I am woken up abruptly by a familiar din. The face of the clock reads 5:30. It is June 21st and and I roll out of my king size bed, glancing over my shoulder at the bare chest laying next to me. His right bicep is painted with a tattoo of a celtic knot with his family shield. I stumble to the closet and pull a dress over my head and grab clean scrubs from the shelf to my right. I brush my hair and my teethe, doctors with messy hair and bad breath are usually not well liked. As I walk out of our room I kiss my husband's forehead and silently wish him well for the next 14 hours. As I walk past my daughter's room I peek into her room and whisper "have a good day James", grab my keys and leave for the pediatrics wing of the hospital.
"Crystamanthequins" clangs in my ears, forcing me further awake. I widen my eyes and draw the familiar red lines around them, winging the ends out at the corners. I stand up straight to admire my handiwork, and - damn. I've made fingerprints in the paint again. Every god damn time. Grabbing the nearest makeup sponge, I dab at the exposed skin at my temple, covering it in gray. The reflection staring back at me never gets any less freaky looking. I can sort of see why people are weirded out by this. Reaching for the hat, encircled with gold braid, with the curly horns sticking out, I'm hit with nerves. God I hope this works. I check to make sure no paint has gotten on the tailcoat or the sleeves and absentmindedly reach for the ring that isn't there.
Drowsily, I prop myself up on my elbows. Ugh. I've overslept again. I still haven't quite acclimated to the time difference between Massachusetts and Oxford yet. A very attractive person rolls over next to me and moans to "Nooooo…. Let's go back to bed!" It is Orlando Bloom. Or Matt Smith. Or Keira Knightley. It could be a number of people, I'm not sure. But I glance over at my phone and I have three missed reminders about a book signing I have to be at in two hours. I scramble out of bed and head for my wardrobe. I still haven't shipped most of my clothes yet. I pick out a nice looking Calvin Klein dress and go to shower. I undress, look into the mirror, and decide that I like my appearance. I check my schedule on iCal, and it's fast as ever, having updated to iOS 10.2 just last night. I have the book signing, a conference (my notification says, "Note to self: Gregory Maguire to attend…CHECK YOUR FANGIRL AT THE DOOR LEAH!" Tonight is the big night, however. My second book release. The party is going to be amazing, I booked Rachel Maddow and Thomas Asbridge to come and speak a few weeks ago, and I send them both a text message asking if they've arrived in Oxford safely. I sigh and wipe the fog from the bathroom mirror… I see a strong young girl smiling back at me. My life is wonderful. Except, after all these years, I still can't get up in time to adequately get my shit together.
This is a very good piece Leah. You do a very good job all around of presenting the reader with the futuristic idea. I also think the the "It is Orlando Bloom. Or Matt Smith. Or Keira Knightley." is very funny and works well.
Its Sunday, and the rain is hitting the ceiling to floor glass windows on the third floor of the house. The sky is still gray with morning, and the smell of him lingers. I roll over to find he isn't there. My heart pounds with anxiety until I hear his footsteps on the floating staircase, and with a sigh of relief, I sit up to discover him with a tray of various breakfast items. A white rose, my favorite, is in a skinny vase, freshly cut from the garden outside. He joins me in bed, and turns on the television. I breathe in the scent of pancakes, flowers, and him, all mixing to form the scent of idealism.
Ok so the other night I tried to make meat balls for the first time using an online recipe written by only who I can assume is a competent cook with his head up his ass. The vagueness of the instructions--consider that there is poor lighting in some of our houses please, don't tell me to wait for the oil to shimmer I also can't tell what my type of shimmering is compared to yours. Dick. Because of this fallacy, I wasn't sure from what range between medium and high heat would be good enough to put in the raw meatballs and subsequently I burned my first batch of balls. From the second I plopped them into the pan, shit went off auto-pilot and flew straight toward the pan as the meatballs sizzled and boiled, releasing a smoke that scented surprisingly good and, were I blind, I might have thought the cooking was going swimmingly, that is of course until the fire alarm goes off. Which it did. It blared. It screamed. In the moment this occurred, I did something you shouldn't do when loud noises sneak up and kick you in the pants, I panicked. Though not before turning the heat off the stovetop thankfully.
I wake up with a yawn, and glance over at my alarm clock-- 6:27. 3 minutes before the alarm, perfect. After a hot, brief shower I slip on khaki pants, a white t-shirt, and my tan windbreaker. It's my birthday today, and I'm feeling like making some hash browns, eggs, and some bacon to top it all off. I sit down to eat, but first I make sure the bacon is broken up into bits that forms the number of years I've now been on this earth-- 27. Perfect. After a scrumptious breakfast, I grab the keys to my green Pontiac Aztek and slip on my Clark's loafers. As I step out the door, I say with a sigh, "Time to cook." And no, I'm not a chef.
Mr. White: I like the way you promote a sense of routine with this piece. This is effective not only in conveying your allegory, but also in conveying mood and feeling. I like the way you end: it's subtle and a cliff hanger.
A piece of sun perches on my eyelids as the first sight of morning rises up over the North East Vermont mountains. Below, Caspian Lake is rising with mist and the damp green of tree reflections. Inside my cabin I am alone, but if I want company I will walk to the Willy's Store, only 1.6 miles away, that has everything I could ever need. I slip on a bathing suit and one of my father's old tee shirts I used to love when I was a kid. Today, and every day I get to live my dream: simplicity and solitariness and happiness. I will write for a little while, then maybe take a long hike in the woods. This afternoon I will swim and the evening will be a time to gather with neighbors and celebrate this wonderful place.
Though I'm just 27 years old, the effects of travel at the speed of light have taken their toll on my body. My skin is dry and my knuckles worn. The 83 hours of chest-crushing acceleration that it took to get me here weakened my heart and the heart of my copilot. However, as we reach the speed of light and the acceleration ceased, all that was left was the incredibly profound silence of space. Now we can cross between galactic groups and dodge the gravity of black holes in complete peace. By the time we return to earth, civilization will have destroyed itself, but the point is moot. All that I need is here: Cape Cod chips, Pepperidge farms Brussels cookies, and an unlimited supply of Five guys--bacon, cheese, mayo, lettuce, tomato, grilled onions, ketchup and barbecue sauce-from the bio-producer, and the entire internet's worth of movies at our disposal. Looking into the universal expanse of my copilot's brown eyes, time travel doesn't seem so bad for the heart after all.
Looking out the the floor to ceiling window of my corner office, I gaze down upon an urban metropolis. I am wearing a suit, and thinking to myself “Shouldn't I be smoking right now?” I return to my desk having been deeply affected by the overcast drizzle outside. While I am safe from the rain behind the clear glass panes, they cannot shield me from the stinging nostalgia coming down along with every drop. I begin to think about my “childhood”, and wonder where it went. What happened to those meaningless days back in Maine? What happened to my friends, the class of '14? “Jesus,” I think to myself. “Maine. Class of '14. How long has it been since those words ran across my mind? Weeks, months, years? For how long have I forgotten my friends?” But I cannot fool myself, even through the opaquely rose glasses of reminiscence. Even back then, when we made our oath to turn on, tune in and drop out together, I knew that I was merely playing. I have always had a disturbing propensity to forget quickly and completely. I can flamethrow memories with a mere flick of a mental switch, and keep their ashes locked away for great stretches during the droughts between overly sentimental rains. And so I feel no remorse, no sadness and no wish to return to the days of old during my reflections. I feel almost nothing at all, and wonder if I am alone in this nothingness. Perhaps its just they way I am, or perhaps its just the way it is.
This is a really complex paragraph. What stuck with me however are two things, firstly: the way you string the words together feel very fluid. "While I am safe from the rain behind the clear glass panes..." almost sound like lyrics. If you write your "I Believe" essay this way, you won't be boring too many people. The second thing that struck me was the way you conveyed the emotion. It was really well done, subtle in the beginning but as the story progresses the emotion creeps up and really gets to the reader.
I am woken up abruptly by a familiar din. The face of the clock reads 5:30. It is June 21st and and I roll out of my king size bed, glancing over my shoulder at the bare chest laying next to me. His right bicep is painted with a tattoo of a celtic knot with his family shield. I stumble to the closet and pull a dress over my head and grab clean scrubs from the shelf to my right. I brush my hair and my teethe, doctors with messy hair and bad breath are usually not well liked. As I walk out of our room I kiss my husband's forehead and silently wish him well for the next 14 hours. As I walk past my daughter's room I peek into her room and whisper "have a good day James", grab my keys and leave for the pediatrics wing of the hospital.
ReplyDelete"Crystamanthequins" clangs in my ears, forcing me further awake. I widen my eyes and draw the familiar red lines around them, winging the ends out at the corners. I stand up straight to admire my handiwork, and - damn. I've made fingerprints in the paint again. Every god damn time. Grabbing the nearest makeup sponge, I dab at the exposed skin at my temple, covering it in gray. The reflection staring back at me never gets any less freaky looking. I can sort of see why people are weirded out by this. Reaching for the hat, encircled with gold braid, with the curly horns sticking out, I'm hit with nerves. God I hope this works. I check to make sure no paint has gotten on the tailcoat or the sleeves and absentmindedly reach for the ring that isn't there.
ReplyDeleteDrowsily, I prop myself up on my elbows. Ugh. I've overslept again. I still haven't quite acclimated to the time difference between Massachusetts and Oxford yet. A very attractive person rolls over next to me and moans to "Nooooo…. Let's go back to bed!" It is Orlando Bloom. Or Matt Smith. Or Keira Knightley. It could be a number of people, I'm not sure. But I glance over at my phone and I have three missed reminders about a book signing I have to be at in two hours. I scramble out of bed and head for my wardrobe. I still haven't shipped most of my clothes yet. I pick out a nice looking Calvin Klein dress and go to shower. I undress, look into the mirror, and decide that I like my appearance. I check my schedule on iCal, and it's fast as ever, having updated to iOS 10.2 just last night. I have the book signing, a conference (my notification says, "Note to self: Gregory Maguire to attend…CHECK YOUR FANGIRL AT THE DOOR LEAH!" Tonight is the big night, however. My second book release. The party is going to be amazing, I booked Rachel Maddow and Thomas Asbridge to come and speak a few weeks ago, and I send them both a text message asking if they've arrived in Oxford safely. I sigh and wipe the fog from the bathroom mirror… I see a strong young girl smiling back at me. My life is wonderful. Except, after all these years, I still can't get up in time to adequately get my shit together.
ReplyDeleteThis is a very good piece Leah. You do a very good job all around of presenting the reader with the futuristic idea. I also think the the "It is Orlando Bloom. Or Matt Smith. Or Keira Knightley." is very funny and works well.
DeleteIts Sunday, and the rain is hitting the ceiling to floor glass windows on the third floor of the house. The sky is still gray with morning, and the smell of him lingers. I roll over to find he isn't there. My heart pounds with anxiety until I hear his footsteps on the floating staircase, and with a sigh of relief, I sit up to discover him with a tray of various breakfast items. A white rose, my favorite, is in a skinny vase, freshly cut from the garden outside. He joins me in bed, and turns on the television. I breathe in the scent of pancakes, flowers, and him, all mixing to form the scent of idealism.
ReplyDeleteOk so the other night I tried to make meat balls for the first time using an online recipe written by only who I can assume is a competent cook with his head up his ass. The vagueness of the instructions--consider that there is poor lighting in some of our houses please, don't tell me to wait for the oil to shimmer I also can't tell what my type of shimmering is compared to yours. Dick. Because of this fallacy, I wasn't sure from what range between medium and high heat would be good enough to put in the raw meatballs and subsequently I burned my first batch of balls. From the second I plopped them into the pan, shit went off auto-pilot and flew straight toward the pan as the meatballs sizzled and boiled, releasing a smoke that scented surprisingly good and, were I blind, I might have thought the cooking was going swimmingly, that is of course until the fire alarm goes off. Which it did. It blared. It screamed. In the moment this occurred, I did something you shouldn't do when loud noises sneak up and kick you in the pants, I panicked. Though not before turning the heat off the stovetop thankfully.
ReplyDeleteThis is really good James - very funny and you convey emotion really well. I think most people can relate to cooking disasters as well.
DeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteI wake up with a yawn, and glance over at my alarm clock-- 6:27. 3 minutes before the alarm, perfect. After a hot, brief shower I slip on khaki pants, a white t-shirt, and my tan windbreaker. It's my birthday today, and I'm feeling like making some hash browns, eggs, and some bacon to top it all off. I sit down to eat, but first I make sure the bacon is broken up into bits that forms the number of years I've now been on this earth-- 27. Perfect. After a scrumptious breakfast, I grab the keys to my green Pontiac Aztek and slip on my Clark's loafers. As I step out the door, I say with a sigh, "Time to cook." And no, I'm not a chef.
ReplyDeleteMr. White: I like the way you promote a sense of routine with this piece. This is effective not only in conveying your allegory, but also in conveying mood and feeling. I like the way you end: it's subtle and a cliff hanger.
DeleteA piece of sun perches on my eyelids as the first sight of morning rises up over the North East Vermont mountains. Below, Caspian Lake is rising with mist and the damp green of tree reflections. Inside my cabin I am alone, but if I want company I will walk to the Willy's Store, only 1.6 miles away, that has everything I could ever need. I slip on a bathing suit and one of my father's old tee shirts I used to love when I was a kid. Today, and every day I get to live my dream: simplicity and solitariness and happiness. I will write for a little while, then maybe take a long hike in the woods. This afternoon I will swim and the evening will be a time to gather with neighbors and celebrate this wonderful place.
ReplyDeleteThough I'm just 27 years old, the effects of travel at the speed of light have taken their toll on my body. My skin is dry and my knuckles worn. The 83 hours of chest-crushing acceleration that it took to get me here weakened my heart and the heart of my copilot. However, as we reach the speed of light and the acceleration ceased, all that was left was the incredibly profound silence of space. Now we can cross between galactic groups and dodge the gravity of black holes in complete peace. By the time we return to earth, civilization will have destroyed itself, but the point is moot. All that I need is here: Cape Cod chips, Pepperidge farms Brussels cookies, and an unlimited supply of Five guys--bacon, cheese, mayo, lettuce, tomato, grilled onions, ketchup and barbecue sauce-from the bio-producer, and the entire internet's worth of movies at our disposal. Looking into the universal expanse of my copilot's brown eyes, time travel doesn't seem so bad for the heart after all.
ReplyDeleteLooking out the the floor to ceiling window of my corner office, I gaze down upon an urban metropolis. I am wearing a suit, and thinking to myself “Shouldn't I be smoking right now?” I return to my desk having been deeply affected by the overcast drizzle outside. While I am safe from the rain behind the clear glass panes, they cannot shield me from the stinging nostalgia coming down along with every drop. I begin to think about my “childhood”, and wonder where it went. What happened to those meaningless days back in Maine? What happened to my friends, the class of '14? “Jesus,” I think to myself. “Maine. Class of '14. How long has it been since those words ran across my mind? Weeks, months, years? For how long have I forgotten my friends?” But I cannot fool myself, even through the opaquely rose glasses of reminiscence. Even back then, when we made our oath to turn on, tune in and drop out together, I knew that I was merely playing. I have always had a disturbing propensity to forget quickly and completely. I can flamethrow memories with a mere flick of a mental switch, and keep their ashes locked away for great stretches during the droughts between overly sentimental rains. And so I feel no remorse, no sadness and no wish to return to the days of old during my reflections. I feel almost nothing at all, and wonder if I am alone in this nothingness. Perhaps its just they way I am, or perhaps its just the way it is.
ReplyDeleteThis is a really complex paragraph. What stuck with me however are two things, firstly: the way you string the words together feel very fluid. "While I am safe from the rain behind the clear glass panes..." almost sound like lyrics. If you write your "I Believe" essay this way, you won't be boring too many people. The second thing that struck me was the way you conveyed the emotion. It was really well done, subtle in the beginning but as the story progresses the emotion creeps up and really gets to the reader.
Delete