Juxtaposition

I should clarify that this is not a personal story, but a work of fiction. I wanted to write something from a different perspective and I came up with this story. I hope you enjoy!
-Jen

The curtain and blinds of the window had been pulled aside to allow thin shafts of light into the room. I watched as dust particles danced around, never quite landing, but suspended in time and space. That’s just how I felt at the moment--permanently halted. To keep myself from dwelling on this nagging feeling of hopelessness, I traced my fingers across the pattern of the faded arm chair. Green and pale red fleur-de-lis reminiscent of the French monarchy were prominent in the fabrics design. Perhaps the owner of the arm chair considers themselves a descendant of a royal blood line. Other people shuffle in around me, briefly sitting, heads down, whispering quietly amongst themselves until they progressed into the adjoining room. No one approached me or asked why I was sitting in the arm chair. No one spoke my name or even looked at me. I caught a familiar face out of the corner of my eye. Happy to see them I raised my hand in an inaudible hello, too afraid to break the silence; but they refused to look my way. Slightly hurt, I reasoned that they probably hadn’t noticed me. 

Now that my gaze had been broken away from the window, I looked around the room. Everything was in varying shades of green, red, and gold--warm colors in an oddly cold environment. A piano stood in the corner opposite the front door and coat closet while a large wreath of flowers was positioned in the other. I began to notice a soft melody, but it wasn’t emitting from the piano. Rather, it drifted in from the other room and like a beacon or a siren it hooked me into its pull. Muscles stiff as if I hadn’t moved in years, I pushed myself out of the chair and slowly walked forward. I tried to remain as inconspicuous as possible for I would be the last person into the room. Upon entering obtrusiveness became the last of my worries. My eldest sister stood at the head of the room tears sliding down her face as she silently moved her mouth. She was in a desperate struggle to force words from her unwilling vocal cords, for next to her lay my body in a coffin. 

The Echoing Green

Creative Writing

A few weeks ago we had a poetry reading in my creative writing class. A local poet read some of her personal poetry as well as a collection of her favorite poets. Although I do respect the poet, she did not use the style I am either accustom to or like. I generally pay attention when in class, but my pen had another intention. This is what it was: 

She stood at the podium 

Shifting, feet twitching.

The students gaze unnerving

In her hand a book.

Tattered and torn, worn

Beloved not forlorn.

A cough, she reads aloud 

T.S. Elliot, Magi--gave inspiration.

Her own poetry a duplication-

From teacher to student. 

Iambic pentameter not lent

She speaks of physics, science.

Illusions of birds 

Describe feelings in words.

They evoke sensibilities.

Religion her root 

An exploration, inspiration permute.

A course that lead to the future. 

New life allowed

The expansion from imitation.

This course a form of liberation. 

And now-

Now she stands before us.

An example-creation of poetry.

--Inspiration--

White and Brown Polka Dot Dress

I recently had to move my bedroom from one room to another within my house. The first step to switching rooms was to move the easiest things first--my clothing. This process was rather drawn out only because I had a large abundance of clothing that needed to be sorted. Finally nearing the end of a closet I had previously thought of as relatively small, I noticed a dress I hadn’t worn since sometime last fall. This pretty, yet modest white and brown polka dotted dress, had garnered many compliments on what was probably the only and last day I would even wear it. 

It was still wrapped in its plastic cover from the dry cleaners. Feeling sorry for the neglected dress, I tore the plastic from the metal hanger. Immediately after the dress was uncovered a distinct and familiar smell erupted. It was the smell of my ex-boyfriend. The dress had sat at Chris’ house before we broke up, soaking in the smell of the other clothing smashed into his closet. 

I took one deep breath drawing in the former beaus smell and, feeling ashamed for doing so shoved the dress into my new closet. The smell of my ex does not bring back the last few days together or whatever reason we broke up, but comfort and memories of time spent at his house. 

This simple little dress had sent my olfactory memory into overdrive. I stood before my new closet a little lost and wide eyed wondering what I should do next.

I probably should have left the plastic on the dress.

Pink Banana Seated Huffy

A pink banana seated Huffy bike passed down from an older sister. Tag and keep away played on endless summer nights. Laying on the grass of Miss Kitty’s front lawn watching fireflies dance across the sky. When I imagine my childhood these are just a few of the memories I have stored in my internal filing cabinet. They’re locked away for days when work seems like it’ll never end or when all my aspirations seem hopeless. 

What I don’t, or try not to remember are stories, told by my parents, of the dangerous neighborhood where I lived as an adolescent. Gun fights and drug laced candy don’t fit into my rosy hued memories, nor do cops and gangs. I suppose I may have watch them play out or heard about them long ago, but those particular memories are not ones I necessarily want to remember. You wouldn’t find them in my not so orderly filing cabinet, but in the over flowing paper shredder shoved in the darker recess of my mind. 

Memories are a strange thing. There are three different kinds of memories: good, bad, and mediocre. The good ones are sometimes the slipperiest, sometimes they’ve been imprinted in your mind with every exact detail, and sometimes not. Most often, they are memories of memories, something you almost remember, but cannot quite grasp. For instance, I remember my Grandmother’s couch, a relic from the seventies, her carpet, and a doorstop in the shape of a dog. I was only two, but I will always be able to revisit that couch and that carpet - the doorstop I ended up inheriting. Who I won’t be able to visit is my Grandmother, nor will I be able to recall a particular conversation we had. 

In the bad memories, you remember every word you said, wanted to say, or should have said. You also remember what was said to you. You remember the place, the smell, and most importantly how you felt. Grudges form over this type of memory-that’s why all mine find a home in the paper shredder. It’s not just what’s done to you that’s remembered, but what you’ve done to other people. Way back in the not so superlative neighborhood, I remember a man named Kurt  who lived with his dog and a couple of marijuana plants. He was a genuine person who habitually liked to be left alone. Not exactly the type of person deserving of childish ridicule, but ridicule him I did. The worst part of this transgression, the part I cannot shred enough, is that I had the audacity to do it in front of him. I wish I could unsay what I said. I wish I could change the fallen look on his face, but I can’t. Sometimes, bad memories just won’t fade.

The last memory is the mediocre. They are the most prevalent and tend to take up most of the folders from A right down to Z. You wish you could forget most of these too. What you wore on this day, what you said on that day, the not so delightful C you got on an exam, but at least it’s not an F. They take up too much room and don’t offer anything desirable in return. Maybe if I were able to recycle some of these mediocre memories I could retain more of the really good ones. 

Even though some you would rather forget and some you would love to remember (and then some you just don’t care about), all your memories are important. Without each of them you would not be you. That’s why the shredded memories never make it to the curb on trash day.