writinator

[writinator]

I think kafka’s diaries are the strongest evidence that journaling is not necessarily good for your mental health

[writinator]

The Dress

When I was a little girl, I bought a dress

My parents’ hands in mine, I skipped to the most elegant store I’d ever seen

As my parents spoke with the cashier I raced down the aisles, feeling all the rich fabric in my tiny hands

There were sequins, satin, and silk

Embroidered flowers that grew, winding around the bodice

And better yet, chocolates in a jar by the door

When I’d stuffed my face, I found the dress

Bright, glossy red, with lace down the sleeves

Fabric hung flush against the mannequin’s frame

I begged and begged, my parents saying it was too “grown-up like”

Finally they bought the dress, but many sizes too big

When I could comfortably wear the dress, they told me, it was mine

I jumped for joy as I watched the gorgeous garment wrapped in tissue paper get placed gently into a bag by the store attendant

Walking out of the store, one hand held my mother’s while the other gripped the bag, swinging it all the way home

After that, my dress hung in my room, and every day I’d hold it in front of me to see if it fit yet

When I’d look in the mirror I’d see a small girl swimming in fabric

Frowning, I’d hang the dress back in my closet

Then, one day years and years later, I had an incredible growth spurt

I slowly took the dress out and held it over me

Our figures matched

Red fabric clung to my body rather than swathing it

And the lace tendrils running down the sleeves ended at my wrist instead of the tips of my fingers

It looked beautiful, and for a moment I itched to put it on

But suddenly, an immense fear shook me and I flung the dress across the room, the hanger clattering on the floor

My parents ran in asking what happened?

I couldn’t understand my own feelings, but I said that the dress looked like it fit me now, and what about my other clothes?

My mother shooed my father away and gently helped me into the elegant dress

Now the fabric hung flush against my frame, not the mannequin’s

But I was wrong; it didn’t quite fit perfectly

My shoulders were a bit too narrow and my arms felt uncomfortably wide in the sleeves

Somehow, this scared me even more

I’d been so excited for this dress to fit me but even when it technically does, it still doesn’t

What will I wear, I ask. My other clothes don’t fit anymore

My mother holds my shoulders and says, you just need to do your best

But what if I want a dress less “grown-up like?”

Unfortunately, the only dresses that fit you now are dresses that look “grown-up like”

But even if it feels like the dress will never fit right, it will

It will

[writinator]

We just started creative nonfiction in my creative writing class so here's a warm up we did today. Prompt was morning routine

Morning. I open my eyes, dread immediately filling my stomach as a greeting to the day. It’s still dark out and I feel pleasantly warm under my sheets, a feeling I know I will need to say goodbye to soon. My alarm hasn’t gone off yet, I think, but it must be near time. It always is. As this thought flutters through my still groggy mind, the devil hears me speaking of him and my alarm clock decides now is the best time to screech the most god-awful noise known to man. In reality it’s a rather cheerful chirping, but no one can convince my sleep-deprived brain that it isn’t the call of Satan pulling me into the depths of Hell at 5:30 AM.

[writinator]

Short thing I wrote, a little different from what I've posted here in the past but it's a lot closer to my actual writing style so enjoy!

----------

“Thank you, by the way.”

“Huh?” I jolt out of my daydream. I feel the barely cushioned bus seat underneath me, and the way the heavy, humid air seems to pull on me. I look over to the person sitting next to me, to see a boy around my age with a wiry frame and short, buzzed hair. He watches me with a sheepish, expectant look in his eyes. 

I look back at the seat in front of me. That eye contact is way too intense. “Uh, no problem?” I’m not quite sure what he’s thanking me for, but I feel too uncomfortable to ask.

“You didn’t have to stand up for me like that.” Ohh, yeah. That.

“It’s nothing.” I don’t want to tell him that I beat up those kids more because of what they did to me than what they did to him. I drop my head and shuffle my feet along the wet, dirty floor. I pray that he takes the hint and lets me stare into the distance for the rest of our ride, but he doesn’t.

“So,” he starts, and I cringe inwardly, “what grade are you in?” Ah, the classic for socially awkward teens across the country. That and ‘what classes are you taking?’ 

I force myself to look him in the eyes, and say:

“I’m a junior.” And despite my better judgment, I follow it up with: “You?”

“Sophomore.” It’s his turn to look down as I do a little ‘I hear ya’ nod. You know, like a normal person would.

“What classes are you taking?” 

This is gonna be a long one.

[writinator]

Anger

It’s always living in me

Dormant

Like a snake in a basket

And when the hands of life open the lid it strikes

Sometimes it’s not a snake; it’s a flame

Small, weak coals stoked by daily annoyances

Or sweltering waves of bonfire

It’s trapped inside me; I’m like a balloon filling with water

And there’s nowhere for the water to go

So the anger fills me until it’s all I am

And it takes all I am not to scream and kick and punch

And it leaks through my tear ducts and slides down my face

When it withers away I ask why I’m like this

And sometimes I laugh at how small the flame has become

But a small flame still catches.

[writinator]

Going to family reunions as a child

Sitting in a cushioned lawn chair, head lowered As I mumble “father, son, holy spirit”

Peeking up to look at the adults around me, I shrink into myself.

My mom, sitting to my right, Is a human shield against eye contact.

My other side is exposed— My aunt fills the space.

They say they’re a “loud bunch”, that it’s the “family way” but I wouldn't know, I live hours away.

The adults talk, laugh, and yell around me As I listen and slowly chew my pulled pork.

I look at my plate, with lots of bread and A hint of green

And silently wish I were at home Eating in front of the television.

My uncle stands, squeezes in the Narrow space between my chair and the wall

And I smell the cigarette smoke mingling with the Potatoes and overcooked chicken and ranch dressing.

[writinator]

Five Things I Love About Fall, and Five Things I Don’t

The cool, windy, fresh air

The warmth of Chai

The warmth of being with those you love

The excitement of wearing a costume you designed

The anticipation of change

The slow decay of plants

The dread of school work to come

The cicada carcasses on the ground

The knowledge of winter’s arrival

The season’s end

[writinator]

You make me crazy

You consume me

I spend weeks with you

And then you disappear

I’m empty when you’re not around

And yearning for more when you stay

Terrified you’ll leave me

Even though you keep me awake at night 

And keep me asleep during the day

But without you I can’t live

Life’s shallow without you whispering in my ear

Telling me little jokes

Guiding my writing hand

Holding the door to another world open

“Ladies first”

Oh, what would I do if you left

My head would feel lighter

When you read this, I hope you know

How much of my love you hold from me

Beautiful creativity