I’m thinking of making this a journal exercise in the writing course I teach. Write a letter to someone from your past that you found on Facebook. I thought it’d be interesting, so I did.
FOR 1352656300
Ugh.
How cliché would it be? “You probably don’t remember me from high school, but I thought of your name the other day and thought I’d look you up.”
In fact, you definitely don’t remember me from high school. You’d have no reason to. I passed you in the halls once in a while. The art room was near my locker. I think you went to the Philadelphia Art Institute when you graduated, right? I have no idea how I would know that.
I do know that I learned your name from the newspaper. There was that section of The Atlantic City Press made for kid/teen-related things. Integrated with the masthead, they put a question of the week along with photos of kids who answered. You were one of them. I looked at the picture so closely I could see the halftone pattern on the paper. I forget the question and your answer, but I remember seeing your name and thinking, “This is Stacy.” From that point, it took years to convince me that Stacy is more commonly spelled with an “e.” I just assumed everyone else didn’t know the grace and creativity that came with dropping the “e,” a decision I’m sure you had little to do with in reality.
My mom would take us to get haircuts in the Superfresh shopping mall—was it called Master Cuts? Or Super Cuts? Something with “Cuts.” There’s no Superfresh or salon there anymore. The Eckerd you worked at is still there, sort of, in the form of a bigger standalone Rite Aid. It was the only good part of getting my hair cut. I’d sneak out for a minute to run down to Eckerd and buy some Skittles from you. It wasn’t easy since I had no money. If mom didn’t give me any, I just browsed a lot. Read the rest of this entry »
This appeared in the Fall/Winter 2010 edition of The Scop at King’s College.
BEWARE OF HIPPOPOTAMUS
Sometimes I dream about being a horse. Sure—say I’m weird. I don’t care. I just can’t stop myself from thinking about how cool it would be. People are always saying how beautiful and majestic horses are. They’re so tall and muscular, and they’re always trotting around. They gallop, too. What other animal gallops, really? If I were a horse, I could gallop. As I am, I usually just plod along. Sure, sometimes I can get in some good stamping, but what does that really do? Even an elephant or a child can stamp.
I’d have great hair as a horse, too. A flowing mane. Even ratty horses have great hair. But I wouldn’t be a ratty horse—I wouldn’t even be a normal horse. In my dreams, I have wings. I’m a flying horse, which they call a pegasus. See, if I were a regular horse and I ran into water I might have to change my route, but as a pegasus I could just fly across. And everybody would watch when I spread my wings and glide through the air. Normal horses would be jealous. Just imagine the air flowing through my perfect hair and my graceful extended wings. It’s quite a picture, isn’t it? Read the rest of this entry »
When people post fiction on personal blogs, I think it’s weird. I’m not sure who they expect to read it (unless they have a major following already), but I suppose they just want to put something out there. “I wrote this and it needs to be read.” Well, I wrote this. Maybe it doesn’t need to be read–you might need food, water, or air more than this–but give it a go.
WADING ROOM
It’s like they cut a rectangle out of the ocean and hung it on the wall opposite the receptionist. Backed in that dazzling blue that you see when a scuba diver swims on TV, it’s filled with oranges and yellows, spots and stripes, and long and short. The fish swim around the same area all day long and as tempting as it would be to think they might get bored, I’m willing to bet they keep themselves entertained by watching all the patients come through the waiting room. And we stare back at the fish because they’re different. Unusual. Distinctive. We’ll never jump in the tank and join in to see what makes them so unique, so we stare until they become common, then look away in boredom or shame.
You would think that the woman sitting across from me would take a page from that book—or at least observe the fish for a bit. There’s one that swims around a rock most of the time. The rock has a big hole cut out of the middle that the fish could swim through, but he doesn’t. If you watch long enough he will, but he makes you wait for it. I call him Tease. The woman could enjoy Tease, but she won’t. She’s been staring at me for the past ten minutes.
I don’t want to look at her too much. If I stare back, I’m afraid she might feel invited to talk. When I first noticed her, I smiled and said, “Hello,” and she returned the salutation, not taking her eyes off me. I feel like that was my chance to say “What the hell are you staring at? You’re freaking me out.” But I missed it. I can’t go back now. We’re both in this way too deep. Read the rest of this entry »