My Children's Story

In a little toy store

There was a shelf way at the top

Full of music boxes.

There were boxes of fine cherry wood

of mahogany and elm,

carved with intricate designs

gently curving lines,

and a little dancer in each one;

each more lovely than the sun,

with a fluffy tutu and a tight high bun.

All but one.

Her name was Elisa,

And she was a hippopotamus.

When her lid was opened, she was met with surprise:

“Why, I can’t believe my eyes!

A pirouetting hippo, how funny!

But it certainly isn’t worth my money.”

And they’d put Elisa back on the high, high shelf.

One day, a little girl came in

and her little-girl gaze was drawn to Elisa and her kin.

She picked up each box, weighing them somberly

like little girls do,

looking inside of a few.

She glanced gravely at Elisa’s sisters,

On her face a frown.

She looked at their identical faces,

and put them back down.

Finally, she opened Elisa’s box.

“Now’s my chance,” Elisa thought,

“I must show her my dance!”

And the box cracked open,

and the music played.

Elisa wasn't afraid.

She twirled and spun,

the perfect run.

The little girl laughed, smiled, and,

with a wide grin,

put Elisa back down again.

“What was that for?” Elisa cried, as the girl

ran out of the store.

“Could I have done more?”

But before Elisa had time to mope,

she heard the door;

a sound of hope

as the girl ran in,

clutching the hand of a woman, tall and thin.

“The hippo one, Mommy!” she yelled

With a point right at Elisa’s box.

And so, our unusual dancer found a home.

And from her story, we can see

That special is okay to be.

Sometimes I Forget

sometimes I forget

my life isn't a book

there aren't motifs

to pick up on

no symbolism

in the coffee cup on the table

no parallelism

foreshadowing

rising action, climax

denouement

nothing.

no click as everything falls into place.

no happy endings.

just me

Where I'm From

I am from a dusty old swing set that threatened to collapse every summer. 

This was from the hours I swung from it, 

contemplating the universe 

and the boy across the street.

I am from a house that used to be a veterinary clinic. 

They left much behind. 

There is still a strange room full of broken microscopes, 

syringes of medicine wrapped in paper, 

and huge volumes on the anatomy of horses; 

all caked in dust.

I am from a field covered in yellow wildflowers, 

with ancient pine trees lining the fence.

 I would climb them until I reached the very top, 

and peek out from behind the needles.

 I was a dryad, blending into the bark 

like it was my own skin.

I am from homemade cinnamon rolls for breakfast every Christmas Day; 

the one time my stepfather cooks for us.

 My siblings: Emma always complains about her presents;

 Mali complains about Emma. Samuel cries. 

I hide from my distant stepfamily. 

I am from picking through grandchildren 

like you would a barrel of apples; 

toss the ones that are odd-shaped or bruised. 

I’m from knowing about fire and death before my friends, 

because my stepfather was a cop.

From “Family will never desert you” 

and watching as mine shrunk

 from twenty people to a handful. 

I’m from “You’d better get your chores done before he gets home,” 

and “You’d better get your ass in gear.”

 My childhood was over the moment I realized he had ceased to scare me. 

I am from sitting through Lutheran service every Sunday, 

in a modest skirt and tights I had ripped playing basketball. 

I argued with the Sunday School teacher, 

and moved to the pastor 

when her answers did not satisfy me.

 Soon I learned to keep my mouth shut 

until I could choose for myself. 

I’m from ancestors in Ireland, 

then Great Falls, Montana;

 where it snows in July

 And everyone smells like buffalo burgers and cigarettes.

I’m from watching my mother go through her stages of depression, 

and seeing her leave me a week to visit her “friends.” 

She left expecting me to take care of myself, 

and I learned by doing everything wrong. 

I am from, Billings, Great Falls, Taneyville, Forsyth, Aurora, Springfield. 

I am from a biological family, briefly introduced, in Montana. 

I am from three siblings I might see once a month, and a mother. 

I am from tossing out someone else’s history,

 and beginning my own. 

Final Reflection

1. I wish I had started this semester in this class. Every project inspires me, and I have written a few really good things in this class, even if I've procrastinated them to the last minute. I loved the children's story especially, I loved the one I  wrote about Elisa the Hippopotamus. It combined my love for poetry with my love for illustration and storytelling. I know I haven't actually turned it in yet, but I promise you, Mrs. Fraser, it's pretty great. The section about childhood really inspired me as well, I loved remembering my old friends. I wrote one poem, Amber, that I really liked. I also loved the re-purposed books assignment, and I think mine will be wonderful as soon as  I finish it. Unfortunately, this is a pattern for me, leaving things until the exact last minute. I don't know how to fix it, and it has really become a problem for me this year, as my projects become harder and harder, to the point where an all-nighter isn't even long enough to get it done. 

2. I loved reading the scary stories, even though I'm no good at them. I can't create the suspense, the twist. A scary story doesn't rely on good imagery or word choice, it's bare-bones; plot based, which isn't my specialty. I loved Collin's scary story, though, it was pretty superb. I like Taylor's Dirty Dishes Poem, and everyone's 101 facts. I loved learning about people, piece by piece like that. I read The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood which influenced some of my journal writing, and A Collection of Beauties at the Height of Their Popularity by Jeanne Houston; an unusual book that combines art, poetry, and prose. Definitely worth reading. 



3. I generally hate computers. I don't consider myself particularly good with them, and I was pretty intimidated by the idea of starting a blog in this class. I did learn  a bit, but the idea of writing on a blog just really intimidates me and I'm not sure if I will continue it outside of this class. I will continue to write, of course, but I much prefer pencil-on-paper. 

4. I love journaling. I've always kept journals, places to keep stray thoughts, drawings, notes, lists, favorite quotes from my friends; little scraps of life. You can always tell my journals by their coffee stains, smeared ink, and scribbles. They always start out neat, perfectly formed words on clean paper; a resolution to order. My intentions are always good. But, by the end, the handwriting is illegible, the drawings leave their spaces to encroach on the words, and tears and smears are abundant. It's alright though, I like them better that way. I am not neat, made from clean, straight lines. I am messy, and my journals always reflect this, by the end. I write my journals for myself, but I like that others can look at them and see the way my brain works, it's interesting. I love looking back at what I've written and seeing who I am. I will continue to keep journals, and paste in my scraps of life.

5. My journal is very erratic and I write scraps in the margins, but here is a piece of it for you:
(minimalist drawing of an elephant, next to it a nose)
       love, love, love                                                                                                                        libellule

 a chant, a litany, primal and old, old, old. Love, love, love                                             ulalume

 we are middle schoolers chanting Bloody Mary in front of the bathroom                   annabellelee

mirror in the dark, dark, dark and black like velvet and heavy. Love, love, love.  kingdom by the sea

Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary. Stay away, evils of the world.                  bluebeard’s wife

We have love to protect us. We have love. Or at least a thousand thousand                        ulalume

songs about it, books, movies, poems about it. We have to believe in it, because           cellardoor 

what do we have if we don't? So we clutch to it, object-fixation, thing-madness,            cellardoor

monogurui, rocking back and forth on the ground, holding it tight.                                  cellardoor

Love, love, love, love. Love, love, love, love.

basalm. spruce. cherry. mahogany. elm. poplar. sturdy oak.

tumeric. ginger. cardamom. cinnamon. cassia. star anise.

organza. taffeta. chiffon. damask. velvet. poplin. brocade.

A girl, a boy, a study in black and red and white.

You remind me of home, he tells her as he watches her lips move

white teeth flash

these two, curiously mismatched socks

a red plaid scarf, black eyes, red velvet lips, hands together, but the heights are just quite wrong;a jilt in every step. What a pretty picture we must make

Truth runs like a black, dark current beneath conversations, and we balance on runners suspended above it. At any given time, they could break, plunging us into the cold depths. Our conversations, the petty small talk, these are what build the delicate infrastructures that we stand upon. Small talk, small, is necessary, to keep us from drowning in truth. It's always there, though, half-hiding in jokes, in casual sideways remarks.

Why do I like coffee so much?

It's  warm. On a cold day it's hot chocolate's businesslike cousin.

6. I was super proud of my children's story.

In a little toy store

There was a shelf way at the top

Full of music boxes.

There were boxes of fine cherry wood

of mahogany and elm,

carved with intricate designs

gentle curving lines,

and a little dancer in each one;

each more lovely than the sun,

with a fluffy tutu and a tight high bun.

All but one.

And her name was Elisa

And she was a hippopotamus.

When her lid was opened, she was met with surprise:

“Why, I can’t believe my eyes!

A pirouetting hippo, how funny!

But it certainly isn’t worth my money.”

And they’d put Elisa back on the high, high shelf.

One day, a little girl came in

and her little-girl gaze was drawn to Elisa and her kin.

She picked up each box, weighing them somberly

like little girls do,

looking inside of a few.

She glanced gravely at Elisa’s sisters,

On her face a frown.

She looked at their identical faces,

and put them back down.

Finally, she opened Elisa’s box.

“Now’s my chance,” Elisa thought,

“I must show her my dance!”

And the box cracked open,

and the music played.

Elisa wasn’t afraid.

She twirled and spun,

the perfect run.

The little girl laughed, smiled, and,

with a wide grin,

put Elisa back down again.

“What was that for?” Elisa cried, as the girl

ran out of the store.

“Could I have done more?”

But before Elisa had time to mope,

she heard the door;

a sound of hope

as the girl ran in,

clutching the hand of a woman, tall and thin.

“The hippo one, Mommy!” she yelled

With a point right at Elisa’s box.

And so, our unusual dancer found a home.

And from her story, we can see

That special is okay to be.

7. Writing has always been there. Sometimes I have no idea what I'm thinking until I put it down on paper. When I write, I know myself. I've always been fascinated with words, in one form or another, and it has bled into everything I do. I've always written. I don't plan on stopping.
There isn't really any other type of writing for me other than creative writing. Even when I have to write academic papers, I think much more about the word choice than the actual research... which is definitely not appreciated by my other teachers.

8. For the love of god, please please please don't procrastinate. This has been my biggest struggle, in literally every single aspect of my life. I have one piece of advice for any student of this class: don't be me. Don't sit in class during the time you're allotted to work, staring at the computer screen, terrified to write, afraid that what you're writing won't be as good as what you've written before, or as good as what other people are writing. Even if you make no sense, even if everything is crazy, just sit down and write. Don't write like you have a week to finish: write like you're out of time, like you're forced to get rid of your inhibitions because you just don't have the time to be weighed down by them. Be weightless. Fly, my pretties.

101 Facts

1.     I used to live in a veterinary clinic.
2. Coffee is my life; I will drink it any time of the day, anywhere, any coffee. Except the tar-and-cigarette-ash coffee from McDonald’s.
3. The color yellow makes me angry.
4. I’m a low brass girl; my instrument is the euphonium.
5. My favorite book is either Witch of Blackbird Pond or The Book Thief.
6. I’m not really sure what color my hair is, and I always get different answers when I ask.
7. My favorite tree in the fall is the sugar maple; all fire with silver peeking through.
8. I love books, but I don’t like libraries.
9. Makeup started out as a game to me, an art where I could paint my face and become anything. I was a tigress, intimidating and fierce. Or a sweet, demure thing. Sometimes even someone who belonged in a suit, well-constructed and in control. But lately I’ve realized that I don’t like myself without it. I can’t even go to the grocery store without mascara.
10. I keep my savings in a classy old cigarette tin; a favorite flea-market find.
11. There is a Scottish plaid for my last name; Barclay. It’s kind of ugly.
12. My favorite artist is Edgar Degas.
13. I pull all-nighters to get homework done about once a week.
14. My favorite food is mac-and-cheese, in all forms.
15. My second favorite food is sushi, especially from Haruno’s.
16. Until recently, I drove a motorcycle.
17. My favorite color, exactly, is the blue right before black that happens about ten minutes after sunset.
18. The more extreme the pressure – the better I do.
19. I’ve kept one friend through all my moving, ever since fifth grade – my Angel.
20. I keep secrets.
21. I don’t have a lot of stuff – I could fit everything I need into one suitcase, if I had to.
22. I throw things away indiscriminately, since I usually don’t attach sentiment to objects.
23. I can’t concentrate on something else and listen to music at the same time – music needs all of my attention.
24. I love the way wet clay feels so alive under my fingers.
25. My super power would be mind-reading.
26. I love being barefoot and wearing sandals, even when it’s too cold for them.
27. When I have to do math, I write it tiny and neat so it looks pretty, which makes it more tolerable to me.
28. I love soup.
29. I didn’t get my ears pierced until I was sixteen.
30. My biggest fear is needles.
31. I like to write things out before I type them. I like the feeling of pen on paper, the personality that shows through handwriting. You can tell if I take my time, and the letters are evenly spaced out, deliberate, or rushed and squished, hurrying to get the thoughts out, anchor them to the page. Handwriting tells a story that’s never heard if everything you write is pounded out on a keyboard.
32. I had a pet rabbit I kept a secret from my family for two months. His name was Foofoo and I kept him under my bed.
33. The French Revolution is my favorite section of history.
34. My favorite flowers are poppies.
35. My favorite era of style is the 50s; I like the feminine silhouettes.
36. My nickname as a baby was “Pumpkinhead,” because I was orange.
37. I love cursive. You still can’t read my handwriting, but at least it’s pleasantly illegible.
38. I really like to eat with chopsticks.
39. I have been an atheist since I was seven years old.
40. I think coffee stains add character.
41. I skipped the fourth grade.
42. The best thing I ever ate was a medium-rare duck breast at Metropolitan Farmer.
43. I love my hair, it just sort of does itself.
44. Walmart depresses me.
45. I don’t have much of a family. It’s just me and my mom, and I don’t even live with her. I have three siblings, but I see them about once a month. No cookie-baking (or otherwise) grandparents.
46. I’m much better at helping other people than doing my own work.
47. Fresh fruit is one of my favorite things on this earth.
48. I am a proud member of The Snort Support Group.
49. My favorite weather is a good summer rain, where the asphalt is hot, and the water feels warm, and the sun is peeking through the clouds.
50. I like old books better than new books.
51. I have a knack for losing things.
52. I chew my nails.
53. I don’t like pickles.
54. When I was in the third grade, I told my math teacher, Mrs. Bills, that I didn’t like dark chocolate, which was her favorite. She told me it was an acquired taste, and so she gave me a Hershey’s Kiss every morning before class. And now I love dark chocolate.
55. I love to wear red lipstick.
56. My favorite instrument to listen to is the cello.
57. I can sleep for fourteen hours or more if nothing wakes me up.
58. I love candles, but I’m not allowed to have them in my apartment.
59. I named my dog Bindi because she has a dot on her forehead that looks like a bindi.
60. I’m a little obsessed with music boxes.
61. I definitely don’t believe in horoscopes.
62. I am always exhausted.
63. I hate mornings.
64. My favorite cartoon character is Jessica Rabbit.
65. I like Russian nesting dolls.
66. I’d be in Gryffindor.
67. I like to make origami.
68. I hate wasabi. Some jerk let me eat a big marble-sized chunk once on a date and I almost died, ruining it for me forever.
69. I was going to make number sixty-nine really sexual, but I decided against it in a rare moment of restraint.
70. I love my freckles.
71. My dog doesn’t know how to bark. We’ve tried to teach her.
72. I’ve never successfully played a video game in my life. Other than Pokémon.
73. I’ve thought about becoming Buddhist, but I just really love meat.
74. I think the longest I’ve ever stuck to a diet was a week.
75. Because I eat ravenously.
76. I love to write. I’m terrified I’m going to end up an English teacher…
 (Sorry Mrs. Fraser.)
77. I really hate New Jersey accents.
78. Not a huge fan of southern ones, either.
79. I actually really like Shakespeare, but I always forget it until I’m actually reading his material.
80. I also liked Wuthering Heights. Yikes. Definitely going to end up an English teacher…
81. I don’t consider myself a “kid” person. Also I hate teaching.
82. I’ve seen every episode of the Buffy the Vampire Slayer at least ten times.
83. My name is Lauren.
        Hi, Lauren.
        I’ve been Facebook-free for four months now.
        *scattered applause*
84. My ex-step-grandfather used to take me hunting, but I always pretended I couldn’t get the safety off when I saw a deer so I wouldn’t have to shoot anything.
85. My favorite font is Georgia.
86. My pinky toenails are an utter failure. *sobs.* They’re not big enough to actually paint, but sometimes I paint the skin around them because it makes me feel better.

88. I haven’t had any television channels in two years.
89. I’m addicted to Netflix.
90. I have a gnarly scar on my ankle from my motorcycle wreck.
91. I work best at night.
92. My favorite animal is a fox. Gotta love those tails.
93. I really hate it when people respond “K” to me in a text message. My mother does this at the end of every single conversation.
94. I love to wear dresses. And pearls. And generally dress like an old lady. A foxy old lady ;)
95. I think carrying a potato would be more useful than my current phone is.
96. Maybe because I just love potatoes. I really love potatoes. Mm. Taters, precious… boil ‘em, mash ‘em, stick ‘em in a stew.
97. I have green eyes.
98. I want to go to Ireland more than anywhere else in the world.
99. I use a badger brush and shaving soap to shave my legs. It feels classy.
100. I love bubble baths.
101. You will never see Spider-man and me in the same place at the same time. Just saying.

Amber

Amber, I remember

when you were still tree sap.

We thought that a woman had a baby

when the daddy kissed her belly

and we tried to ignore

the death-twitches, crystal

Your mother gave

when you two were too long poor

for a fix.

Now, you trap boys like flies

and you are hardening,

Growing into your name.

A Belated Halloween Post

When I was one year old, I was a ladybug, too plump to do any flying. Next came Elmo, then Snow White, then Roo. My cousin was Kanga and my mother was Tigger. When I was five, I had my first year of dressing up as Belle from The Beauty and the Beast, my favorite Disney princess. I was a princess again at six, Cinderella, and a sleeping beauty when I was seven. My mother made my Aurora costume herself, complete with a tiara heavy with rhinestones. Next came Princess Leia, my long hair braided and looped on each side of my head. I was a generic "autumn princess" the next year - the result of an overdose of Disney, but still yearning for a ballgown. When I was eleven I had a pumpkin costume I could tuck my head into and hide inside, and when I was twelve I was a mercury spill with silver hair.  I was an eighth-grade Indian, the same as every other girl in my class. Fifteen was a sugar-skull bride, wedding gown and all. This year I was a fox; roadkill, limping along on crutches.

Potion of Aging
The shine from the wings of a dragonfly
Half of the wrinkliest prune in the bag
A lock of hair that has gone out of style
Groans from random joint pain, distilled
Powdered aspirin, for taste
Stew in a mixture of one part filtered water and two parts liquid nostalgia; mix counterclockwise for 20-30 minutes, or until beige. Each eight-ounce dose ages approximately ten years. Use with discretion. May produce wrinkles, gray hairs, and pains, with none of the advantages of wisdom.

I was putting on my Halloween costume when I heard something moving in my closet. It was a soft scrape, a whisper, the kind of sound you question hearing. I stood in the middle of the floor, staring at the slats in the door, glimpsing soft fabric. I can only think of Biology, and Mr. Moore telling us how nearly every case of rabies in America is transmitted by bats, with their thin, skeletal bodies and leathery wings. He told us about a little girl who was scratched by a bat when it entered her room, an imperceptible scrape that wasn't identified until it was too late. By the time the symptoms of rabies show, you're done for. I could look inside the closet, satiate my curiosity, find the source of sound. Or I could just pretend I never heard it, pretend it never existed; a trick of the nerves. I could crawl into my bed, tuck my legs and arms and head all under layers of blankets, a barrier, and stay there.