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.