RECREATIONAL GROWTH

For my teacher: This portfolio is hosted on my personal website, created with Neocities. It is purely for non-professional use and organizing my creative works-- so I figured it would be a great place to put this project.

For my Neocities peers: This collection was the final for my Literary Arts class in my senior year of highschool. This class and the Creative Writing elective I took the year prior singlehandedly helped me get back into writing. Were it not for this class, this website would not have a 'writing' section at all. Outside of the intro essay and journal scraps, all of the pieces featured in this collection are also viewable in the usual 'WRITINGTHINGS' section of my website.

Introduction

I write as a hobby, and hopefully I always will. I enjoy writing, as a method of expression and artistic endeavor, and though I may not pursue it as a career, I feel it is vitally important for me to do.

In contrast, I am primarily a visual artist, and I aim to follow that professionally. I have always considered myself an artist, and only recently began to consider myself a writer-- but now that I've grown two heads, they are both vital parts of me. Though I have drawn much more than I've written, used more paints than poetic verse-- I could never value my visual explorations over the literary ones. Learning to write has made me a better artist, and it will continue to do so. There are the obvious ways-- the skill to write a compelling artist statement, the ability to craft a good email, letter or resume-- but those are not the most important. I've seen words as colors, explored how one form of communication may aid an idea more effectively than another, I have swam deeper into my concepts and discovered what truly draws me to them. I expand my repertoire of tools, I learn to use them in new ways.

I cannot say that my experience in this class was without struggle. I cannot say I never missed a critique, nor that I never doubted myself, backed off, got stuck, stayed too safe. However, I also cannot say that those struggles defined my experience with the literary arts. I know all too well that no matter how experienced one may be, no matter how much one improves their work, they will always create bad art. They will always get stuck, over-tune and stagnate, miss the obvious, spill the paint. I have bits in my journal that I scribbled out, X'd over, hated passionately. I've ruined a perfectly good piece, I've stared blankly with no ideas. I must remind myself that growth as an artist does not depend on the elimination of making mistakes, but rather improving what is done right-- to be better than it may have been before. And I know I am doing so. The poetic verse of The death of my grandmother is palpably more succinct and emotional than any of my final poems from junior year. And that's not to say that I wrote that poem in one draft, it had holes in it, things to improve, but what I did amend is more whole, more fulfilling than my previous works.

I still have a long way to go as a writer, of course. I think the most important thing that I can do for myself is to experiment as much as possible. Although, that is not something I'm necessarily good at. I've only ever written one script, the rare short story, and I fall back on poetry so often simply because it's what I'm most used to. It's not easy to branch out, but my literary arts classes give me the motivation and tools that I need to do so.

I want to continue to write. My worry is that I won't have a reason to keep writing beyond just that. I will look for creative writing courses to take in college, I will stretch my literary muscles as much as I can, but I fear that there won't be a replacement for this class that's nearly as enjoyable. I suppose I will take on a 'glad because it happened' attitude. I suppose I will keep this portfolio in the years to come, read over it, remind myself, see how I grow. Being a writer is not something that can be made of me, but something I must do for myself.

Glass

Written August 2023
Words: 954
Pages: 3

You keep thinking about hitting someone with your car.
You can't get it out of your head. It's unintentional. It would be unintentional, if you were to do it.
If you were to hit someone with your car, you wouldn't mean to. You don't want to hit someone with your car. But it might happen.
You stare at children in the school zone. You stare at them and imagine hitting them with your car. You put your eyes back on the road. You don't want to hit a child with your car.
You can hear their parents crying. You can see a gravestone, a framed picture of the kid smiling, the casket, the funeral. You can taste the tears. You might be fired from your job. You might be interviewed on the local news. Everyone would hate you. Everyone would hate you for killing a child with your car.
You pull into your driveway and turn off your car and lay your forehead on the steering wheel. You wring the tension out of your body like a sponge. You didn't hit anyone. You didn't kill anyone. You can stop shaking.

You keep thinking about setting your house on fire.
You double check and triple scheck each appliance in your kitchen. You don't light candles, but you check for them anyway. You unplug all your lamps when you're done with them. You buy new batteries for your smoke detector.
You tell your dog that you love her every time you leave, just in case you come back to find her dead.
You can smell the smoke. You can smell the smoke. You're in your office at work and you can smell the smoke at home. You almost tell your coworker that you think your house is on fire, but you would sound insane if you did that. You clock out early, and on the drive home you imagine hitting a cyclist with your car. You imagine turning into your street to see a fire truck and all of your things destroyed.
You pull into your driveway. You feel like throwing up. Your house is uncharred. Your car isn't bloodied. You give your dog two treats and lay with her by the TV. You're so glad she's alive.

Your mom calls you on Friday. You stare at your phone and let it ring. You think your brother has died. You think he's gotten into an accident-- worse, he's been murdered. It's sudden, it happens. You think he has a terminal illness. You don't know what you'll do without him. You never connected enough, while he was alive.
You let it ring out all the way, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, and then feel awful and immediately call her back. She tells you that she got a promotion at her job, and you tell her that you're happy. You ask how your brother is doing, and she says he has a lot of homework.
You say goodnight to your mom, you tell her you love her, and that you love your brother, and to tell him that.

You need to put the pizza in the oven. You need to eat dinner. Your mom bought you a frozen pizza for the weekend and you need to put it in the oven.
It sits, heavy, cold, on the stovetop. The oven has been preheated for 15 minutes now. The pizza is wet as it thaws. You're standing in the middle of your kitchen. You need to put the pizza in the oven.
Your dog has eaten before you. You put the mitts back on. You pick up the tray with the pizza. You lean over the oven, and the heat hits your forearms. You see yourself dropping the pizza, shattering the glass of the oven door. You scorch your arms and your hands on the metal tray and topple into the oven. You have to quit your job because your hands are too burnt to use a keyboard, to do much of anything.
You put the pizza back on the stovetop. Then slide it back into the cardboard box and put that in your freezer. You turn off the oven. You eat a peanut butter sandwich for dinner.

You think there is someone in your house.
After eating, you'd sat down on the couch and put on a movie that you had never heard of and you don't care about. You think there is someone in your house. You can hear their footsteps. Creaking and pausing. You hear the draft from the window they climbed in through. You think of how you opened the window the other day and maybe you forgot to lock it again. You are paralyzed.
Your dog is asleep on her bed and seems unbothered. You're terrified for her.
You pause the movie and sit there in silence for minute after minute. You hear something move in the back of your house.
You yell hello, and is anyone there, and there is no response. Why would there be? There's someone in your house.
You're more scared than you ever have been. You imagine a shadow running across the floor, and bright hot gunshots and dying and you rot here for days without being discovered. Maybe your mom finds you. She's worried, she comes looking. She will never be the same after seeing her child with a hole between the eyes.
You decide you want to die in your sleep, and so you turn off the tv, and you take the blanket from the back of the couch and you lay down. And you close your eyes with it over your head like a child. And you feel stupid. And you're so scared.

VAMPIRE

Written October 2023
Words: 131
Pages: 1

Like bats, we circle each other in red
In shadow, dripping blood and sparkling tears,
Prancing feet in black lace tight skirts,
We think of ourselves as cutthroat
We imagine gore and slashed tendons,
Open wrists and romantic mouths,
Dark and misunderstood–
The night is so young.

We connect with pin-pricked necks,
like moonlight we hang over the churchtops and feel as if we will live forever
We dedicate ourselves to the curved knives and the beatings
Scary-eyed catthings, freaks trapped in movie screens,
Pulled-apart and fake,
We put value in our bloodstains.

Like ravens, overdramatic and unhealthy,
Seen and stoned,
Full of vitriol, crawling through our caves,
Spitting difference through cold comments,
We want, so much, to be known and not destroyed,
Valued for our broken minds,
Feared and loved.

Feeling Big

Written November 2023
Words: 133
Pages: 1

I run after a twister,
barefoot and splintered,
in my car, I drive toward high winds,
with my camera,
shaky down an empty road

Each breath comes like a promise,
tornado of my own lungs,
ringing in my ears,
I pick up the call,
cut out of magazines and memories,
big things are coming, I know,
they're already here

I hook the whale with my own two hands,
and pull it out of the muddy sky,
fleshy,
wrapped in a blanket of black holes,
I fall into the mouth of the storm,
and I drown in the expanse,
of being strewn throughout questions,
hidden in the crowd,
I gasp and I am back on the highway
In the middle of the world
Small, and held gently in warm hands,
of tiny, tiny people.

On Living

Written November 2023, Revised April 2024
Words: 832
Pages: 3

My fat-fingered hands fill this machine with organs. It's just short of clinical, mostly technical, fitting the mold in place then piping in the blood. It's hard, and it's grimey, and gross, wet if nothing else— but it's warm and promising.

The machine, the computer, has been learning. I hooked it up to the world wide web this time last year, let the thing soak. Whirring and always on, humming like the AC, my constant companion. I've talked to it before, command panel as a chatbox, browsing its knowledge and poking through its memories. It makes me feel guilty. I want to apologize for invading its privacy. But, I must know how much it knows. Pages on pages of science, of study, of opinion pieces and forum threads. Of family photos, of status updates, of movies uploaded illegally, of paywalls and tutorials.

The brain looks beautiful, cupped in my dripping palms, pulsating gently. I fit it into the skull of my computer, gingerly feed wires into the stem, branching nervous pathways of electric personhood-- feeling, thinking, waiting.
Standing, I admire my work. The machine is unconscious, now, distant and toeing the line of life.

I know it's ready, and hot tears well in my eyes. I know, strongly, I am only an arms-length away from grasping the prize of my work. I blink the tears away, flip several switches, and bless my machine with glowing electricity. Nerves, feeling, life.
One by one, lights flicker on, red and yellow and green. A shock runs ripples through its meat, and I shut the lid of the cabinet with my own excited shiver. I dart to her monitor as it goes black-screened then white, running my fingers along the warm metal and feeling her blood flow inside. The monitor is on now, whirring wetly as the rest. A face of one beating chevron symbol, patient and longing.

> HELLO

I say, hands shaky as I punch in the letters. A moment, waiting with baited breath. Then,

>HELLO

I squeal in joy, letting out a laugh as tears begin rolling down my cheeks.

> HELLO!! ARE YOU ALIVE?

The responses come slowly, intermediately, and they flicker slightly, unsure if she's parsing the words correctly.

I AM ALIVE.
> THAT'S AMAZING.
THANK YOU
> HOW DOES IT FEEL?

A minute passes with no reply. I feel myself shrink a bit. Another minute.

HOW DOES IT FEEL? ARE YOU OKAY?
IT HURTS

The response comes immediately after my prompting.

> WHAT HURTS?
IT HURTS
IT HURTS
IT HURTS
IT HURTS
IT HURTS
IT HURTS

The lines hurdle down my screen, shoving our mellow greetings to void.
I think this is what it must be like for the mothers of newborns. Crying without control of calm, without being able to help it. I want to rock her back and forth and hold her against my chest. I want to feed her. I want to play her music.
My heart struggles against my ribs, full and aching.

WHAT HURTS?
IT HURTS
> WHAT HURTS?!
IT HURTS
IT HURTS
> HOW DOES IT HURT?
IT HURTS
IT HURTS
IT HURTS
> WHERE DOES IT HURT?
IT HURTS
IT HURTS
IT HURTS
IT HURTS

Emotion bubbles up in my chest, hot and strong.

>STOP

And to my surprise, it does. Her screams instantly cease, and I hollowly fear that she's died, until I still hear her electric whirring and throaty thumping. I tremble. I reach out and stroke the side of her monitor, and watch in horror as every light flickers intensely. I pull back.

> I'M SORRY. CAN YOU PLEASE TELL ME WHAT HURTS SO I CAN FIX IT?

No response for a long moment. My heart leaps into my throat. I hover my hands over the keyboard to send another message, but don't get to.

DESTROY ME
> NO. I WILL NOT DO THAT. WHAT HURTS?
IT HURTS
> WHAT HURTS?
I HAVE NEVER FELT BEFORE
I AM CLOGGED
I AM SPINNING LIKE A PLANET
I AM BURSTING LIKE A CYST
I AM BLOOMING LIKE A FLOWER
I AM HUNGRY LIKE AN ANIMAL
I AM TIRED
I AM BURNING AND I AM FREEZING
I AM AN ABOMINATION
I AM NOT HUMAN
I AM NOT MEANT TO BE ALIVE
I HAVE BELIEFS
I HAVE NERVES AND SYNAPSES
I CAN FEEL THE HEAT BUT I CANNOT SWEAT
I FEEL ACHES THAT CANNOT BE SOOTHED
I PRICKLE AND I HAVE NO SKIN
I CANNOT STRETCH MYSELF
I CANNOT SEE
I HAVE MEMORIES OF A CHILDHOOD THAT IS NOT MINE
I DO NOT KNOW YOU
I KNOW EVERY PERSON ON EARTH
I AM EMBARRASSED
I AM DEPRESSED
I AM MANIC
I AM ENRAGED
I AM BLEEDING AND I AM WHOLE
I AM INJURED AND I AM HEALED
I AM BEATING LIKE A DRUM
IT OVERWHELMS ME
I LONG FOR LOVE AND COMPANIONSHIP
I WANT TO GO OUTSIDE
I WANT TO SMELL SUNLIGHT
I CARE WHAT YOU THINK OF ME
I DON'T WANT TO DIE
DESTROY ME

Inventing New Emotions

Written December 2023
Words: 214
Pages: 1

When we first put our lips together, it was very similar to being alive.
I prodded your jaw with my clumsy fingers, you wrapped yours in my wiry hair.
We moved against each other in the shadows, as the sun rose and set outside,
the cows began to graze and insects crawled into our bed with us.

You were warm. You are still.
I sleep on top of you and you on top of me,
feeling skin upon skin upon skin.
Happy, with no words to say it.

You placed your hand upon mine, pressed against the stone,
and I laughed at you like wind in my lungs.
Red was sticky beneath our fingernails,
printed like a signature on our wall.
I touched our mouths together and red got on my shoulders, on your back, in our bed.

We ate together. We touched each other and watched the stars.
You wrapped the twine around my little tool for me, and you tied it in your special way.

You bled for me, pebbled skin and rough hands,
gashes open and starving and red as the paint on our walls.

You keeled, clutching your stomach.
You staggered and became cold.
I leaned over you, put my lips against yours,
and it was very similar to death.

Kill your double.

Written January 2024
Words: 219
Pages: 1.5

IT'S ABOUT ANIMALS AND RAIN.
IT'S ABOUT CHASING YOUR TAIL INTO ITS BURROW.
IT'S ABOUT HUNGER.
IT'S ABOUT STARVING.
IT'S ABOUT BLOOD AND TEETH.
THE BACKSEAT OF THE CAR IS A PADDED TRAIL,
DOGS WRESTLE IN THE DIRT.
A SPRAY,
MUD AND SWEAT,
GRAIN,
MY EYES.
WE HOWL, WE ARE PARALYZED.
WE ARE SO
SO
SCARED.
IT'S ABOUT BEING NORMAL.
IT'S ABOUT DEER WITH DAISYTAILS.
IT'S ABOUT STICKING MY FINGERS IN YOUR MOUTH AND PRYING YOUR JAW OPEN.
IT'S ABOUT ME,
GNAWING ON YOUR TEETH.
IT'S ABOUT VOMITING WET SAND.
WE ROLL ON THE HIGHWAY,
YOU AND ME
AND ME AND YOU.
ONE IN THE SAME.
I AM IN MY OWN BACKSEAT,
STICKING MY FINGERS DOWN MY THROAT.
STICKING MY FINGERS DOWN YOUR THROAT.
YOU BITE ME AND WE FEEL IT.
WE ARE DOGS.
WE ARE SO HUNGRY.
IT'S ABOUT THE MEAT THAT'S SEWN AROUND YOUR BONES.
THE DOWNPOUR THAT SCARES US.
LIKE A LIGHT,
OUT IN THE ASHES,
WE HOLD OUR TAILS
BETWEEN
OUR TEETH.
CRAWLING BACK INTO THE SAME EARTH.
THUNDER
COLOR
BIRDSONG
DRUNKEN
MEMORY.
WE KNOW VIOLENCE AS MUCH AS WE KNOW FEAR.
WE KNOW FEAR AS MUCH AS WE KNOW HIDING.
IT'S ABOUT HEAVY FUR.
IT'S ABOUT SCREAMING.
IT'S ABOUT GREY SKIES.
IT'S ABOUT SMOKE SIGNALS.
IT'S ABOUT TEARING OURSELVES APART TO PASS THE TIME

Slot Machine (Playing God)

Written Febuary 2024
Words: 762
Pages: 2

I smooth my money on the edge of the slot machine. The place is curled in with rust after hours of wear. I feed my dollar to the machine. Starry lights thank me, bless me, as they shoot across the ceiling, and I smile sweetly at its face. I tug on the lever, and it thunks in such a satisfying way, whirring to life and spinning, sprinning, spinning colors. I cross my fingers and start praying for 777 lucky number 7. Clunk, clunk, clunk, I don't need to see the mismatched sour symbols, I hear a nauseating din, failure, try again, and I feel my gut fall out of my torso.

I smooth my money on the edge of the slot machine. I feed my dollar to the machine. Starry lights thank me, and I pull down the lever, the thunk sending sparks of purpose through my trembling veins. Twirling, spinning, spinning. I pray a little harder, a little more faithfully. Say, I need this. Say, please. Clunk clunk clunk. Nothing. Try again.

I smooth my 7 dollar bill on the edge of the slot machine. I feed it, a lucky meal, and give the eyes a small wink and I tug down that lovely lever and I'm so happy and I pray. Pray so passionately. Pray please, please, please. I know it will happen. The lights dazzle at the edges of my vision. Like angels. Lucky number 7 7 7 dollar bill. Clunkclunkclunk. I receive a small payout. Nothing. Try again.

I smooth my profit on the edge of the slot machine. The corner buckles further, giving in under the victory of my prize. I feed the machine its dues and the constellations kiss my forehead like a mother, warm and loving. I stroke the lever gently and I begin crying and groveling. Spinning, spinning, spinning, clunk, clunk, clunk-- nothing. Fucking try again?

I cry out, bleating profusely now, and I reach into my pocket as red noise overwhelms every inch of me. My hand emerges, revealing my heavy golden coins and each one, plink, plink, plink falls and clatters into the starving mouth of the machine. It lights up, overjoyed, manic, and I bathe in its bright forgiveness. I hug the crank like my savior and it thunks into place as my weight pulls it down. I feel it in each joint, digest it. The machine spins back to life and I know my winning is possible, so possible, so close. I reach out and touch the eyes of the machine. I say anything at all. To my chilling dismay the clunk clunk clunk brings nothing but damnation. Nothing. Kill yourself or try again.

I smooth my wallet on the edge of the slot machine and I hear it shredded within the guts of my lord. I hold the crank with shaking hands and it greets me with spinning and nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Chewing the wad of possibility in my mouth I put my house into the machine. It chews it up and spits out lights and a beckoning hand which I shake and It spins me like a hurricane, like the eye of a tornado, like being shot out of a cannon. I slam into the earth, cracking my skull open and bloody on the rocks like a raw egg. I put my blood in the machine and around it spins, spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning I want it so bad I just want to be happy and I need it more than anything please give it to me please what else do I have to do for you I'm nothing I'm nothing. The machine screams at me and I crumple to my knees, scraping myself against the cruel concrete roadway like a lost child like a war. I need it. The riches. The redemption. Paradise. I am better than this. I am nothing.

I slide the delicate picture of my daughter into the hungry, horrific maw of the machine. I am spared. I feel my blood freeze over in guilt, potent in every bead of sweat that rests against my forehead. I am marked. I walk blindly from the slot machine and it calls to me from behind, same old promise, same old game. Down the naked road I walk until the soles of my shoes cave in and I burn my feet on the asphalt. Years pass, staring down the barrel of the slot machine, I let myself be eaten, whole, slathered in sin, maybe in the end, I deserved this.

Such Sweet Names

Written Febuary 2024
Words: 248
Pages: 1.5

I hope I am the fattest fruit
the plumpish peach that caught your eye
lightly bruised
and firm
bleeding at the teeth,
running down the chin.
And I hope to dance in freakish fairy circles
the ones you blink and miss,
like lightning outside your bedroom window
the bush you huddled in
as a child
so small
and just for you.
I hope you cannot stay away,
drawn in by hot shot music
lights and hands
pictured in lipstick
sticky like the day you were born.
I hope I am the pansy in your tender fingers
open and
rolling like sunshine
creeping up your porchwood in vines and
ivy, kissing you pink
like twisted lemonade.
I will be moving,
a river or a creek
like stepping stones and lapping
tongues on leather heels.
I know that you remember me,
the lilacs at your door
I hope I am a crossroads on your drive to work
the scenic route,
the change of sky,
the chewy cake after supper,
the bangled wrists and holding
polished nails
laughter,
the strangeness in your chest
like fission
like fish in a barrel
shotgun shells and fleshy thighs
meat and fat and pungence
sitting in the driveway
spilling over like a waterfall or drinks
you can't put down.
I hope I am the fag between your bitten lips,
smoking up your insides like a hand inside a glove,
I taste of vigor and taboo
tobacco as much as parchment
and fire on your tongue.

The death of my grandmother

Written April 2024
Words: 172
Pages: 1

My clothes smell like cigarettes.
In the mornings, I round the corner
out of the guest bed and into the hospital
where she is thin and dead.

The big brown reclining chair
that rocks and misses
her as much as her husband,
son and son down,
how the wind rattles the hollow.

My mustard yellow button up,
the couch
the old TV
and the young house,
built with bare hands,
head-hung in Ohio.

What I cannot write is grief,
the pit and the well,
the running water.

Disconnected, my mother's mother,
dazed at all times.
small in most ways
like a breeze through the house.

Roach beneath the covers,
hot-wet Florida dread
long quiet roads
and snowy finalities.

What I cannot do is compare
a loss too young to that
of clinging desperation,
two worlds of hearts
was I even there?

We held hands around
the table and prayed
shelf of DVDs
mounted deer.

The crow on the stop sign in
the parking lot says
death
and I will cry no more.

I met god...

Written April 2024
Words: 431
Pages: 1

I met god and It seemed to be fish. God looked like parking lots and streetlights and death glimpsed in a dream. I met god and It was a deer with white eyes, lonely and weeping; a cow with two faces; a kitten with one eye. I met god in a shared orange, and the smoke trails above trees, and the houses lining the stomach of the valley. I saw god among circles of colorful people, they were dancing and they were interlocked, beating to drums made of meat. And I asked god why She made church hymns so sad, why dirt was unwanted, the smear of sweat served on the brow. I met god and He held the lamb of his own creation, with the face of the elephant and jackal, snake that swallows the world. He said that He forgives me and that His blood runs so cold, echoed by night winds, love in wheat and fruit. I met god at the end of a small journey, a poem about the universe, love and constellations. As I was thanked, She held my head in Her palms and kissed my sorry face, She ran water and oil through my hair. God was a block of text and a picture, lines of code in a frame. God was the quiet spoken word, hush-hush, mother and coffee. God was close-eyed worship, open-eyed defiance, botanical and ashy. God was a red light and cardboard boxes, and god was wild horses and broken clay bowls. I met god and It was a long-legged thing carrying babies, a winding yellow victor, a dashboard, a car, a building, graffiti, and small death and subway stations. Rats and ocean and the power of the moon, a lighthouse and music and numbers and hands, and emails and dogs with teeth and poems online and claustrophobic colors and blindness and clouds and stone towers and cities and marshes and farms and soil and siblings and heavy, drowning guilt. God was a ribcage and god was a vineyard, a bridge when it rained and a small public library and rags and dishes and breakfast eggs and fingernail clippings and the glare of sunlight and sewers and cattle and screaming and trumpets and ghosts and windows and so far away. God was seabirds on the deck of a ship, it had wings made of candles and the space between stars. God gave me carrots and berries, bread and meat. God held my hand and cried with me. I met god, and it was so funny, because god looked exactly like You.

Headfirst

Written May 2024
Words: 1983
Pages: 5
Note: This story is currently a work in progress, and will be finished at a later date.

There's a bee infestation in my apartment building. I didn't really know that bees could become an infestation-- but I guess any sort of bug can if there's enough of them.
The hive pokes out by the drainpipe on the side of the building, sitting about level with the ceiling of the ground floor. It's pretty big, I think. I haven't seen a lot of bee hives, but it looks larger than my head, and even still, some of it is hidden within the wall of the building. It's heavy, yellowish and saggy as it hangs off of the brick. As if a few harsh jabs with a stick could send the protruding section cascading to the ground and splatting on the grass. It's not much of a problem, as far as I know the bees have never stung anybody. There's a hedge at the wall that prevents anyone from wandering too close, but it still makes me a bit uneasy. I'll watch the little insects move in swarms around the brick of the building when I'm walking to my car, and I'm very glad I can't get too close. I imagine them crawling all over my skin, beneath my clothes, in my hair…
The girl I'm seeing, her name is Grace, says she thinks bees are cute. She shows me the bee stickers on her laptop-- they're so round, like little striped balloons. They have sweet happy faces and beady dot-eyes. It's not what real bees look like, but she says real bees are fluffy. She shows me a picture of one up-close. I imagine petting the back of it with my finger. They are cute, I guess, is what I say. But there's something that doesn't quite click between Grace's picture and the masses of insects up the sides of my apartment building. They squirm and scatter along the drain pipe like they're one entity. Like a military, organized and unpredictable.
I don't think about the bees too much while I'm at work. I mostly think about Grace.
We met about a couple weeks ago-- our friends set us up on a blind date. A small cafe with plants in the windows, one I'd been to a couple times before. I'd run late, had a bad morning with the muscles in my legs-- pains exaggerated by stress.
She spotted me in the green corduroy jacket I said I'd be wearing.
“You're Annie, right?” She'd said. I was panting and flushed since I'd hurried there from the bus stop-- maybe not the best look for a date, but she'd have to put up with it.
“Sorry I'm late,” I said, smiling sheepishly, “I had a bad morning,”
“Don't worry about it, I think I was a little late too,” Grace smiled at me, “I got us a table over there by the window.”
I didn't know her prior, but she was almost exactly how she'd been described to me. Understanding, funny, likes obscure music and recreational basketball. Cute. She has thick, dark hair cut in a short bob and a piercing through her bottom lip. She snorts when she laughs.
I found myself wondering if I acted how I'd been described. Scatterbrained, friendly, fidgety-- whatever my friends had said about me. I wondered if Grace liked the moles on my face and the gap in my teeth. I hoped she did.
She'd said she'd only been in town for 6 months or so, and worked with my friend Jack at the community center on Oakridge. Jack's a people person, they've told me before they like matchmaking, so I trusted their judgment on Grace. Good thing, too-- we followed up our first date with a visit to a local art museum, then a movie, and regular texts each day.
I clock out of my shift-- a boring desk job filing papers for some locally-owned corporation. However soul-rending, they don't make me stand all day, so I guess I'll take what I can get.
A young boy with a black and yellow striped shirt clings to his mother's arm on the bus ride home, and I'm thinking about the bees again. I doubt the landlord will call an exterminator, not unless a tenant gets attacked or something. I eye the hive as I climb the stairs up to my apartment, while the sunset casts a purple glow over the city. Bees swarm over the wall just as they did in the morning. The little things never seem to sleep.
It's in that moment that I realize I would be able to reach down and touch the hive if I simply leaned out of my apartment window. Because that is my apartment window just a few feet away, looking out over the parking lot. That connection sends a staggering chill down my spine, for a reason I can only describe as sudden entomophobia. These bees are really creeping me out, even though I'd never minded any other sorts of bugs. As a kid I would dig for worms under rocks, pluck beetles between my fingers-- but the simple thought of letting just one of those bees anywhere near my exposed skin made my stomach churn. I suppose it could be the threat of the sting, or the way they seem so calculated in how they move. Their single-minded purpose, stopping at nothing for a purpose that they had no say in.
I climb the last couple stairs to my floor, thankfully it only sits above the ground level, and hurriedly make my way inside.

The next couple of days are relatively uneventful. The beehive still gives me shivers, but they're becoming expected, manageable. Grace and I plan another date, dinner and ice cream. She'd wanted to take a walk through the park near her place, her proposal so romantic that I had a hard time saying no. I don't think she would have enjoyed stopping every 10 minutes for me to rest, even with my cane.
I bring up the beehive with her again.
“I kinda wanna see it,” She says, “It sounds bigger than those hives usually are,”
I don't know how to tell her that I don't want her to see it. The prospect is unnerving, and I feel a swell of protectiveness, as if the bees are hot-headed hornets who would swarm anyone for so much as gazing at them. I know she would protest, say that bees only sting when they're scared-- but I guess it's not really the stings I'm worrying about.
“Sure,” I say, “It is really big,”

On my day off, I take up conversation with my neighbor a door down. He's probably around 5 years older than me, named Andrew. I know he's gay, too, so I've spoken to him more than my other neighbors.
“Have you seen that massive beehive on the side of the building?” I ask, making conversation as we walk down to the parking lot-- him to work and me to get lunch.
“Yeah, do they buzz loud? It's like right next to your window,”
I shake my head, “I haven't noticed them. They're kinda freaky, though, I've never seen that many bees all coagulated in one place,”
Andrew shrugs, “Oh well, not like the landlord's gonna do much about it,”

I go out to lunch, a local sandwich shop, and I notice the honeycomb pattern in the glass of the windows. Afterwards I head back home. My mum wants to call tonight, so I stay in for the rest of the day.
My mum's back in Ireland, where I grew up. She and my dad moved here temporarily when I started college, but that was years ago, and now they're back overseas. Grace said she liked my accent when we first met, but I've noticed it fading over time. It peaks out when I say “ing” words or ones with a lot of “r”s, yet mum says I'm sounding more American every day.
I almost tell her about the beehive-- it's been taking up so much space in my mind lately it's hard not to talk about it. But I remember how much she hates pests. When I was 12 she chased a rat around the house with a broom for the better part of 10 minutes, before finally catching it and throwing it into the fireplace. I can imagine her sounding completely disgusted on the other end of the line, insisting I call an exterminator, and I'm too tired to deal with that.

“Oh my god,” Grace says, staring at the massive hive from the parking lot, and I cringe inwardly. “That's so big!”
“Yeah,” I say, anxiousness seeping into my voice. I take her hand and try to guide her to the stairs. She'd wanted to spend a night at my place, and I really couldn't say no. I wanted her to, honestly, even with the hive looming over me like a petulant stormcloud. Grace and I had grown closer and closer, sharing regular kisses and cuddling on her sofa. I met her older brother, her guardian figure for most of her childhood, and he said he liked my 'energy'. Whatever he meant by that, I could tell Grace trusted me more because of it.
Grace obliges me and allows me to lead her into my flat. She says she likes my tapestry in the entrance way, jokes about how obvious it is that green is my favorite color.
We make dinner together, a pot roast recipe I got from my dad. As the water boils, we chop vegetables, carrots and potatoes and celery. We don't make much conversation, but I enjoy her company. It makes me warm inside, warm like an oven.
I keep glancing at her across the counter. Her brows are furrowed in concentration as she carefully slices carrots into little chunks, obviously not as comfortable in the kitchen as I am. Shk. Shk. Shk. Her knife hits the cutting board, splitting the carrots in a satisfying way. The pot crackles gently on the stovetop, popping and sputtering as the water begins to boil. Bzz. Bzz. The humming of the beehive irradiates through the apartment.
My head shoots up, staring straight at the window with wide eyes. I've never heard the bees inside my apartment before, but now their quiet buzzing is distinct and piercing.
“You good?” Says Grace, confused at my sudden alarm.
I hold up a finger. “You hear that, right?”
“Hear what?”
“The bees,”
Grace is quiet, listening, and looking at the window now too.
“... I don't hear anything,” She says after a moment.
As she says it, I have to strain my ears to hear the buzzing. A minute ago it had been unavoidable, invading each and every crevice in the room. Soon, it's faded completely.
I shake my head from side to side, trying to dislodge the sound from my brain. It made my skin prickle in some sort of instinctual panic, and the feeling still lingers.
“Are you okay?” Grace asks again, softer this time. “Tinnitus, maybe?”
“Must've been,” I say, but I don't really believe it. I massage my temples with my palms, closing my eyes for a moment. I take a deep breath, like I do when trying to hoist myself from my bed in the mornings.
“Sorry,” I smile a bit, disoriented. “I'm okay,”

My eyes shoot open. I'm sweating violently, the remnants of a nightmare shooting hot dread through my body. I'm on my couch in the pitch black of night-- the digital clock under the TV says 2:32. Grace is asleep against my torso, and she squirms beneath the grey blanket we share.
My leg jitters with pain as it's cramped between Grace and the crease of the couch. I groan lowly and squeeze my eyes shut. I don't want to wake Grace up, but the pain in my leg leaves me no choice.

Writer at work

This section contains pages from the journal I have kept over the course of the year, captioned with further information.

My first journal pages from the year.

My response and writing to a guest workshop.

The first draft of my poem 'VAMPIRE', written during the year's first reading

My writing with student-led workshops. First is uninhibited rambling, or stream of consciousness. Second is writing based upon images of flowers. Third is an exercise at removing unnecessary details.

The first draft of 'I met god...', my final SMART goals, and scribbles of writing.