as acorns. “Where, CJ?”
Sheepish, he pantomimed throwing something outside.
“Teacher, my sillies are in my pocket,” Frankie said and hugged my arm. I felt a rush of affection for her and kissed her forehead, bangs straight as a ruler.
“How’s that look-at-it bite coming?” I asked CJ. “What about what your mom can do?”
CJ pushed his carrot off his plate. Even his fingers were freckled. “I don’t want to eat a stupid carrot to see in the stupid dark.”
His head was so round, his hair was so orange, and he looked exactly like a pumpkin. I imagined lighting a candle in his mouth, flames shining out of his eyes so he could see in the stupid dark.
I bit my own orange, bendy vegetable. I didn’t like carrots either.
– Missy Lacock
The fall is a time of leaves changing colors, weather cooling down, harvest, pumpkin festivals, people going back to school, and so much more. Story Shots, our creative nonfiction series, has taken on this theme in our latest installment. Below we have four fall-themed pieces from different writers for your pleasure. A List: We fall… into bed. and asleep. in …
While The Poetics Project was on hiatus for a while, the blog has now been renewed. To celebrate this renewal, we’ve revived our popular blog series called Story Shots. Story Shots a place where our writers all write a short creative non-fiction piece around the same concept and we share the stories with our readers. We have three short creative non-fiction pieces here for our readers today around the theme of renewal.
When your best friend dies at 26, you find what little strength you actually have. You thought you understood death by this point, that you knew how to best cope. You knew your grieving process and you knew how long each stage took. Too logical. Death is not logical.
I remember vaguely my phone ringing at 5:00 in the morning and hitting the dismiss button. I was in a dream with my best friend Jessie. We were at Disneyland and Paris and all her favorite and want-to-visit destinations at once. I ran to keep up with her, but she always seemed out of reach. The sky was a mixture of pink and reds. Strangely beautiful, and unsettling.
My alarm went off for work and I jumped on Facebook; my typical morning read. I thought to myself “what if Jessie is gone” when I spotted a belated birthday wish on her wall. My heart threatened to stop beating and I shrugged it off as another weird and morbid thought. I then realized her mother had called me, that she was the dismissed call. My heart threatened me again. I called her, convincing myself that everything was fine.
“Nicci?! Where you with Jessie yesterday?”
“No? I know she went to Disneyland with Richard, but I don’t…” At this point, I sensed the panic in her voice and was pushing the sheets off me to locate my dirty sweats in the hamper. I got caught in the sheets.
“Well did you know that she was in a car accident and died!?”
I had freed my legs in time to sit up straight, “What?”
“What….” my throat started producing croaks.
“Nicci? Nicci, call your mom. I don’t want you to be alone.”
“O…okay.” I live in the back house of my parents’, so I got up and stumbled like a zombie to their door. They leave it unlocked. My mother was up before I collapsed against her dresser.
“What happened? What happened?!” I mixture of fear, anger, and distress.
“Jessie…Jessie’s…she’s gone. She’s dead.” My father was rounding the bed when he turned to stabilize himself and let out one sob. He covered his eyes. My mother shouted and held me as the floor threatened to consume me. My lungs kept pushing air out and wouldn’t let me breathe. And then, I stopped. “Mom, I don’t know where Richard is.” (more…)
Recently the New York Times ran an article titled, “Writing Your Way to Happiness,” which looked at:
The scientific research on the benefits of so-called expressive writing is surprisingly vast. Studies have shown that writing about oneself and personal experiences can improve mood disorders, help reduce symptoms among cancer patients, improve a person’s health after a heart attack, reduce doctor visits and even boost memory.
Now researchers are studying whether the power of writing — and then rewriting — your personal story can lead to behavioral changes and improve happiness.
Joking aside, I write a lot of creative nonfiction based on my life and I draw a lot of inspiration for my poetry from past experiences too. So I don’t necessarily write as a therapeutic way of dealing with the past, but I do have some personal experience with writing narratives about the past that gave me insights I might not have found otherwise.