Death is a Salesman

      This is my one act play. I played off the famous "Death of a Salesman" title and spun it into my own play. I wasn't sure where it was going to go when I started, and by the time I got to the end, I found myself appalled at how pessimistic it seemed. However, all in all, I found it a pretty fun piece to write. Enjoy!

Scene I

Scene is revealed. It is misty and out of focus, but the spotlight slowly zeros in on Death, dressed like the Grim Reaper, mumbling into a telephone with both feet kicked up on a desk. He is smoking a Cuban cigar; his scythe is leaning against a hat rack.
DEATH: What do you mean not ready yet?! (DEATH listens intently)

(Squeaky voices are heard on the other line)

DEATH: Listen, this is not how things must be? I’m sure we could work something out . . . (he trails off)

(Squeaky voices are heard on the other line)

DEATH: (sharply) Meet me tomorrow in the square. Don’t be late.

Scene. All fades to black

Scene II

Scene opens. There is an old clock tower looming behind center stage. An audio track of bustling people is heard. Many people are rushing on and off stage except two. The first is a man, near fifty years of age and balding; age has not treated him well, and the audience can see him wheezing uncontrollably. The second is DEATH who is lurking in the shadow of the clock tower. He makes a summoning gesture with his bony hands toward the man. The man limps toward DEATH.

DEATH: You’re late, Bill. (He nods toward the clock)

BILL: *coughs* Deepest apologies. The trains were backed up for a while because of some suicide and—

(DEATH cuts him off)

DEATH: I cannot be troubled with your mundane problems. Blame the suicidal girl; Sally, I think it was.

(DEATH opens his robes, reaches inside its shadowy depths and produces a ball of light, Sally)

(BILL, horrified, shies away from the glowing orb)

BILL: No! Stop put that away! I do not doubt your abilities. You need not show off. All I want is more time.

DEATH: Very well then. (He places Sally back into his robes) So how much time is it that you want?

BILL: A year, that is all I ask of you. It is just enough time to say my goodbyes and watch my dear Samantha graduate from high school. Please, I’m begging you.

DEATH: You want a year? It’ll cost you roughly thirty years indentured to me.

BILL: *gasp* I cannot! I’m sorry my dear Samantha! Forgive me, but I simply cannot follow through with such a heinous—

(DEATH cuts him off)

DEATH: Oh! Did I say thirty years? Oh no, no, no. Silly me, I meant twenty years. Yes, and if you act now I’ll throw in an innovative formula for hair regeneration—effective in Life and in Death!

BILL: Samantha, forgive me! I’m sorry, but twenty years is too—

(DEATH cuts him off)

DEATH: BILL, Billy, may I call you Billy? I have certain, say, quotas to meet. Do you hear me? You are going to have an eternity on the Other Side is ten years really such a hassle? And, just for you, I’ll even throw in an extra month to see your darling Samantha off to college.

BILL: Hmmm... You make everything sound so reasonable. I think we have a deal.

DEATH: Excellent! (He reaches his hand out)

BILL: (shakes DEATH’s bony hand and drops dead)

Scene. All fades to black.

Scene III

Scene opens. DEATH is sitting at his desk once again, feet set nonchalantly upon it. His scythe is again leaned against a hat rack and he is smoking another Cuban. There is a glowing orb floating above his desk.

DEATH: (aside) Billy, oh foolish Billy. You cannot cheat DEATH. I am no fool. (He grasps the orb) Sleep tight, Billy. (He hisses before he shoves orb in his robe)

Scene. All fades to black.

Why I'm Not Concerned with My Appearance

    This is my conversation poem. We were supposed to give a little insight of who we were by describing something we were not. Some people described why they weren't swimmers or chefs, but I decided to describe why I wasn't concerned with my appearance. Enjoy!

It’s only temporary-my appearance that is
It will fade and wrinkle
Like tissue paper with time


As long as I am comfortable in my skin
Why should I spend hours primping and preening?
It’s a comfortable and carefree life
Where I don’t have to suffer
The horrors of itchy, tight, yet stylish attire


No recuperation from vicious stabs
Of the bristled mascara wand
Or the irritating scratches of the eyeliner pencil
And for what?
To be ruthlessly judged and compared to others
“Is that really what you’re wearing?”


Free yourself from the evils of scorn
Have faith in who you are
And wear what you want!
When you want!
And most importantly...
Be your own dictionary
 —and define yourself.

10 Ways of Looking at Red

This is my 10 Ways of Looking at poem, popularized by Wallace Stevens in his poem, "13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird." We actually did a collaborative activity of this where we passed our poems around the room and one person would write a stanza in the style of Stevens. I found the activity quite interesting because it was cool to see how other people interpreted one thing. Enjoy!


Desolate, naked woods

A landscape of a snowy white

And a splash of Red

Spilled in the circle of life


I am of many moods

And one of them is a rage

As hot as a Red star


The Red of the hot autumn sky

Lay over the quiet field like a blanket

Just before the dark


Count the shades of Red

Red is everywhere

Count them- Red of a rose

or Red of war-torn failures

Count the shades of Red


Red

So dark it’s almost

Black

Drips and splatters

Like blots of

Red, Red ink,

Ink that writes your fate


Look at the Red of the water

When God punished the Pharaoh—

Or the Red that filled Moses’ painted sea


Explosions

Then Red flickering fire

In the silence


When the Red horizon,

Collapsed out of sight

It marked

The horizontal end,

Of an endless world


Aphrodite’s robes hung Red,

The color of love

Lust in her eyes

Her passion is never dead


 The day fades to black

Only a speck of Red

Where the sun

had once called

—home.

Indecision

     This is my prose poem. As you can see, it is in the form a singular paragraph. In it I personify the emotion of indecision. I later modified it and made it into a visual poem which you can see at your viewing pleasure here. Enjoy!

     Indecision teeters and totters upon an intimidating cliff. Straddling the thin line between yes and no, Indecision wears grey, never black or white. His mind runs rampant, processing numbers and outcomes yet always failing to choose. He coasts through life, wasting precious time, always wondering “What if?” instead of “Why not?” When asked a simple question, he shuffles his grey shoes, eyes downcast, mumbling a wishy-washy, “I dunno.” He is the caution sign in your life, the anchor weighing you down from taking that fateful leap. Back and forth, he sways like a limber palm bending in the breezes of influence. Make the decision, and never allow him the liberty to consume you.

Preface

     This is my preface for my Personal Anthology I had to compile for my Honors English course. It was quite time consuming and I did not sleep the night before it was due, so I was a wee bit delirious while writing this. Unfortunately I cannot include my entire anthology, but it was basically 25 pieces of literature which I written weekly essays on, bound creatively in a scrapbook like thing. Enjoy!

      Inspiration can strike anywhere. For me, it was under the all-knowing eye of my showerhead. It seemed like any other shower; even the spider was nothing out of the ordinary. However, inspiration struck as I was subconsciously splashing water onto the spider. I did not think anything of it until a few seconds later, it resurfaced. Annoyed, I had splashed at it again, assuring its impending watery death, but somehow it once again pulled itself up and continued. This spider had an inextinguishable fire, blazing inside of it, driving him to persevere. As I conditioned my hair, I pondered, “Who am I to drown this harmless little spider that yearns to live so passionately?” Being a slight arachnophobia, this thought was quite profound, for usually, I am under the impression that spiders are plotting my long, drawn out, violent death.

     Suddenly, it hit me like a stinging slap to the face. Revelation streamed like sunlight through the clouds of my lethargy—the itsy-bitsy spider. So simple yet so perfect, the infantile nursery rhyme seemed destined to emerge as the backbone to my anthology. There would be four chapters defining my anthology: the itsy-bitsy spider climbed up the water spout, down came the rain and washed the spider out, out came the sun and dried out all the rain, and the itsy-bitsy spider climbed up the spout again. Each chapter would be supported with works, outlining the treacherous journey of my eight-legged protagonist and I could cleverly title it, “Reaching for the Water Spout” and perhaps promote it as a “self-motivation guide to a more secure self” or something of the likes.

     My first chapter circulates around youth, innocence, and naïveté; the initial passion exhibited in the spider’s first trial is admirable. The spider’s innocent and unhindered path in life parallels that of the pure, boundless creativity inferno radiating from the Little Prince’s soul. The Little Prince holds so many life lessons; it seemed the absolute candidate for my twenty-fifth work. This chapter nurtures the virgin mind of humanity, free of prior wisdom as portrayed through “Before you knew you owned it”; the rash and adamant mindset of self-righteous individuals as illustrated in Jack London’s “To Build a Fire”; the liberated souls, emancipated from the anchor that binds one from leaping into risky situations as preached in “Letter: Teach students to think, not obey.” Due to its emphasis on youth and vitality, I designated green as its color, for “Nature’s first green is gold.”

      My second chapter revolves around a theme of adversity and hardship— “Down came the rain and washed the spider out.” Whether the conflict is as shallow as a kiddie pool or as profoundly deep as a great abyss, there is not a soul in existence that has not crossed paths with the rude personality of calamity. I selected a spectrum of conflicts for this chapter, ranging from the fitful nightmares described in “Butterfly’s Dream” to the lack of recognition that accompanies the essential background roles like “Sidekicks” to the horror of defiling ones name as John Proctor of Miller’s The Crucible faced. Each work adds to the tapestry that is my anthology; each bringing its own unique backstory, laden with repressed tales of sorrow and melancholy hence this chapter’s color scheme is, fittingly, blue. With each thread bringing its own morose history, I propose that one take a stroll in one’s enemy’s shoes and attempt to walk a golden road to tolerance.

     My third chapter centers around a theme of light, knowledge, love, security and enlightenment—“Out came the sun and dried up all the rain.” In this chapter, I looked to the sun for inspiration and found heat, an unimaginable heat throbbing from the star’s core. It was true love, familiarity and unity, reflecting a vibrant orange. To encompass this vibrancy, I looked to the fierce heroine of Gone with the Wind, Scarlett O’Hara. Her adamant drive could have easily fallen under the youthful green of chapter one, but her passion and love for Rhett Butler thrusts her into the vivacious orange chapter in a spectacle of blinding tangerine.

     My fourth and final chapter focuses on facing and overcoming adversity— “And the itsy-bitsy spider climbed up the spout again.” The beauty of the itsy-bitsy spider is that it persevered and endured the hardships thrown its way with its head held high. Triumphing in the fierce battle of dilemmas is dangerous both emotionally and physically; therefore, there is bound to be blood spilled: metaphorically, literally or both. In fighting for what one deems moral, the scarlet blood of both parties is spilled into these pages of poetry—and into its color scheme, triumphing over prejudice like in Hughes’s “As I Grew Older,” sibling rivalry in Soto’s “Broken Chains,” and technology in Alben’s “I lost my smartphone and lived to tell about it.”

     The itsy-bitsy spider’s long and treacherous journey up the waterspout is that of youthful innocence, disheartening obstacles, vivid revelation, and a test of will to subdue the intruders of one’s contentedness. Although the anthology was a pain in the derriere at times, I optimistically hope that one day I will look back on my work and smile. Despite the late Sunday nights before an entry was due, I always had a sense of accomplishment and pride in what I had written even though I had written it half delirious. Surprisingly, I found that I tend to become inspired in the wee of the morn, for my mind is free to wander—so free in fact that sometimes it wanders to sleep. All in all, this anthology has punched a bold exclamation point on my need to stop procrastinating; however, on another note, it was a rewarding project, and I am proud to have completed this anthology, for without Honors English, I can honestly say I would not have willingly compiled such a massive collection. This anthology was the push for me to expand my horizons and explore different realms of my creativity.

Appointment with Love

      For this assignment, I worked with one of my colleagues on writing an ending to a story we had been told. Even though our ending was way off from the original ending,we had a great time writing it and our ending was quite unique in comparison to the others'. The first part of the story we were given were as follows:

"Six minutes to six, said the great round clock over the information booth in Grand Central Station. The tall young Army lieutenant who had just come from the direction of the tracks lifted his sunburned face, and his eyes narrowed to note the exact time. His heart was pounding with a beat that shocked him because he could not control it. In six minutes, he would see the woman who had filled such a special place in his life for the past 13 months, the woman he had never seen, yet whose written words had been with him and sustained him unfailingly.
He placed himself as close as he could to the information booth, just beyond the ring of people besieging the clerks...
Lieutenant Blandford remembered one night in particular, the worst of the fighting, when his plane had been caught in the midst of a pack of Zeros. He had seen the grinning face of one of the enemy pilots.
In one of his letters, he had confessed to her that he often felt fear, and only a few days before this battle, he had received her answer: "Of course you fear ... all brave men do. Didn't King David know fear? That's why he wrote the 23rd Psalm. Next time you doubt yourself, I want you to hear my voice reciting to you: 'Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, for Thou art with me.'" And he had remembered; he had heard her imagined voice, and it had renewed his strength and skill.
Now he was going to hear her real voice. Four minutes to six. His face grew sharp.
Under the immense, starred roof, people were walking fast, like threads of color being woven into a gray web. A girl passed close to him, and Lieutenant Blandford started. She was wearing a red flower in her suit lapel, but it was a crimson sweet pea, not the little red rose they had agreed upon. Besides, this girl was too young, about 18, whereas Hollis Meynell had frankly told him she was 30. "Well, what of it?" he had answered. "I'm 32." He was 29.
His mind went back to that book - the book the Lord Himself must have put into his hands out of the hundreds of Army library books sent to the Florida training camp. Of Human Bondage, it was; and throughout the book were notes in a woman's writing. He had always hated that writing-in-habit, but these remarks were different. He had never believed that a woman could see into a man's heart so tenderly, so understandingly. Her name was on the bookplate: Hollis Meynell. He had got hold of a New York City telephone book and found her address. He had written, she had answered. Next day he had been shipped out, but they had gone on writing.
For 13 months, she had faithfully replied, and more than replied. When his letters did not arrive she wrote anyway, and now he believed he loved her, and she loved him.
But she had refused all his pleas to send him her photograph. That seemed rather bad, of course. But she had explained: "If your feeling for me has any reality, any honest basis, what I look like won't matter. Suppose I'm beautiful. I'd always be haunted by the feeling that you had been taking a chance on just that, and that kind of love would disgust me. Suppose I'm plain (and you must admit that this is more likely). Then I'd always fear that you were going on writing to me only because you were lonely and had no one else. No, don't ask for my picture. When you come to New York, you shall see me and then you shall make your decision. Remember, both of us are free to stop or to go on after that - whichever we choose..."
One minute to six - he pulled hard on a cigarette.
Then Lieutenant Blandford's heart leaped higher than his plane had ever done.
A young woman was coming toward him. Her figure was long and slim; her blond hair lay back in curls from her delicate ears. Her eyes were blue as flowers, her lips and chin had a gentle firmness. In her pale green suit, she was like springtime come alive.
He started toward her, entirely forgetting to notice that she was wearing no rose, and as he moved, a small, provocative smile curved her lips.
"Going my way, soldier?" she murmured.
Uncontrollably, he made one step closer to her. Then he saw Hollis Meynell.
She was standing almost directly behind the girl, a woman well past 40, her graying hair tucked under a worn hat. She was more than plump; her thick-ankled feet were thrust into low- heeled shoes. But she wore a red rose in the rumpled lapel of her brown coat.
The girl in the green suit was walking quickly away."

So without further ado, here is our ending. Enjoy!

      There was something familiar about her, as if they were somehow connected. Bradford couldn’t place it, but somehow he knew her.

      Helen limped over to him and tenderly reached out to caress his face. “My darling,” she whispered.

      “How do I know you, my sweet,” he bumbled mesmerized.

      “You must forgive me. I was young and so afraid,” she admitted, “I just couldn’t keep—” Helen burst into tears, throwing herself onto his shoulder.

      Bradford gently patted her as her whimpers subsided, “What do you mean, Helen?”

      Once she had caught her breath, Helen put herself together and explained, “I was sixteen when I became pregnant with you. It was unplanned and I just couldn’t afford to care for you, so I had to give you up, to give you a better life. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but when your adopted parents told me you were off in the war, I couldn’t help myself. I simply had to contact you. Please forgive me!”

      “Of course, I forgive you! You are my blood!” he assured her.

      Relieved, Helen wrapped him in a tight embrace and whispered, “I love you, my son.”

Six Word Memoirs

      The idea of the six word memoir was popularized by Mr. Ernest Hemingway—"For sale: baby shoes, never worn." We were assigned to compose our own. These are my six word memoirs. They were quite fun to Photoshop. Enjoy!

Mr. Linden's Library

     This story is based off of the Harris Burdick picture above. We were told to observe the picture and then free-write including the caption somewhere in our story. This story was quite fun to write because I am easily frightened, so I found myself getting gooseflesh as I wrote it.

 
      Sally was a stubborn little girl, always adamant in decisions and never swayed. Everything was a challenge to her which she was always the clear victor. She was doomed from the start when the locker leather bound book arrived on her doorstep. . .
     Blanketed in scarlet fabric and handstitched with pristine golden threads, the book seemed to pulsate at her feet. “Forbidden,” it read, yet naïve little Sally immediately snatched the book into her scrawny little arms and shut the door—challenge accepted. Sally wasn’t even much of a reader; in fact, she hated reading, but the prospect of the book beating her fueled the competitive beast lusting for victory inside her.
Sally set to opening it. The rusty worn lock seemed simple enough to break, but try as she might, she couldn’t break it. Frustrated, Sally thrust the book at her bedroom door, eliciting an eerie moan from the book.
      Startled, Sally scrambled toward the groaning book and upon picking it up again saw the golden stitching no longer read “Forbidden” but “DOOM” instead. Terrified, Sally dropped the book to the floor and the lock clicked open. Sally gasped and suddenly there was a knock at the front door. Sally shrieked, taken aback, yet she answered nonetheless.
      In the doorway stooped an old man in a yellow raincoat. He didn’t look up when she answered the door he just stared blankly ahead, eyes glazed over as if in a trance. As Sally was about to speak, the old man rasped, “Don’t open it. It’s not too late. Open it and you will be consumed.” Confused, Sally inquired, “What? I don’t understand.” He repeated, “Don’t open it. It’s not too late. It’s not too late.” A shiver went through Sally’s spine at the old man’s raspy words, and she slammed the door in his face and hurried to the book.
      She sat before the book, pondering whether or not to open it. The golden stitching seemed to be calling her, begging to be opened—and freed. Hours past and neither had made a move. Suddenly, Sally tentatively reached for the book and unlatched the rusty padlock. She continued onto the first page and gasped. . .
      It was blank! Sally laughed at herself for being so paranoid and left her room to eat some dinner.
     When she returned, she jauntily glanced toward the book, and seeing it was still blank, decided it would be a shame to let such a nice book go to waste, so she foraged for a pen. As she lay in her bed, Sally began writing, yet she didn’t realize she was. It was as if her hand had a mind of its own. Page after page, she scribbled on and on, unaware of what she was writing.
     Finally, her hand stopped and when she looked at what she had written she was taken aback! It was in a peculiar tongue she had never learned let alone seen before. Before she could think too heavily about it, Sally was overwhelmed with a sudden wave of exhaustion. Her pen fell from her hand as her head dropped toward her pillow while her other hand clutched the scarlet leather to her chest, throbbing in sync with her slumbering heart.

     He had warned her about the book. Now it was too late. As her angelic features softened with the purity of sleep, vines crept from the bowels of the book and entangled her milky white skin. Its tendrils fanned out across her to every crevice of her body, all the while Sally dreamt on. Swallowed by the vines, the book leisurely absorbed Sally’s virgin soul, for it was in no hurry; Sally would not wake, again. She should’ve listened.

Sales. . . not my calling

 This piece is my take two of a vignette. My first is called "Revenge" if you wish to mosey on over there. It is an account of one of my actual experiences this time, so it is not nearly as exciting, but nonetheless, enjoy!

      Last summer, I worked as an assistant to one on my grandfather’s associates in Manhattan. My boss could convince you buy anything! I admired the ease at which he picked up the phone and would dial CEO’s of big companies and talk to them as if he had known them for years.

      For the majority of the summer, I organized, cleaned, and scanned, but two weeks before I was to leave, my boss decided I was ready to make sales calls. My stomach had dropped. “I can’t call people I don’t know!” my thoughts screamed, but my boss assured me over and over again that he believed that I was fully capable.

     My boss then handed me a list of companies, told me to call as many as possible, and left on a business meeting, leaving me to fend for myself against the slings and arrows awaiting me on the other side of the phone line. I leaned away from the phone, eyes as big as saucers, dreading what I was about to do.

     I picked the phone up off the receiver and dialled the first number on the list and a secretary picked up. I jumped in my seat slightly; a part of me had expected them to know who I was at my first word and hang up. Surprisingly, the secretary did not suspect I was only a sixteen year old intern! I even spoke to the head of IT and took some of his contact information!

     I hung up the phone and sat back in wonder. I did not know how to feel. After a few more calls, I brushed up on my technique, but each time I felt as if I was lying to the person I was speaking to because I couldn’t seem to sell myself on the idea of selling. I just didn’t like it. I inquired mentally as to why I could feel so tainted when I told people about products while admiring my boss’s mastery of persuasion. I suppose sales is not my calling.

Revenge

This piece has a particularly humorous story behind it, for it was supposed to be my vignette, but I misunderstood the directions that "it must be from your own life." Therefore, I freaked out that my teacher would think I was some sort of axe murder—which I am certainly not. I later wrote a different vignette—not nearly as exciting in my humble opinion, which is called "Sales. . . Not My Calling." So, enjoy and remember, THIS IS NOT A TRUE STORY!

     My hands felt heavy as steel as I dragged the axe behind me, heading towards the neighbors house. He would never see me coming. I’d sneak into his home while he slumbered, vulnerable to the ferocity of my revenge. “You slept with my wife and now you will pay the price, you bastard,” I repeated to myself under my breath as if it were some sacred mantra.

      I trudged. . .closer and closer. He would never see me coming. I could feel the crimson curtain of rashness close in upon my reason.

      Four years of my life he had looked in me right in the eye as if we were true pals. Ha, what a fool I was to fall victim to his deceptive lies.

      My wife, oh, Daisy, her foolish little head could not help herself. Daisy, so innocent and pure, would never betray me. It was that brute’s damn charm. He lures them toward him with his dark looks and brooding demeanor; all the while, he is anticipating that next day when he can look his “pal” in the eye as if he hadn’t just violated the holy unity of matrimony.

      He thinks he is so clever, but he is foolish to think that I wouldn’t catch on. He will never see me coming. His house looms before me in the dead of night. No movement, the air is still and humid. I can feel the axe slipping from my grip.

      I reach his threshold and my axe scrapes across the floor. The hallway is narrow. The walls seem to close in on me. They’re pushing against me— suffocating me.

      I see him there, sleeping spread eagle across his mattress. He will never see me coming. “For Daisy,” I whisper.

     I raise the axe above my head. . .

Butterscotch

Not to sound cheesy, but I loved my love poem unconditionally when I wrote it, but at second glance a week later, I saw some room for improvement. I decided to reword a few lines and use some different diction, but aside from that I am now more in love with it. Descriptive writing is one of my many passions; in my humble opinion, the more dramatic, the better.This poem is for all the people who cannot bear the thought of losing a friend by making things complicated with a relationship. It’s for the heartsick teenagers that feel as if no one understands.

Eyes as warm as butterscotch

You sparkle across my sky

Your beauty is unparallelled

Inside and out

You are the sun in my desolate tundra

And the supple sand trickling through my toes

My darling, you are my everything

I treasure my stolen glances of you

Tucked away in the deep cavities of my heart

Which truly belongs only to you

Effortless charm drips from your lips

Like rich honeysuckle smoldering with forbidden nectar

Teasing crooked smiles

Leave the girls fawning for miles

But only I can see past those seductive lashes

Secrets lie just below that smirk

Secrets only revealed to me

But you may never know the feelings of mine that are true

For I fear the feeling is not mutual

And I am only a friend to you

So I remain silent

Sheltered by my bubble of unknown

Me is Cat

My unconventional self portrait, “Me is cat,” was such a joy to write; I had lots of fun. I found that the words just flowed out of me effortlessly as if I was breathing. I wrote it in a total of seven minutes and I was so relaxed in that moment, I felt like a lazy cat without a care in the world, hence “Me is cat.” Though it could be more personal, my unconventional self portrait accurately reflected me in that moment in time, and I feel a cat reflects my personality well, for when I was younger, my life goal was to become a cat.


Meow I is a cat

Stretching my feline spine

Do you dare wake my slumber?

You shall suffer

the wrath of my evil eye

Stop with your incessant hurrying

Know I never run

only saunter

For my life is that of ease

and tranquility

Nothing can rock my ship

Shower me with affection

Cherish my presence

As I swagger across you

teasing you with the tickle of my tail

They call me boring

But I couldn’t care less

I am happy with who I am

You have no power over me

Meow, I is a cat.

The Itsy Bitsy Spider: Reaching for the Waterspout

When faced with the assignment of a revised fairytale, I pondered many potential candidates as my protagonist. However, in the end, the Itsy Bitsy spider was the obvious choice. I put a unique spin on it (pun intended). It was such a joy to write it. I wanted the reader to sympathize with my poor divorced yet caring protagonist—Felix.



Once upon a time, there lived a troubled itsy bitsy spider named Felix. Felix had been a good father, all the other arachnids knew it, but that gullible mosquito jury fell hopelessly into his wife’s alluring red hourglass trap. After the divorce had run its course, Esmeralda, his black widow ex-wife, took full custody of his only joys in his life—his children.


Felix begged and pleaded with Esmeralda for visiting rights, but she selfishly snatched up her kids and bought 5 one way tickets to the top of the water spout, eloping with them in the cover of night.


The next morning, Felix awoke to a beautiful sunny day, yet Felix felt a sense of dread in the pit of his stomach. He crawled over to his ex-wife’s web only to find his youngest daughter’s stuffed fly that she was never seen without. Alarmed, Felix called out for Jenny, his youngest daughter.


He searched high and low, yet he found no sign of Jenny, Esmeralda, or his other beloveds. Felix was becoming panicked. He feared he would never see his children again, so he frantically crawled through town, inquiring the whereabouts of Esmeralda and his children.


“Do you know where Esmeralda or my children are?” he said to the grocer.


“Nope, sorry haven’t seen them. Perhaps you should ask the dentist.”


So, with hope in his heart, Felix crawled to the dentist’s office.


”Do you know where Esmeralda or my children are?” he said to the dentist.


“Oh dear! I don’t believe we’ve crossed paths recently. Try the beautician.”


Felix tried the grocer, the dentist, the beautician, the barber, the shoe polisher, the gardener, and even the mayor but no one seemed to know where they were! After a long unsuccessful day, he slumped under a tree in a park and wept. A ticket salesman happened to be strolling through the park and hearing Felix’s sobs, he asked, “What’s the matter?” This only made Felix cry harder, for he felt so hopeless, but with all the strength he could muster Felix asked, “Do you know where Esmeralda or my children are?”


The ticket salesman stood awhile, pensive, until a glimmer of memory glinted across his features, “Why yes! Esmeralda bought 5 one way tickets to the waterspout last night!”


Felix leapt to his feet, embraced the man, and asked, “Can you get me on the next lift to the waterspout?”


The ticket salesman apologetically stated, “So sorry, but after Esmeralda arrived at the waterspout, she destroyed any means of transportation to the waterspout!”


“No matter,” said Felix. “I can climb my way up the waterspout and parachute my children safely from the waterspout with my web!”


Felix rushed, as quickly as his eight legs permitted, to the base of the waterspout, grasped the slick sides of the pipe and pulled himself off the ground. Little by little, Felix made headway on his journey to save his children from his ex-wife’s clutches with little Jenny’s fly strapped onto his back. Lactic acid coursed through his veins. He could feel the burdening weight of every last inch of his thorax, legs burning with the stress of gravity.


All of a sudden, a thick rain cloud migrated across the sky and cried. The torrential rainfall washed that itsy bitsy spider from his post. Felix crashed to the pavement where he frantically tried to swim toward shallow cement.


Tumbling, rolling, crashing.


Gurgling, swirling, gasping.


Felix almost drowned, never to see his children’s smiling faces, but somehow he mustered up the strength to tough out the burn in his lungs. Once he caught his breath, he stared up at the glistening white pipe and resumed climbing.


One step. Two steps. Three. Four. . .


Finally, Felix reached the crest of the waterspout where he could hear the whimpers of his children. Carefully, he peeked over the edge and saw them squished in a corner, cuffed at the wrist and ankle, eyes darting every which way. Esmeralda was fast asleep in an elaborate web of silk and nylon, so Felix quietly tiptoed toward his children, signaling them to keep quiet. Expelling some of his acidic venom, Felix melted away their restraints and ordered them to hop on his back.


In a calculated maneuver, Felix leapt from the waterspout with his children clinging to his thorax. The thick rain clouds had cleared and the warm sun cut through the mist, creating rainbows every which way. It was a glorious sight. Once the family had parachuted to safety, Felix hugged his children to his thorax and promised to never let their mother kidnap them again.


The children jumped for joy and thanked their father for his heroism. After the incident, no one ever questioned Felix’s paternal authority. Also, the waterspout became Esmeralda’s own personal jail because she had no way of getting down. Felix and the children resumed their normal lives and enjoyed every day as it came.


And they lived happily ever after.

Perks of Being an Earring

This short story was pretty fun to write. We were assigned to write a first person narrative from the perspective of something not human. We were to give them a distinctive voice and personality; the example was a dog, but I thought to myself, "Why not an earring?" It was a delight to animate the earring into a sassy self-centered gossip and I found myself laughing to myself as I wrote it. Enjoy!


That’s it, whisper, whisper. I can still hear you; don’t mind me, carry on. Oh, is that so? That is gossip gold! Oh honey, your secret is safe with me. . .

Shimmering golden under the twinkling chandelier, I sway along with Her. I’m gorgeous and I know it; no other jewelry holds a candle to my 24 karats of perfection. Scarlet rubies pulsate from my core seductively luring you towards me not Her. You know you want me.

Tonight is Her Majesty’s Gala, and as predicted, I get to attend, for I am the only earring chic enough for such an event—I’m also the only earring able to detract attention from Her hideous, shapeless, and drab potato sack of a dress. Nonetheless, I can barely contain my excitement, for I thrive off that juicy gossip exchanged in hushed tones directly above me. So close, I can distinguish the gossip’s last meal between exhalations.

We stand before a floor-length mirror; I can’t keep my eyes off my unparalleled beauty! The ride over is short but torturous because She didn’t bother renting a limo for this important event, so we were crammed into the worn cramped backseat of an old taxi whose driver smelled of body odor, hot dogs, and coffee all rolled into a single pungent stench of putridness. After what seemed like forever, I escaped that gas chamber, gasping for the polluted yet refreshing Manhattan night air.

The event was everything I had wished it be and more. After some mingling and small talk, the gossip started flowing and usually I would’ve been wholly content with just that, but tonight I met someone. It was as if we were the only pieces of jewelry in the world; the light bended around him in the most perfect way and he complimented the tuxedo so elegantly. I knew we were from two separate worlds—me being an earring and him a cufflink, but I simply couldn’t help myself. For once in my life, I felt there was a worthy parallel to my elegance.

I lured him towards me and I almost fainted when he winked at me. I had never felt so vulnerable, yet I had never felt so alive either. We shared a mutual passion for gossiping, and we spent the remainder of the night exchanging gossip whenever our unworthy hosts had the minds to converse with each other.

At the gala, I whispered my phone number to him and left him with full confidence that he would call me; however, night after night, I waited alone by the phone and no one called. Hurt, I asked around and found that my handsome cufflinks man was married to a drab old silver bracelet! How could he? Him with all that gorgeous potential, he could have had the most gorgeous wife! Why wouldn’t he choose me? She’s not pretty like me. Why. Why. Why.

Then, suddenly, I heard some chit-chat from the cheap earring tree and I snapped, “What! He’s stupid that’s all! It was a minor lapse of judgment; you guys have nothing on me.”

The other earring giggled and corrected, “He’s not stupid; you are. He is one of the rarities in our world that love people from the inside out not outside in.”

“I don’t understand,” I said, “We are perfect for one another.”

“But you don’t have any substance, mon cherie. All you care about are the zeros on his pricetag, not his heart,” they stated.

“No! You’re wrong!” I screeched as I ran off to drown myself in my sorrow by gossiping some more while the cheap earrings looked lovingly at their genuine husbands, shaking their heads at me. Idiots, they will never be as pretty as me.

Selecting a Reader

I wrote this for those writers who are trying to pinpoint a certain audience when they write. I originally wrote this as a sort of dedication for my poetry anthology for my Creative Writing class, but something about it spoke to me; I didn't know who I was writing about as I wrote it, but once I read it through I could see who I had been subconsciously picturing. I've always been a sucker for guys like this; they're so tragically adorable. So, without further ado, here is my original poem "Selecting a Reader."



He should be confused
lost even
Searching for himself
in the maze of adolescence

He should be curious
enthralled with the beauty surrounding him
Accepting other’s individuality
welcoming it with arms spread wide

He should be the quiet one
who no one ever thinks to befriend
Assuming he is content
in his solitude

He should polite
always holding the door open for others
before himself
because he is blind to his own beauty

It emanates from his core
in vibrant pulses of genuity
visible to all except he
without the confidence to ask

the one of his dreams
fearing he is unworthy
of her unparalleled beauty
when he, in fact, parallels