Embedded Files
Christina's World
Kaylee
Saying that there is nothing that I wouldn’t give to go back to that moment and choose to look into the future rather than reaching for the past implies that I have something to give, but I don’t. I have nothing. I waste the days away gripping the same patch of grass and vigorously studying that old gray house.
I resent that house.
I resent that day.
The rotting old thing sits there in the middle of the colorful grassy plain. The grass is dead yet somehow beautiful.
I used to hate that about the grass. Now though, I am thankful that I have at least something beautiful to look at.
Sometimes, when I want to take a break from hating, I listen really closely to see if I can hear them. I can never quite make out what they are saying though. The whispers of the blades of grass are drowned out by the violent, constant wind.
My Studio
The room at the bottom of the stairs, the only door in the house with a functioning lock. Inside is a workspace, my sanctuary. A large desk sits at the near wall, on top of the desk sits a clutter of papers, my computer sits atop hooked into my many interfaces and speakers. Cords stream across the floor to the far right corner of the room where a soundproof box silences the deafening sound of air circulating the house.To its left is a fish tank home of twenty-one fish, my biggest critics, who bump against the glass in disapproval.
The Bunker
The bunker is submerged underwater, there’s no practical way to access it without the special codes. Inside is an arsenal of equipment that line the walls. Everything in the bunker is connected to one massive control panel, the panel controls all of the doors and security measures for the interior and exterior of the bunker. In one of the hallways in the right corridor, experiments with weapons which utilize sound take place. In an attempt to muffle the sound and reduce the effects the chambers are soundproofed to prevent the sharks from attacking the glass whenever testing is in progress.
Albuquerque
Maybe if Id’ve had my shit together on another trip this wouldn’t be the world. Cast-iron mug gone all stale. Put coffee innit for the bats. Ain’t nothing in me leftover like there was in art school. Used to paint all shit I saw. Get all clean just to see you and pull out my cyans and my vermillions and burn your soul into the canvas. I hope you liked the paintings you got outta it.
Don’t even wanna paint now. Set me back three years Id’ve died with this view. Put some turquoise as a base ‘n run rose-velvet clouds all over the sky. My yellow ochre for the sweeping desert sands and bleed into some roshetta orange for the dead desert. Push my hands up onnit till the paint looks like the rock formations that jut up out the ground. Like warriors. Like a wall.
Got ridda my mirror a long time ago. Only one sees me now is this asshole Frank keeps following me round. He doesn’t care. Good company. Man been living eighty-something years. Only says words at all when he really means em.
And you always on my mind. Which is how it should be. Don’t miss you. I feel you worrying about me though. I feel it like how bodega man told to me we meant to be together. Psychic powers n shit. I feel you wanting me to be better.
So here I am, Sarah, dragging a fuckin American spirit in the desert just cause you quit smoking. Some old man following me round in a truck an’ no plan an’ no idea what I’m doing. Don’t you push me out and then beg for me to get my life on track. Id’ve done worse if you didn’t mean it. Don’t have energy for this. Breathing in ash and calling it a life. Like I will. So this is it, for now. I refuse to give you evolution.
Listing to the Seas
1. He was on a beach, last we heard. Not any particular one, just kinda wandering around on the sand next to echoing rocks--or they echoed when he sang, at least. He was always singing now, we heard. Wanderers like that are sometimes the memory of greatness, an untouchable legend, but we heard he made some pretty horrible choices a while back. It would be hard to forgive him for them, except it doesn’t matter since he was or is only great to the people that mattered… his son wants him to come home.
2. Thing is, they don’t have the same home, not anymore. Haven’t for a while now. And it turns out, well, that his son isn’t really his son, and he seems to be the only one who particularly cares about that. Might be for good reason, though. We heard he destroyed his son’s first home before he was a father. May not have been a great one, but apparently he tried harder than he had to.
3. It seems like it happens too often, a remarkable person reduced to sea singer who doesn’t answer sirens with plunging into the depths but with songs of his own.
4. There were times his son sat and cried in a back room.
5. Not often, but enough.
The green in my head
When I was younger, my mom would tell me about her home and the people who live there.
Her home is simple: full of green grass and cold wind and earth like flint. The people make the best with what they have.
They raise families on the green. They sing and their voices mix kindly with the cold wind. Every year, they have to howl and scream at the ground to remind it. Every spring, it finally gives way and is soft to them. When the ground is feeling forgiving, it even lets out the heat of the earth and hands it to the people.
Machair is what the ground is called. The ch sound is deep in the soles of my feet because it is from my mother’s throat and her mother’s throat, and my great grandmother’s throat. In my bones is cold wind and pounding rain and in my head are the green moors and the people who live there.
Dogwood
Summer heat made the cottonwood trees bloom. If you listened closely on an especially muggy day, in the rare absence of a lawn mower’s hum, you could hear them. The sun beat down on those tight brown kernels then -- crack! -- they burst open like pale popcorn. They were fireworks bursting in air, raining down their fluffy white sparks. As if the clouds had fallen from the sky, the cottonwood began its conquest. It was a beautiful nuisance. It filled my mouth, stuck to my hair, my eyelashes, my clothes. It managed to find every body of water, no matter how small, and built up on the surface in soggy gray clumps. It blanketed my driveway like a fresh layer of snow that I relentlessly shoveled every morning. I was plagued by the knowledge that every menacing flake that fell was a seed - a seed that would inevitably grow into yet another monstrous tree. So I spent my afternoons on my hands and knees, plucking out every tiny green sprout I found, fighting the tide of cotton blossoms. My only companion in this bitter war against the cotton was my brittle old hound. He shared my hatred for the summer heat. He carried the memory of snow in his downy white undercoat. His fur shed: tufts stuck out like white scales amongst a black coat. I plucked them out too. The winter winds swept away the cottonwood and fur. But in the colder part of the year, I found myself alone and longing for a different kind of snow. When the cottonwoods bloomed again this year, I left the sprouts alone.
Cinque Terre
Rust-colored window shutters and ivory linens dancing in the wind are disregarded as the light tune of a whistle makes its way from one roof to the next. It squeezes in between copper railings, cutting corners of balconies, and sashaying through vents. It has no easy path, for the houses are built on hills and there is no straight line between rooftops. But it is not deterred, no, for the tune must make its way to the cobblestone streets below. It surges through the slits in deck chairs, rustles the leaves of the basil plants in their clay pots. It is light and jovial, using the wind as its sail and the shaded walls as its guard rails. Bit by bit it makes its way down to the busy stones, where it is met with a heavy, busy rhythm. Feet meet stone and the tune tries to keep up, raging against the sound that nearly overshadows it. But then it happens, it’s picked up and carried by a passerby and the whistle moves on to the next block.
Brace face
That girl there in front of me, she's a real classy girl, hair piled up all nice and neat. Got a bit of an edge. Eyebrows like that could cut you. And she's about to go on a date, you sad son of a bitch. With a real nice guy, who takes her on real dates. They're gonna go down to the flea market and find some vintage chairs to spray paint and put in her bedroom, and they're gonna have a damn good time. His little sister's gonna meet them for lunch of Russian dumplings afterward.
She's gonna wear pearls for him. Mom’s, the strand of freshwater ones. She's never done that for a guy before. They feel heavy, like a promise. When she went to ask for them, the heaviness of it overcame her and she stole into her mom's room on quiet, bare feet instead and slipped them into the pocket of her jacket. She's gonna have to take them off before she goes downstairs and put them back on on the bus, but for now. She's been imagining placing a kernel of dream inside each one. Please let her get into college. Please let her not piss anyone off, let her be charming. Please let her lipstick stay this red and clean, even if she kisses him. If she takes them off she imagines each of those prayers will somehow get stuck in the lining of her jacket and never make it up to anyone who will listen to them. Just like how she used to think that if she flipped the bird under the water of her parents bath, it would somehow insulate the sin. That was her alright, bathing in sin.
The Offer
My stomach patiently sat in knots and my heart beat steadily. I have lived this day a million times in my head, I am prepared. The man walking next to me could either break my heart or make my dreams come true with one question. The question would not come for some time, it was only noon. He casually opened a bag of Bugles and popped them into his mouth one by one. I tried not to watch too closely, but something about it was mesmerizing. I was not prepared for Bugles. Somehow that put me at ease. Unpredictability had never put me at ease before. I contemplated the individual snowflakes sticking to my parka as the snow melted on his sweatshirt. I would be happy here.
I sat across from him in his office, trying to hide my twiddling thumbs. An animal in my stomach was trying to eat it’s way out. I hung on every sound. He spoke in slow motion. If I had not been so nervous, I might have laughed. An uncontainable smile blazed across my face as my starving brain slowly comprehended his sounds. “Act like you have been here before,” I screamed at myself, “do not show that this is your only offer.” My whole body began to shake with either excitement or hunger, probably a combination of both. I walked out into the cold night and watched the snowflakes stick to my sweatshirt. I am home.
Rise and Shine
My favorite time of the day is breakfast. I like watching the water come to a boil and hearing the click of the button releases when the kettle is hot. I’m still half asleep when I pour the water into my mug; the hot steam rising off the mug and over my face as mentally I am still dreaming, but physically I am awake. The house is still when I make breakfast. My dad is already at work, and both my mom and dog are still sleeping. I can’t hear their loud voices and everything is calm. I have no stress of having to answer questions when I am still partially sleeping. I don’t have to think or worry about anything, but instead I make the same thing every morning.
I pour dry oats and almond milk in a bowl and microwave it for two minutes. Once it is hot, I pour frozen raspberries on top and quickly bury them in the oats so they will defrost and cool down the oatmeal. I let my tea steep and squeeze out the extra juices from the bag. I add a couple drops of milk, just enough to bring the tea to a brownish orangish color. Then I sit and watch the clouds move from the window across my seat. I wait for everything to cool down and leave to get dressed.
By the time I go back upstairs to eat my breakfast, my mom is up asking questions and complaining about family members that she talked to the night before. My dog is up and barks every time someone walks down the stairs. I sit there in silence, eating my breakfast.
Dear Andrew
Dear Andrew,
We went to the beach today. I was beautiful and sunny, and Alan spent all day playing in the sand. I think it’s a little silly, after all Alan is eighteen now. Still, I’m sure even the oldest people need time to relax. We’ve been alright, and every day is one tick off the calendar. Alan got into Harvey Mudd. We got the letter last week. The look on his face was comical, I don’t think he was expecting it. He kept his grades up though, and only went to two parties! Me, I’ve been holding up fine. I’ve been busy with work, which helps keep my mind off things. Janet came by yesterday. I’m awestruck that she thinks cabbage casserole is a good dish to bring for dinner. I’m still trying to air out the house. I’m almost done with my book. You thought I’d never get it done, but you’ll be reading a copy soon enough! I feel stupid writing this. It’s been a year now. I still remember the phone call, thinking it was a joke… I never should have said those things. I would give everything to hold you again. I’m sorry, Andrew. I know I can’t bring you back, no one can. Alan says that writing this means you’ll somehow still be able to read it, but I don’t believe that. So wherever you are, I hope you don’t hurt anymore. We’re all surviving down here. See you on the flipside.
Love,
Carolyn
Lost
A lit up dome was behind me and the smell of exotic food wafted from where I was headed. I was thirty minutes early but was desperately hoping she’d be there. It was my last resort to find her. My phone was dead and the swarm of people around me were all strangers. I didn’t know her number by heart, nor could I find a charger. “Open 2pm to 9pm,” read the sign at the phone charging station. It was 9:10pm. I seeked out a security guard and asked for his help. “Blue eyes, blonde hair, freckles,” was the best description I could give him.
His response was something along the lines of “I’ve seen some people that could be her.” The number of girls there who fit the description I had given was overwhelming.
I was no help to him and he was none to me either. My legs were bare and my hoodie was completely permeated. I’d been pacing the open field full of various tents for an hour and a half. Still no luck. I finally gave in to my shivering body and willed myself to get on the shuttle bus without my friend. At this point it was 1:00am. I was hopeful that when I got back to the hotel room my friend would be there. I watched the lights scattered across the field fade from view as the bus took off.
Kiss
A kiss. It could mean everything; it could mean nothing. A simple greeting, or an intimate moment. A quick peck, or a slow smooch. A kiss on the head, the forehead, the cheek, the lips, between anyone, without bias concerning gender, religion, race, background, a kiss in most senses is a symbol of love.
Love. The love between a mother and her daughter or her son, a father and his son or his daughter, a boyfriend and a girlfriend, a boyfriend and a boyfriend, a girlfriend and a girlfriend; a significant other, a husband and a wife, a husband and a husband, a wife and a wife, a best friend, a friend. A kiss is a symbol of love.
I’m sitting on a white bench in the corner of this park, watching a man and his partner gaze into each other’s eyes. Watching their fascination with each other, as though nothing else in the world is happening and nothing else matters. One of the men put his arm around the other man’s shoulders. He pulls him towards him tightly and kisses him on the forehead. The other man smiles, and blushes, and put his head on his partner’s shoulder as they both turn to watch the orange sun set behind the clouds.
Love is all around us, we just need to look for it. Love conquers everything, and in the end it is all we have; it is everything we have. As I learned from my mother, love is patient, love is kind, and envies no one, amor vincit omnia.
Mistakes Unchanged
I was four when I woke up to him passed out on the living room couch, a big purple Band-Aid slapped onto his chin, the corner of some unidentifiable cut poking out the sides.
I was five when he picked me up one summer day day, honking the horn to hurry up my farewell to a friend and hasten my scampering out of their house with bare feet to find my older sister in the back, a fearful look plastered on her face.
It was the same year when my mother was out of town for a night and he was tripping over his ankles, stomping along the floorboards like a toddler learning to walk with bricks attached to their feet. And he toppled backwards from the weight of my sister—a failed piggyback ride that left her crushed under his body of mistakes. And there was a shattered lamp from his attempt to prove his punch could break glass.
I was six, in kindergarten, when he picked my sister and I up late from school and we slid across the back because the safety belts were stuck under the seats and he drove like he was winding through an obstacle course.
Childhood ruined.
“I was different then,” he says. But I still find beer caps in cars and drawers and pockets, still hear the the sound of bottles clanking each night in the trash, and still receive phone calls late at night when he fumbles his words and is too stubborn to think logically.
Polish Girl
The song comes on once again, and I look to the left and see the melancholy countenance that crosses her face every time its intro of evocative techno beats come on.
“‘It’s been at least another year and still I haven’t got the chance to say’,” plays through her old Jeep speakers. “Should I turn it off?” I ask with a solemn and understanding look in my eyes.
She shakes her head, “No, it’s too good of a song.” We continue the drive down Lake Washington Boulevard, the sun seeping through the canopy of green trees. Unlike our usual car rides that involve us talking over the loud music and listening intently to each other confess our problems and our deep thoughts that are prying at our minds, we were silent. The voice of Neon Indian, the man singing the alternative and electronic song, “Polish Girl” seems to narrate our thoughts.
“Every photograph and story trickled through the lengthy web of friends. I overthought but understood, distant look but looking good and not the other way,” his voice echoes through the car. My elbow crooked on the ledge of the door and my arms holding the weight of my face, my thoughts went to him, and I knew her thoughts went to her past “him” too. The song brought a feeling of nostalgia, not sad nostalgia, but not happy nostalgia either—a blurry, sappy blend of heavy-hearts.
“Do I still cross your mind? Your face still distorts the time,” seemed like a question pulled directly from both our heads. The lyrics danced around us like taunting pixies, interlaced around or throats and wrists, penetrating into our skin to make it to our hearts. I saw my reflection in the window. I saw it mirror her, too, her long fingers playing with her hair the way they always do when she is thinking too hard about something. I roll the window down urgently to erase the image of myself, and let the summer breeze hit my face. I am forced to close my eyes so that they don’t dry out and begin to tear up, because if that I happened, I wouldn’t be able to stop the real ones from trickling down.
“With heat struck afternoons long through those idle dreams go back to you. Was this only in my head, just like most highs go misread when over thought?” The song ended, but my mind didn’t. The static noise of the empty speakers built up before the next song played, but the questions were still never answered.
“Do I still cross your mind?”
I Told You So
“Hold on for a few more moments,” I said to her lying there. She wasn’t struggling physically, but I knew her mind was playing checkers- contemplating its next move. I sat there, crouched next to both her sterile hospital bed and her favorite day. I had wedged myself between 8:57 am and 9:23 am to see her eyes open. I am glad she was able to wake naturally with the Sun piercing her deep, almost black-brown eyes, allowing light to rejoice in the color. Her sheets cool and crisp from the cruel conversations the night has about her, yet she finds her greatest comfort in being wrapped in pinstriped fabric. Her thoughts drifting from drowsiness, consisting of their first kiss and the spit that still sits on her tongue as well as the image tacked to the wall showing the last time she saw her mother. She too, drenched in the sun’s overpour on the ocean brings a smile to her face. Waves from bed sheets and waves from far too close seas collide bringing her to breathe again. It’s my favorite, to see them dangle between their past and their far too close ending. She doesn’t know it yet, but that will be the most exciting portion of her life. She came here, wondering what the point was, and she will leave this era, into the next century, wondering the exact same thing.
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