cececreativewriting

[cececreativewriting]

Experimental Literature

1.     I have forgotten the songs silver sings, but I remember stuffing socks in my ears to escape the sounds. Evasion of submission, recoil to falsehood. But I was only 18 then. Silver songs still sounded shock.

2.     I have forgotten the systems & styles perceived, but I remember the woman in the mountains, she whistles through the woods, over valleys of outcasts, that I can always return, that I can always return again.

3.     I have forgotten the colors habituating my father’s eyes, but I remember how they’d mock me, torment in the shape of a blink.

4.     I have forgotten, one by one, each octave crack crashing my brother’s voice, but I remember how he said his 3s, perhaps we are rooted together through the ‘trees’ he spoke, perhaps that is why I cannot let go, perhaps he will be with me once again.

5.     I have forgotten that I deserve better, but I remember that I’ll never find it.

6.     I have forgotten by what virtue to find belief in an objective world, but I remember the charming fascination of being in awe of being. BEING IN AWE OF BEING, I must release universal desires universal desires, collapse and submit to subjectivity.

7.     I have forgotten all & each individual who pronounce me gratification. But I remember, if only now, physicality of false precision. Just because he touched me, and he touched me and he touched me, doesn’t mean my butterfly body must drift, I can remain, I will remain.

8.     I have forgotten details of trauma’s past, but I remember any flash I lay—knotted organs rising up & out—with a mind in love and a body in fear.

9.     I have forgotten impression imprinted by sensations of your touch, but I remember finger-tip textures when I dream.

10.  I have forgotten every word you spoke, but I remember every word you didn’t.

11.  I have forgotten your shape, but I remember your shadows.

12.  I have forgotten how to be alone, but I remember how to be lonely.

13.  I have forgotten almost every moment, every monument of memories spent with you. But I remember the last day as you called me to your curbside. I had been lying to you, and you finally knew, red with resentment, determined to torture me further (and somehow I’m still sorry).

14.  I have forgotten how it all appeared as visual perception began to run wild at the call of my feet in sand, sprinting on sprinkles so sweet. But I remember running towards waves drifting away from me, with each forward step, the waves took two more back. Stuck in a repetitive circle of time, a never-ending high school track meet, failing to cross the line until I am waist deep in sea, unaware of temperature, water still with me.

15.  I have forgotten how paranoia thrives through the half dead, but I remember shadows speaking softly as I lay back in a VW bug. In denial, I whisper forth, thinking of nothing and everything too.

16.  I have forgotten that previous displays within me, sometimes no matter how hard I try to fight forward. But I remember almost everything, if only as a distant dream, I remember every word, every silence, all the ways my vulnerability reigned over my survival. Each moon, I shake within skin, tightened teeth keep me awake as clouds spell out my name.

17.  I have forgotten how humidity tastes, but I remember like a melody, world spinning, slow like maple syrup dripping down her thighs.

18.  I have forgotten to yield to you always, submit to deceptive dreams of faceless fantasies. But I remember tracing your back under a waxing moon. I’d hover over, clutch a tight grasp though your quiver proved distaste, see smoke splinter from your tongue to parallel walls. But I always surrender in the dark, you saw forward like I saw blank.

19.  I have forgotten the route, how we ended down the 405, diverting against gravity in a moment of eternity as timelessness, universal desires fade as kindergarten knee scabs. But I remember Topanga calling distantly, as sun and sky melt together. I remember windy waves growling, sand like fruit flies and we didn’t mind mushroom mountains mashed like potatoes.

20.  I have forgotten the pulls of desire. Wasted on honey, sticks along my gums tracing teeth and it’s yummy but I remember when it wasn’t sweet, releasing consciousness to indulge, surrender, fly through emptiness and for what? My stomach would weep, flutter beyond light. Why didn’t I listen? Why do I still blame myself?

21.  I have forgotten how long I waited to waltz over water, to figure skate above seas. But I remember seeing 333 swoon in the sky.

22.  I have forgotten how to discern my perceptions, how to beguile crowds to believe I believe in their universality. But I remember admiring plum veins of dark concrete scattering spiritual silence, I couldn’t discern, I couldn’t discern.

23.  I have forgotten the enchantment of cyberspace, how particles expand and pixels pull pastry moons. But I remember digital escapism, my eyes would go dumb to the sight of sensations.

24.  I have forgotten how many times it happened. But I remember to forget, not for you or yours but for me and me exclusively.

25.  I have forgotten, or at least pretend to have forgotten, the blue prints you used to deconstruct me. Sapphic songs and sweet potato cake could reel me closer. But I remember that I am a second choice, that I am your downfall, that I am on the outside of your honeymoon dreams.

[cececreativewriting]

this is a collection of incoherent writing, not quite ready to be called poetry. like a fever-dream into an online book. there are two existing hard copies, both housed within The John Hay Library at Brown University 

[cececreativewriting]

short play, “Tristan”

TRISTAN

Concept: In a song I like, there is a lyric that states “Maybe if life wasn’t so hard, if he got off to a better start, he’d be somewhere.” This play follows Tristan, aged 5 to 25, and his family. Mainly, we follow Tristan in his slow decline into drug usage, addiction, and overall a depressing life.

Setting: somewhat messy/run-down room with a bed, book self, table and desk

*Tristan is age 5 when the play begins, and he is sitting on his bed while his parents are screaming/arguing; you can hear them but cannot see them*

*Tristan is rocking back and forth in his bed, clearly distraught*

*he pulls out a notebook and begins to draw a dragon. he hangs it up on his wall, and in the corner it says “Tristan, age 4”*

*dad comes in*

Dad: Hey, Tristan

Tristan: Dad! Do you want to play?

Dad: Hey, uh, I would love to… but i need to take care of some errands.

*Tristan looks down, upset*

Dad: But hey! Tristan, do you want to help out?

Tristan: *jumps up, and happily yells* Yes, dad!

Dad: Okay. Remember that lemonade stand you had?

*Tristan nods happily*

Dad: Do you have any left over money from that?

*Tristan walks over to his piggy bank and shakes it*

Tristan: It sounds like i have some!

Dad: Okay, good. I’m gonna need to take it.

Tristan: But dad, it doesn’t come out until you break the piggy bank open.

Dad: Oh, let’s see.

*Tristan hands dad the piggy bank; dad shakes it then smashes it on the ground, ducks down, and picks up the money*

Dad: *under his breathe* $5.67 *starts to leave*

Tristan: How else can I help, Dad?

Dad: uhh, just keep drawing so we can fill our house with beautiful art *leaves*

*Tristan goes back to drawing, the shards of glass from the broken piggy bank remain on the ground; Tristan shuts his book, jumps out of bed, and runs off stage*

*Tristan’s mom comes in and picks up the pieces of broken glass, then makes Tristan’s bed. She is shaking the whole time; she leaves*

*Tristan enters, now age nine. his mother is yelling as he comes on stage in a beanie and worn down black converse.*

Mom: Tristan! Are you fucking serious! You can’t do that at school! You’re gonna get kicked out! Do you want to make your dad angry by getting kicked out!?

Tristan: No, mom

Mom: You know what, just fuck off Tristan. Just fuck off!

*Tristan seems unaffected. he pulls off his beanie and chucks it on his bed, then he grabs his sketchpad, and starts drawing*

Tristan: Fucking stupid grownups. Think they own the world.

*keeps drawing, angrily*

Tristan: I can’t wait to be a grownup and get to be in charge of myself.

*hangs up drawing. it is a drawing of a robot with guns for arms, shooting at a woman. the corner says ‘Tristan age 9’*

*hear a door slam, some quiet arguing, then it increases volume*

Dad: *from offstage* *mumbles* god fucking damnit. *Screams* Tristan! Get your fucking ass down here. NOW!

*You see the fear strike Tristan’s face as he quickly throws his sketchpad under his bed, and runs off stage*

*Tristan’s mom comes in and hangs up some other drawings Tristan has done. One from age 11, and one from age 12. The drawings get increasingly more violent as he ages. she leaves*

*Tristan (now 13) walks in with two friends, Zach and Phillip; Zach has purple hair and gauges, Phillip has bags under his eyes. Tristan has on another beanie*

*They enter, conversing, and all drop their stuff on the ground, then Phillip and Tristan jump on the bed, while Phillip sits in the chair next to the bookshelf*

Tristan: Well, like, what does it feel like?

Zach: It just makes things a little better. You’ll like it Tristan, trust me.

*Tristan looks nervous. Phillip pulls out a blunt, and lights it, then inhales and passes to Zach, who inhales then passes to Tristan; he nervously takes a hit, then exhales a large puff of smoke and violently coughs for a few seconds. His coughing turns into laughing, and then eventually all three of the boys are laughing loudly*

Phillip: Do you feel it?

Tristan: I don’t know. I think so.

Phillip: Well, what do you feel?

*Tristan grabs his sketchpad and begins to draw an alien doing various activities. The aline is looking up and has very large eyes. above him, there is a puff of smoke that turns into flowers*

Tristan: It feels like this.

*shows them drawing then hangs it up. of course, in the corner it says ‘Tristan age 13’*

Zach: Let’s go grub! I know the convenience store on Main and Holly doesn’t have any security cameras.

*They all jump up, grab their stuff, and run off stage*

*Tristan’s mom walks in, sprays febreeze everywhere, and starts to tidy up*

Mom: Oh, Tristan *as she pulls out a bong from under his bed and puts it on his desk, along with a few half full bottles of whiskey*

*Tristan enters, age 16, with Zach, who now has green hair. They are talking about how dumb their english teacher is; Tristan grabs the bong and takes a rip, then hands it to Zach*

Tristan: She’s such a bitch. She’s probably just mad that her husband left her or something. Dumb bitch.

Zach: I know! Why do bitches always have to be so fucking stupid? *takes a rip* Anyways, fuck it. Let’s get high.

*Zach pulls out a little bag and throws it to Tristan, who smiles, takes off his beanie, and grabs his sketch pad. He pours out some white powder and a razor blade, then cuts up a few lines on his sketchpad*

Tristan: You got a dollar?

*Zach pulls out a crunched up dollar from his pocket. Tristan flattens it, rolls it up, and snorts a line. He leans his head back to let the powder fall deeper into his nose. His eyes widen and he lets out a big, happy sigh; he hands the sketch pad to Zach, who with ease, does a line, then hands the sketchpad back to Tristan*

*Tristan begins to draw, then quickly shuts his sketchpad and chucks it under his bed as his dad walks in, drunk and falling over*

Dad: Tristan

*Tristan looks up*

Dad: You got any booze?

Tristan: *looks at remainder of alcohol* I don't know dad, do you have any money?

*Dad grunts, then hands Tristan 5$. Tristan hands an almost finished bottle of whiskey to him*

Tristan: Want a line?

Dad: Fuck yeah

*Tristan racks lines on the back of Zach’s phone. They each snort one*

Dad: Thanks, Tristan.

*Tristan smiles, but is obviously annoyed, and his dad walks out. He gets his sketch pad and begins to draw as Zach takes a bong rip, then evidently falls asleep above the covers*

*Tristan hangs up a drawing of a man with knives for each finger, above clouds that states ‘I AM GOD’ and says ’T 16’ in the corner; He takes another line, then exits*

*Tristan’s mom comes in, with a black eye. She puts a blanket over Zach, and she hangs up a framed diploma on Tristan’s wall. She exits, tired, and Tristan enters. He is now 18, and he still has on a beanie. There are bags under his eyes. He is holding two bags.*

Tristan: Zach! *drops bags* Wake up!

Zach: What!

Tristan: Come on man. Look what i got.

*Tristan pulls out a couple bottles of vodka, tequila, and a lot of beer.*

Zach: Oh shit *grabs bottle and takes a swig* Tristan, man. I don’t wanna get all fucking weird and shit, but I’m proud of you man. You graduated, that’s something I couldn’t do. So, uh, I got you something.

*Zach pulls out two tabs of acid; they each put it on their tongue and the spot light focuses on both of them, while there are lots of darker lights around them. For this scene, the spotlight remains on Zach and Tristan (spotlight is constantly switching between very bright colors) as various people come in and out, drinking, smoking, doing lines, etc. Tristan and Zach just look around in awe (they’re tripping) for the whole scene. They look doped out, and they do not interact with the mass amounts of people that come in and out of his room. eventually, everyone is gone, and the room is a mess. Zach and Tristan look at each other, laugh, then both fall back on the bed, and fall asleep*

*Tristan’s mom walks in and begins to clean*

Mom: What has happened to you, my sweet boy? *kisses Tristan on the cheek as he sleeps*

*Finishes cleaning, then looks at the boys endearingly, sighs, and hangs up a very trippy drawing that says in the corner ’T 18’. She walks out.*

*Tristan and Zach get up and the song “Killing in the Name” by Rage the Machine comes on, while they take bong rips and draw; Tristan is now 21*

Tristan: Naw man. I’m telling you, I am really onto something right now. I’m gonna get my shit together you know. I swear I think this is gonna work out. *phone rings* Hello? Yeah, come to my room. *hangs up*

*a few seconds later a boy who looks about 15 comes in*

Tristan: Whatdya want?

Young boy: Uh, can I get 5 bars?

Tristan: *pulls out pill bottle and pours pills all over his notepad, then hands five to the kid, who pays him* Be careful with those. They can make you dumb.

*Kid nods and leaves*

Tristan: Zach, I really think I’m gonna make it. I’m making so much money off of this.

Zach: Can we at least try it?

Tristan: Come on Zach, we can’t blow it all. We gotta make money.

Zach: How can we sell it if we don’t know how good it is?

Tristan: *sighs* You’re right.

*Girl with long straight hair walks in and sits on Tristan’s lap*

Tristan: Okay, so Lilleth, I think we gotta try the shit and make sure it’s good.

Lilleth: Baby, I was thinking the same thing. *Pulls out baggy, empties little rocks onto sketch pad and crushes them up with a spoon. continues preparing while conversation goes on*

Zach: *Gets up* Tristan, you got a belt?

Tristan: Yeah, the bookshelf *while looking at Lilleth, in love, kissing her cheek*

*Zach sits on bed and hands Lilleth the belt. She tightens it around her arm, sticks a needle in her arm as Tristan holds the belt tightly on her. Once it is all in, she looks at Tristan smiles, and falls back on the pillow, with a huge smile; Tristan and Zach both shoot up*

Zach: Damn ! This shit is amazing…

Lilleth: I fucking know

Tristan: You guys, we’re onto something big here. We can cut this shit and double our profits. Fuck it, even triple it with some dumb kids. We’re gonna make it big, guys. We’re gonna fucking make it big.

*Lilleth and Tristan start kissing, Zach is just doped out staring at the ceiling; Tristan pulls out sketchpad, puts the remaining powder in his gums, then starts drawing. He hands up a picture of a big, 3d heart, and it says ’T 21’ in the corner; Zach leaves, Tristan and Lilleth fall asleep*

*Tristan’s mom comes in, looks at the mess, sighs*

Mom: fucking Tristan *leaves*

*Lilleth wakes up and starts pacing around the room. Eventually, Tristan wakes up too.*

Tristan: Baby, why are you up?

Lilleth: Tristan i cant fucking do this anymore. I can’t fucking do this.

Tristan: Baby, what?

Lilleth: Look at us Tristan! We’re 25 years fucking old. We can't keep fucking living like this, we cant keep fucking around, we cant keep being fucking dumb Tristan we… I’m pregnant Tristan.

Tristan: We can make it work, Lilleth. We can do it! I’d do anything for you baby.

*Lilleth keeps pacing, Tristan gets up and hugs her, she cries.*

Tristan: Come on baby, just take another line, you’ll feel better.

Lilleth: You’re right. You’re right. We can do this. We can raise this baby together. We can raise it to be better than us, we can raise a doctor! A lawyer!

Tristan: Baby, we can do anything together. We’re gonna be okay, I promise.

Lilleth: I love you, Tristan.

Tristan: I love you too baby… We can look into getting an abortion tomorrow.

*Lilleth runs out, Tristan follows.*

*Mom walks in and hangs up two drawings she rips out of his notebook. One is a drawing of Lilleth with a baby bump. The next is a drawing of a broken heart. And lastly, a tombstone, that states that both Lilleth and the baby have died. spot light focuses on each drawing*

THE END

[cececreativewriting]

short play, “SALUTEM ET OBEDIRE”

SALUTEM ET OBEDIRE

Character Breakdown:

MISS ABRAMS: Mid 50s, serious, uptight secretary type.

JOHN: 23, an intern, quiet and nervous.

Enter Miss Abrams and John into a clean, sterile room. There’s a large white desk with flowers on it in front of a big white door. Miss Abrams holds a clip board. John looks around nervously.

MISS ABRAMS We’re sorry to ask this of you on such short notice, wereally appreciate you stepping in.

JOHN Yes, of course, no worries.

MISS ABRAMS We didn’t have much notice before our last man left. You should know, most interns would never get the opportunity to work this job, but President Atu’s team highly recommended you. They consider you very professional.

JOHN Well, thank you. It really is an honor.

MISS ABRAMS And of course, you’ll be getting a more than sufficient pay raise. We’re so appreciative, we really are understaffed right now, what with the preparations for the inaugural ball underway.

JOHN Well, I’ll try not to disappoint.

MISS ABRAMS You won’t. Now, the position is self-explanatory, basic security, level 4 clearance. If you need a bathroom break, you must page your backup. Don’t open the door under any circumstances. There is classified material inside and we are entrusting you with this responsibility. We can’t risk a security breach. Do you understand?

JOHN I understand. I won’t let you down.

1.

MISS ABRAMS Good. And please wear something - (giving him a once-over) presentable.

Miss Abrams fixes his wrinkled collar, straightens his tie.

MISS ABRAMS (CONT) And iron your shirt. The inaugural ball is tomorrow and we need everyone in tip-top shape.

JOHN What number is this for President Atu? 12? 13?

MISS ABRAMS His 12th, God bless him. Salutem et obedire.

JOHN Salutem et obedire.

A loud bang is heard from behind the door. John is visibly startled.

MISS ABRAMS Don’t you worry about that. Remember, you were specially chosen for this job because we believe you have potential. You don’t want to spend the rest of your life as an intern, do you? We could see you taking on a lot of responsibility in the White House. It all depends on how you perform here. Here’s your security badge. Let me go get your set of keys.

Miss Abrams exits. John stands behind the desk, straightens up, fusses awkwardly with his security badge. Suddenly, there’s a muffled scream from behind the door. John looks around quickly, then walks over to the door. He knocks quietly on it.

JOHN Hello? Hello? Is someone there?

There’s another bang on the door. John jumps back.

JOHN Hello? Are you alright?

Miss Abrams has walked back in with the keys. John doesn’t notice. She is watching him. She clears her throat.

MISS ABRAMS Ahem. (Beat) John, please take a seat.

2.

John jumps back from the door, sits behind the desk.

MISS ABRAMS (CONT) Let me go over the rules with you. This will be the last time I do so. There is to be no contact through the door. None. You are to speak to no one about holding this position. And you will not ask about what goes on behind the door. If you break these rules, there will be consequences for your actions. The White House operates on strict regulations. The country depends on us to operate smoothly, as we have for the past 11 terms. Do you have any questions?

The sound of a drill from behind the door. John winces. Miss Abram maintains a straight face.

MISS ABRAMS Ignore it. Your job is to ignore it.

Miss Abram takes a small firearm out of her purse. She hands it to John.

MISS ABRAMS This is part of the procedure. The silencer is on the side.

JOHN Am I going to need this?

MISS ABRAMS You shouldn’t. But just in case.

JOHN Just in case of what?

MISS ABRAMS And I should let you know, the First Lady does stop by here every so often to check on things. This was her brainchild, you know. She likes things to be tidy. Keep the desk neat. There should always fresh flowers, every day. You never know when she’ll drop in.

JOHN Oh, well, that’s great. I’m a huge fan of her.

MISS ABRAMS We all are.

JOHN It’ll be such an honor to meet her. Her comittment to bettering our country has been so inspirational.

3.

MISS ABRAMS Yes, she really is our shining star.

The drill sound starts again. Screaming. Miss Abrams begins speaking louder over the noise.

MISS ABRAMS (CONT) She’s really the brains behind the operation, in my opinion, but don’t say you heard that from me. Who knows where I’d end up if the president heard that.

They both force laughter over the sound of the drill.

JOHN And she always looks so beautiful.

John pauses. He looks pained. He’s struggling to ignore the sounds behind him.

JOHN (CONT) So classically beautiful...so put together... (Pause, quieter) I don’t think I can do this.

MISS ABRAMS Yes, you can. The whole staff believes in you. You just need to learn to get used to it. We’ve all gotten used to it. If you fulfill your duties in this job, President Atu can continue to run successful, unopposed campaigns for years to come. Now, what do you say?

JOHN (Quietly) Salutem et Obedire.

MISS ABRAMS Salutem et Obedire. (Pause) Well, we can only hope that you’ll do better than the last man who held this position.

JOHN What happened to him?

Miss Abrams gestures to the door.

MISS ABRAMS He asked.

A bang on the door, a scream. Lights out.

[cececreativewriting]

short play, “Vincent”

VINCENT VAN GOGH

a historically researched play about Vincent Van Gogh, with every scene depicted within one of his paintings.

Characters:

Vincent

Charles

Paul

Arles, France. 1888.

Setting: “The Night Cafe” around 1 am. The walls are red. There is a pool table in the center, with a few seats. There is a curtain on the right covering a door way.

*The Song “The Sad Cafe” by the Eagles plays*

*Vincent is drawing and drinking whiskey*

Paul: To think, there are so many starving artists in this city, and then the ones who get the recognition- well, their work is simply shit.

​

Charles: *raising his glass* Cheers to that *pause* Vincent?

*Vincent continues drawing, not looking up.*

Charles: uh, Vincent?

Vincent: *looking up, irritated* Yes?

Charles: Nothing. You just seem very… aloof.

Vincent: *Looks at Charles, then at Paul. They both look concerned* Perhaps I am a bit aloof.

Charles: It feels like you’ve been stuck in this slump.

Paul: Yeah, Vincent. Come on, let’s get you out of this.

Vincent: No, no. I am fine. Just very focused on my work right now.

Paul: Come on, Vincent! Let’s get you a girl.

*Vincent shakes his head and continues drawing*

Charles: What about her?

*Charles motions toward a girl dressed in fishnets and a torn up dress. She is caked with makeup and her hair is messy.*

Paul: Ooh, or her

*Paul points to a young looking girl, wearing a torn up dress and heels. Her make up is less intense than the previous woman, but still pretty intense*

Vincent: No, I really don’t need this.

Paul: Everyone needs this. This is why men go mad.

*The song “Sweet Painted Lady” by Elton John starts to play*

*Paul walks up to the girl, they chat, he pulls money out of his pocket, gives it to her, then brings her over to their table*

Paul: Vincent, this is, uh…

Starr: Starr.

Paul: Yeah, this is Starr. She’s going to be taking care of you tonight.

*Starr grabs Vincent’s hand and he stands up. Vincent looks distressed as Starr pulls him past the curtain.*

Charles: Well, I wish you would pay for my nights.

Paul: You’re not the one acting crazy.

*They chat and drink until Vincent and Starr come out. Starr walks confidently and to her previous location, while Vincent looks depressed, looking down as he walks to his seat.*

Paul: So, how was she?

Vincent: I just- thank you, Paul, but i need to get home.

Charles: It’s barely 2am!

*Vincent grabs his stuff and heads out.*

*He walks and the curtain begins to close on the cafe. Vincent is in front of the curtain. A bunch of stars are projected on the curtain, and there are rain sounds and rain projected.*

*The song “Spinning Away” By John Cale plays*

*Vincent begins on the far right, and slowly stumbles across to the left through the entire scene*

Vincent: *looking up* God, why have you chosen me to endure this? *keeps walking, stumbles* Why me! *sigh. He slowly goes to his knees, and begins to cry* Why…

*The chorus, which is instrumental, plays as he lies on the ground crying, yelling, panicking*

*Once the lyrics begin again, he looks up, and slowly begins to stand up, in awe of the stars surrounding him. He starts to spin a little, as his face gets brighter.*

*Finally, he collects himself and his stuff, stands up straight, and walks off.*

*The curtain raises to reveal a yellow bedroom with a yellow bed and chair.*

*The song “Psychotic Break” by Jerry Cantrell begins to play*

*Vincent walks in, sighs, and puts his stuff on his desk, then sits on the chair. He begins to read aloud as he writes*

Vincent: I don’t want to continue living like this.

*He puts his hands on his head to expressed his discontentment*

Vincent: I CANNOT live this life anymore. I’m so sick of hearing these awful things in my head. I’m so sick of listening to the cries of the distressed, the wails of the sick, and the pleads from the pained… I cannot go on listening to all of the horrible things in this life.

*He closes his eyes, and clenches his fists, leaning back in his chair. He begins to cry, but within a few seconds, if by some force, he immediately jumps up and goes to the drawers by his desk, pulling something out. He looks into a mirror*

Vincent: I can’t keep listening to all the pain.

*While shaking, he brings his hand up to his ear, and cuts it off. Fake blood spurts everywhere and he screams from pain. He falls to the ground, while screaming and crying. There is a smile  on his face. The curtains close*

BLACK OUT

“The Sad Cafe” - The Eagles

https://vimeo.com/45249782

“Sweet Painted Lady” - Elton John

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hdtZd_gEE6E

​

“Spinning Away” - John Cale

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-INeMspNSQ0

“Psychotic Break” - Jerry Cantrell

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r-uqy-q-okA

[cececreativewriting]

full play, “Cactus”

CACTUS

A play by Cece Jane

my mind alarms me

wondering what is real

and who decides reality

Characters:

Jonah: antsy; to be read abruptly, quickly, almost always in a panic.

Mirror-Jonah: Jonah’s reflection in the mirror. Sassy. He wants to help Jonah, but can’t be heard when Jonah is determined to block him out.

Boss: Only heard from other side of phone call, not seen.

Avaleigh: Neither seen nor heard. She was perfect. He’ll do anything to get her back.

Setting:

An apartment building in an average, middle America town. The year is 2020.

Post-it notes of various colors are hung up throughout the apartment. Some are inspirational, saying “You can do it!” or “One day at a time!”, while some state things like, “You’re a piece of shit”, “Stop being delusional”. Negative post-it notes primarily on the mirrors.

Throughout the whole play, there is a cactus in a pot, in every scene.

Notes

/ means the next line begins.

The question of this play is, what is real? And that’s up to each individual audience member to decide. Jonah shows people that other people’s realities aren’t always the same as yours.

SCENE I

*Jonah wakes up and it is midnight. He sits up in his bed. It is dark, with a small spotlight on his bed, and a window that shows it is pouring rain.*

*He reaches over to his phone and the bright screen shocks him, as he scrunches his face*

Jonah: *sighs*midnight.

*Jonah starts to dial on the phone, and does so slowly, as if nervous*

Jonah: *on the phone; he stutters*Avaleigh, listen… I’ve really been thinking, and I…

*He looks out the window at the hard rain. He touches the window with his finger, letting himself feel the cold glass. He wants to feel the rain on his fingers, he wants to run his fingers through Avaleigh’s hair, he wants to feel her warm skin and little scar on her left thigh again.*

Jonah: … I think we can make it work. I mean, I know things have changed, I know nothing can ever remain the same no matter how badly I want it to. But… Avaleigh, I want to make this work!

…

I want to make you happy.

*He slowly hangs up the phone, flickering on a small light.*

*Jonah reaches over to his bed side table and picks up a bottle of pills. He pours two pills out and swallows them without water.*

*He then sits in his bed with a book of a collection of Edgar Allen Poe short stories and begins to read, stopping a few pages in, sighing, and putting down the book.*

Jonah: One moment at a time, Jonah. One moment at a time.

*He turns off the light. It is pitch black with the only light being the moonlight coming from the window, in which we can watch the shadows of the rain*

BLACKOUT

*A few minutes will pass, and the window will slowly fade the rain away, and enter in sunlight.*

SCENE II

*Once the lighting is set as a bright morning, an alarm clock goes off on Jonah’s phone.*

*Jonah wakes up abruptly from the alarm, jumping up and grabbing his phone, shutting off the alarm. He looks outside at the window, and notices that it’s sunny. A new day has come, and it is bright and sunny. He is… hopeful?*

*His room is covered in multicolored post-it notes. Everywhere. He looks at them and reads them in his head as he passes each one. When he looks at the ones by the window or the mirror, he quivers.*

*He makes his bed, perfecting every corner, then he walks to his desk and pulls out a notebook to write his schedule*

Jonah: Okay, so, if I brush my teeth and put on clothes, I can make it to the office by 8:33am. I can take the bus, right? I think I can take it from The South Station to The Main St Station. I can get out, and go to Bagel Gourmet, I can get bagels for the whole office! They’ll all be like, ‘Oh look, Jonah got us all bagels!’ They’ll all be so happy. I’ll make them all so happy.

*He gets distracted, mumbling about how happy he’ll make them, fantasizing about friendships with these coworkers*

Okay, okay, I can get to work at 8:52. Allotting time for hello’s and removing my coat, I will work from 8:56 until 12:23. I will go to the bathroom, then I’ll take a lunch break from 12:25 to 12:50. I will allow ten minutes for the returning socialization, possible phone calls, or maybe I will read the newspaper. But I will start working again no later than 1pm, continuing to work until 9:38. I’ll put in those extra 8 minutes so I seem like a hard worker.

*His eyes widen*

A hard worker. Me, that’s right, I’m a hard worker. Hello, I’m Jonah, nice to meet you, I’m a hard worker!

*getting more serious*

I will walk home, so that I can stop by Avaleigh’s.

*getting excited*

Yeah, I can stop by Avaleigh’s and maybe she’ll be there! Maybe she’ll be there, and I’ll say Hello!

Or…

*nervously*

Maybe I’ll walk by, and, and maybe I’ll look and see another man. A man who isn’t me. Maybe I’ll-

*He interrupts himself*

Stop it, Jonah! Stop it!

Work Before Play! Work Before Play!

*He paces around the room as though he is looking for what to do next but unsure of the move. He picks up a post-it note and moves it to a different location, then goes to his desk and grabs a bottle of pills. He pours a few out and takes them.*

Jonah: One day at a time, Jonah. One day at a time. You can survive today, and we can focus on tomorrow, tomorrow. Tomorrow tomorrow! Tom-or-row, haha!

You can do this, Jonah!

How does a man eat an elephant, Jonah?

One bite at a time, Jonah.

*The next line is to be said while slowly going into a cry/panic. Additional or less repetition of the phrase is okay*

One bite at a time. One bite at a time. One bite at a time. One bite at a-

*He breaks down crying.*

*The spotlight on the cactus*

BLACKOUT

SCENE III

*he gets up and looks at the clock*

Jonah: Okay, okay! If I leave now, I can make it to the office by… 9:03! I mean, I won’t be able to get bagels for everyone, but at least I’ll make it to the office. Yeah, yeah Jonah, at least you’ll make it to the office, at least you’ll get to greet everyone, say your hellos!

You’ll make it to the office, Jonah, you’ll make it!

*Jonah takes a few more pills. He begins pacing around the room for a few moments before stopping while mumbling to himself. He pulls out his phone, nervously, and dials on his phone.*

*ringing noise….. BEEEEEP*

*During the call, on a mirror at a different point on the stage, a reflection of Mirror Jonah is shown, arms crossed, shaking head dissaprovingly.*

Jonah: Avaleigh! Hi! Hi, it’s uh Jo- uh, it’s me.

I want to see you...

I want to see you… today.

Yeah, I want to see you today, Avaleigh.

I miss you, Avaleigh.

My life isn’t the same without you.

My life isn’t the same without you in it.

Avaleigh…

Please, please come back.

Please, Avaleigh.

*He tries to hold it together but his mind is overcome with despair.*

Please come back.

I’m begging you, Avaleigh.

I am begging you.

I am begging you.

*pause; he is frozen*

Jonah: Okay, okay so now I’m a little late. Now, I’m a little late, but I can still make it! I can still make it! You can still make it, Jonah, you can still make it to work!

One bite at a time, Jonah.

One step at a time, Jonah.

One! At! A! Time!

*begins pacing again, then waters the cactus*

Jonah: Remember when Avaleigh got you this cactus? She got it to protect me. Remember she said, ‘This is your protector. A cactus is humble, it doesn’t ask for much, but it is by no means submissive. It protects itself from risks without hurting any other aspect of nature. Cut it open and it has the qualities to heal humans, drink it and you’ll think you’re floating up to God. A cactus fulfills the need for nature as well as providing as a weapon. It’s a contraction within itself. It’s just like you, Jonah.’

*He paces around, mumbling to himself questioning what he needs to do before he can leave for work*

Jonah: Okay, okay, Jonah.

I just need to wash my face,

Yeah… I’ll wash my face and,

And I’ll wash my hands too,

Of course, can’t forget to wash my hands.

and, and I’ll fix up my hair.

Yes, make my hair look nice for work,

I’ll make my hair look nice and everyone will say,

‘Wow, Jonah, look at your hair!’

‘How dapper you look!’

‘What a stud that Jonah is!’

I bet Avaleigh would even fall in love with me again,

She would,

She’d see my hair and she’d fall for me

She’d fall into my arms and say,

‘Wow Jonah, you look so handsome, thanks for doing your hair!’

Yeah!

I’ll do that.

I’ll do my hair

*he mumbles about looking good and doing his hair for a little while walking to a bathroom. Need a sink and a mirror. Mirror reflection is seen by audience.*

Jonah: You can do this Jonah.

I can do this.

*Washes hands very intensely. Turns sink on and off various times.*

*Dries hand with a dull hand-towel. He makes sure his hands are completely dry and takes his time with it.*

*He looks in the mirror with the towel in his hands, his face starts to scrunch up, he begins to cry. However, after the face becomes scrunched up in the mirror, the mirror shows “Mirror Jonah”, confident, not crying, fed up with Jonah’s shit.*

Mirror Jonah: Jonah, you piece of shit!

*Jonah looks up in the mirror, sad, confused, but not as shocked as you would think one would be if their reflection started talking to them. It seems as though they’ve met before.*

Jonah: W-what?

Mirror Jonah: Yeah, you. You, Jonah. Get your fucking shit together.

Jonah: I am! I- I washed my hands, I am doing my hair… I’m gonna go to work, I’m gonna greet everyone with hellos!

I’ll say,

‘Hello, Sharron!’

‘Hello, Louis!’

‘Hello, Tracey!’

‘Hello-

Mirror Jonah: I know you won’t.

We both know / you won’t

Jonah: I will!

I will! I will! I will!

*Mirror Jonah rolls his eyes and slightly chuckles*

Jonah: Stop mocking me! I will, okay! I’m going to do my hair and everyone’s gonna say I look so nice and put together! Avaleigh is going to love it!

*Mirror Jonah laughs*

Mirror Jonah: You’re delusional, Jonah, I’m trying to help you.

Jonah: Help me! Help me!

How!

By Crushing my dreams?!

Mirror Jonah: By telling you the truth./ Something you can never do for yourself.

Jonah: Shut up shut up shut up!

*Jonah gets angry. Angry tears stream down his face, he is raging. Lights represent chaos. He is screaming and yelling, telling Mirror Jonah to shut up and leave him alone.*

*Mirror Jonah holds up a cactus. Jonah bangs against the mirror, then screams in pain and looks at his hand, full of cactus needles.*

Mirror Jonah: The cactus… A weapon that will always flower.

Jonah: What the fuck!

Mirror Jonah:*amongst Jonah’s screams* I’m trying to help you!

*Mirror Jonah writes something on a post-it note and places it on the mirror.*

Jonah: Leave me alone! I don’t want you! I don’t like you!

*Amongst this screaming, at one point, the mirror returns to being simply a reflection of Jonah*

*He is screaming banging on the mirror, cracking it. It continues to crack, but he keeps banging, with glass getting under his finger-tips making him bleed more. There is blood all over the mirror as Jonah bangs against it, bloodying his hands more and more with each movement*

*Amongst the chaos, people dressed in all black will put cacti throughout the bathroom. Some of the cacti will have candle wicks at the top and be lit, some simply with a spotlight. But, there should be a lot of cacti and movement.*

*Eventually, he backs up and looks at the cracked, bloody mirror, and notices his reflection.*

Jonah: What!

You’re just gonna be silent now!

*He waits for a response that will never come.*

Jonah: Fucking speak to me!

*No response. He stares at the mirror but simply sees himself: bloody, crying, a mess.*

Jonah: … come back!

*Jonah keeps trying to get Mirror Jonah to return, by both screaming and silently crying. Eventually, he falls to the ground in despair. He puts his head in his bloody hands and sits there, crying, with his reflection in the mirror.*

*A few moments pass, then the spotlight is on the mirror, off of Jonah. There is no reflection. The audience can see how broken, cracked, and bloody it is. A few moments later, blackout with spotlight on a cactus in the mirror.*

BLACKOUT

SCENE IV

*It is now evening. It is dim, lighting and windows reflects that. It could be raining.*

*Jonah is pacing around the room. There are bags under his eyes*

*Jonah dials on his phone, both eager and timid*

Jonah: Hi, Avaleigh. It’s… it’s uh, it’s me again

Hahah

I, uh,

…I just really miss you.

I just

I just don’t know… what to do without you and-

I’m sorry, okay! I’m just,

*solemnly*

I’m sorry

*Jonah returns to his desk, dumps out some pills and swallows them without water*

*I want the actor to interpret how to say this next line. Mockingly, serious, with tears, laughing. What is your experience with medication? How can you express that with this line?*

Jonah: Just take your pills, Jonah.

You’ll feel better, Jonah.

Just take your pills.

*Jonah begins to pace around again. Timid, he pulls out his phone and dials, but within the first ring he hangs up with fear.*

*He writes down “Confidence!” on a post-it note and sticks it to the wall, or on his phone.*

*He sighs, builds up confidence, then redials*

*The phone rings. The ringing is loud, intensifying in Jonah’s ear like the beat of your heart does as you lay on a cheap motel pillow*

Boss: Hello, this is Greenside, how can I help you?

*Jonah pauses. He tries to speak but no sound comes out of his lingering lips.*

*While he speaks, he is drawing a cactus on a post-it note.*

Jonah: Hey, hi, uh, hi this is Jonah.

I, uh, I was really going to make it into the office today,

I swear, I had it all planned out and,

I really was, I swear!

But, uh, something came up.

I promise, I promise I will be there bright and early tomorrow

With my hair done nicely and

A smile on my face and

A whole box of bagels for the whole office!

I’ll, I’ll be there, I/ promise.

Boss: *sighs; beat*Jonah…

Jonah: I mean it, I will! I’m so sorry.

Boss: Look Jonah, it’s just…

This is getting old.

I get it, Jonah, I do.

I get that it’s hard and I understand that you’re struggling, but it’s just…

It’s been two years, Jonah.

It’s been two years since you’ve come into the office. The last time you were here was in 2018, Jonah!

I mean, we’ve replaced you, you have to know that, right?

You just, you need to stop calling.

*Jonah angrily puts the post-it note up. A light on it. It is a drawing of a cactus, and over it says, “I DON’T GET THE DIFFRERNCE BETWEEN HEAVEN AND HELL.”*

Jonah: But / I

Boss: Just. Stop. Calling.

*Boss hangs up on Jonah. There is a BEEEEEEEEEP to show the call has ended. It feels longer than it should be.*

*Time is moving differently.*

*He holds the phone away from his ear without hanging up. He drops the phone, and it bounces on the ground once. The BEEEP gets louder over time.*

*Jonah stutters and mumbles before falling to the ground, crying.*

BLACKOUT (with spotlight on the cactus. Maybe different colored spotlight.)

SCENE V

*Jonah is in bed. The time is past midnight. Lighting is dim, maybe a candle at the bed side. He is rocking back and forth. He has the Edgar Allen Poe book in his lap, with post-it notes throughout it. He pours some pills into his hand.*

Jonah: Just take your pills, Jonah

Just take your pills and

Everything will be okay Jonah

Just take your pills and you’ll be okay.

You’ll be able to sleep

You’ll be able to sleep and

You’ll be okay

You’ll be able to sleep and

You’ll wake up in the morning and

You’ll look in the mirror and

You’ll fix your hair and

You’ll look so good, Jonah

Avaleigh would have said ‘you look so good’

She would’ve

I know she would

How do you know?

I just know

But how do you know?

I know! Because I know! Because I love her and I know her

I’m gonna see her tomorrow,

I will. I am going to see her tomorrow,

I am!

*Jonah writes down “GO TO AVALEIGH’S” on a post-it note and puts it right on the wall by his bed*

BLACKOUT

SCENE VI

*The lights are blinding- no one can see what is on the stage. Over time, they become dimmer, but still bright enough to represent a sunny day.*

*It is morning now. The sun is bright and there is an optimistic vibe to the atmosphere, presented through lights and setting. Birds are singing. Hope is in the air, but delusion is in the wind.*

*Spotlight on Jonah on the side of the stage, holding a single flower in one hand, a gun in the other.*

Jonah: Avaleigh, I’m coming for you.

I’m coming this time.

I’m coming.

*He looks at the gun, then the flower, then the gun, flower, gun, flower, etc.*

Jonah: *As though talking to someone who asked him a question*

No, I don’t know what I’m gonna do.

*swallows pills*

But I’m getting her back in whatever way possible

No matter what that means.

*Mirror-Jonah walks in holding the frame of a mirror. He sits down in a back corner and holds it in front of him, watching Jonah*

*Jonah begins to walk across the stage, slowly. He is the calmest we have ever seen him*

*As Jonah walks, he continues to look from the flower to gun to flower to gun etc. He is unsure of what to do.*

*Once at the other side of the stage, the spotlight is still only on Jonah (with dim lighting on Mirror Jonah). There is a small figure to his right*

Jonah: H- hi Avaleigh.

Jonah: I know it’s been a while. I should’ve come to see you sooner. I’ve called, I - I just couldn’t actually face you. It’s too hard.

Jonah: But, I want to be with you. I’m ready to be with you again.

*The spotlight widens, revealing a tombstone that states: HERE LIES THE BEAUTIFUL AVALEIGH TRUONG. BELOVED DAUGHTER, FRIEND, AND LOVER. 1-12-1990 TO 9-26-18. SHE IS LOVED AND MISSED BY ALL.*

*He puts the flower on her grave, and lies down, as though cuddling with her ghost. It seems as though he is actually holding onto a figure, like someone is actually there.*

*He doesn’t cry. He remains there as people surround him with cacti. Mirror Jonah bangs against the inside of the mirror but can’t get out.*

*Jonah puts the gun in his mouth*

*He cocks it*

*beat*

BLACKOUT

THE END

[cececreativewriting]

excerpt, “Boys”

content warning: sexual abuse

“To all the boys I’ve loved before” would be a good title for this if it didn’t already exist, and if I actually loved any of these boys. But what’s love anyways, I don’t know. But the boys, the boys are what I know. From the top of their heads to their scratchy-shaved chins to their cross-shaped hair traveling from their belly button to the part I know best, all the way down to the bottom of their feet, their sole. I know boys like I know myself. But I don’t know if I know myself at all.

I.

R.

He told me he wanted me when we were in a hallway in highschool. I think I was sixteen or so. I didn’t know what love was but I thought that I did, and I didn’t know what boys wanted though I thought that I did. Maybe I did know what they wanted, and maybe that’s why I gave it to them. But I don’t know. It’s all just such a blur now, every single encounter is just a blur now.

He pulled me aside by the lockers, like every teen-romance movie you can imagine—especially the ones with shitty scripts that talk about a girl being depressed, or addicted to drugs, or whatever, and having some cute nerdy boy come along and save her. Rise her out of her own misery and create a life of happiness with her. But that’s not real. And I don’t give a fuck how many people say it is, because I know it’s not.

His left pointer finger and thumb pinched the corner of my thigh. My cheeks sprouted red, my veins parting like the red sea. Swiftly I glance across all angels, nervous that someone will see. I was always nervous someone would see. I was scared of their judgement. I was scared of people thinking I was ‘used up’ (see II.)

II.

W.

He was my first boyfriend and my first kiss. And it was so beautiful and so innocent. Every at 8 am, he’d walk me to school, holding my hand, both of us sweating profusely but not letting go, letting our liquefied hands merge together, never falling apart. When he looked in my eyes I would always turn away. I was only thirteen. I didn’t know how to be what he wanted me to be.

The first time we kissed was at the playground, the one with the red benches and sketchy bathroom that older me would grow to hate. I drank a monster energy drink with him, and I felt so badass because my mom didn’t let me drink energy drinks.

All of our friends were watching. Ten middle schoolers all disguising themselves behind trees, both us and them aware of each other. I knew what was to come. We were on the slide- the one that went way to fast when I was a kid, that I fell off of when I was five. I cried and cried, and my mom bandaged me, kissing my wounds and holding me tight. I guess she’s what made me crave that similar affection-  the touch telling me that I was worthy, that I was something.

Funny because that was the day my dad never came home. And it’s weird how these memories stick with you, and how the important parts of your life all seem to merge together. They all feel to have existed at once, in the same location, as though you were capable of experiencing a million different times at once. As though time fell apart, and all we had was now. But now was not just now, now was everything—there was no before or after.

It was innocent. He looked up at me, the hairs on his arms standing still like the bloomed sunflowers I feared as a child. I never understood that fear, but I still quiver when I see a row of sunflowers, discussing my demise. And I feel like a coward still.

He leaned in, and I felt my heart drop. You know that feeling the absolute instant before you try your first line of cocaine? That’s how it felt. I was nervous, but I was ready. But what they don’t tell you (or what we never listened to) is you’re never ready. Cause drugs will pull you in and spit you out like a spec of dust fallen in your drooling mouth over-night. And he was like drugs. Well, not him, but boys. Boys were like drugs. And fuck did I love drugs.

His lips touched my lips, the chapped skin scratching my untouched mouth. I pulled back and looked at him. He kissed me again, and we fell down the slide, together, tumbling lower and lower until crashing on the temporate ground. All our friends ran up to us, cheering. It felt like a movie- to everyone but me.

I went home that night and cried for hours. I didn’t know why. I always wanted a boyfriend, someone to like me, and I practiced kissing my shampoo bottle in the shower every night. Why did I quiver at his touch?

Time went on, and we somehow became best friends. I didn’t want a boyfriend, I guess I decided. I think the kissing scared me, the feeling of wet on wet was too much for me- I wanted a towel to dry my mouth up. I wanted to beg for water.

I guess he got mad when I got a boyfriend at 15. But he was always there, by my side, supportive. He hated him, he hated me for loving him, but he loved me so he stayed. And that’s more than I can say for a lot of people.

By 18, we we’re both on very different paths. As his drug-phase was ending, mine was only beginning. I started having sex more frequently, the benzos numbing my body to nothing but wanting to be appreciated—I didn’t care how it felt, and I could always just close my eyes.

It’s funny. I don’t know if it was the drugs or not, but I would just zone out. I’d let them do whatever they wanted to me, I’d prove to them that I was worthy of their attention and appreciation. But I was not in my body. Fucked me and I became a butterfly, flying high above this all. I didn’t feel a single thing. I remember slapping myself in the face after it, trying to feel my cheeks, but I couldn’t. I was so far removed from my body, that nothing could penetrate my feeling. It was like I outsmarted my senses.

He confessed his love to me. And goddamnit do I regret not giving in, not loving him to, because I lost him after that. Actually, years later I still have a screenshot of the text messages he sent me that day. And I’ll never delete them.

He said within the next year, I’d be all used up and he wouldn’t even want me anymore. At the rate I’m going, he said, my pussy won’t make it past 21.

But I didn’t cry. I crushed up those little pink pills, and scraped them into my orange juice before school.

And during school.

And after school.

And like a zombie I walked, my eyes open but not seeing anything. And like a zombie, he found me (refer to III).

III. 

A.

He’s the second boy I ever fucked. I didn’t want to fuck him.  I told him so many times that I didn’t want to fuck him. But I wanted to get high, and he had the means, so ultimately I found myself swallowing stuff I never wanted to taste in the first place.

We were in a garage. We were in my garage. My mom was upstairs. He bent me over and told me it would be fine, he wouldn’t let us get caught, as he stuck a pill under my tongue before pulling back my hair and arching my back for me.

I tried to kiss him after, but he refused. He just went home. And I stayed in the garage all night, my bare ass on the concrete. I didn’t brush my teeth. I didn’t deserve to rid myself of the taste.

Years later and once again he reels me in with drugs. And I don’t blame him. I mean, I do. I said no maybe 50 times, but on the 51st, I said yes, and I cant blame him for that.

He took me to the rooftop parking lot of the dollar store. On my tiptoes to reach his lips, before we touched each other he pushed my head down, turned my around, and splattered me on the ground. It was cold. He ripped down my jeans, which I still wore in kid’s size, and peeled my undies off, throwing them over the ledge. I never got that underwear back.

Then he pulled out his phone. And he filmed me. And I did not know, I was too high to know, but he filmed me. Maybe I did know. I remember a light coming from behind me. And I remember wanting to turn around, wanting to turn around and scream stop! Wanting to turn around and make him stop myself. Wanting to find any sort of redemption in this situation. But I didn’t. I did what I do, and became a butterfly once again.

Years later, he found me one night walking like a zombie with a cigarette warming up my shaking fingers. And he fucked me that night, like a zombie I wasn’t there. My body was there, but I wasn’t there.

I woke up in the park. On the same slide as before.

[cececreativewriting]

short prose, “A Letter to my Mother”

August 20, 1983

Mom,

So, you’re dreaming again!

Last time I visited, The Director made it increasingly clear that your medications should shelter your unruly mind. I guess he was wrong.

But the dreams don’t sound the same. You said you dreamed of me with long hands, glistening in the starlight. Have you forgotten my fear of the dark?

With my arms and legs made of water, no wonder I find it hard to stay still, constantly gliding along a boundary, unable to remember the days that my physicality remained despite my spurting words. Mom, you make me miss the moon every morning, and pray for sun every night.

My strength has always comforted you, even that day my eyes glazed over and an avalanche conquered my breathe. I see now you were protecting me. I don’t want your protection anymore.

Only privy to an impression? How could you be privy to anything else? You see my lips quiver, but no sound released- why, mom? I whisper universes into your ear, expecting planets to circle in your mind. But you never cared for astronomy, it’s all dark to you, endless like these hallways I can’t escape.

I worry about you, mom. Biology aside, you’re wasting into space. You’re turning into what you fear. Do you fear yourself, mom? Do you fear yourself like I always fucking feared you?

I love you, mom. And that’s what makes this so much harder, mom. I want to be the son you need, the son who sponges you in a milk-bath while birds linger during respite. The waves crashing, not tied to the moon but to you. It’s all tied to you, mom. It’s always been tied to you.

-your child

P.S. AMANINTHECLOUDSNOTATRACEINTHECROWD.

[cececreativewriting]

short story, “Stalker”, creative nonfiction

content warning: stalker

I could feel my veins start to part like the Red Sea when you walked into the room.

Suddenly on high alert, high demand, my fight or flight taking over my swaying consciousness. I am suddenly present --something I find so difficult to do-- when fear is involved.

High alert, I scavenge the room with my fluttering eyes, breathing a little faster, just a little faster, just a little faster. My fingers shake as I pretend to write something down, scribbles of nonsense that denote my feelings, or lack there of. Scribbles and scribbles, breathing just a little faster, just a little faster.

It’s not a fear many can understand.

You didn’t hurt me. You didn’t even try to fuck me, like almost all men do.

But you got in my head. And it was worse than any other possible circumstance.

Suddenly, you had control over me.

And it had been almost a year! A year, and you still have this intense control over my movement, my speech, every aspect that makes me unique, falling apart, breaking into pieces on the concrete.  

Heavy breathing taking over my movements, heart rising and falling to the fast paced breathes, the panic swimming throughout my blood. Heat begins to devour me.

I remember, my first week of college, barely nineteen years old and ready for adventure. The new students had to go to a special talk, where they discussed campus issues, like sexual assault. I was all too familiar with sexual assault. And I was aware that it was going to continue, no matter where I went.

But I was not familiar with having a stalker.

                  He came in

                                    to

                                              my blood

                                                       and made the hairs on my arm stand up

                                                                                   ;quiver at your sight.

It had been a year though! Besides the occasional running-into-you around campus, I felt… safe. Happy. Like I was finally free to be alone. In my own world, not just a product of yours.

But then I walked into the first day of a new semester. A classroom I have never been to.

Light danced in through the window, swirling across the shared table, stacked with papers and reusable water bottles.

I was laughing, talking to some peers I had not met before. Discussing poetry.

But you walked in, calmly, like there wasn’t a single thought in your head.

And you quietly, swiftly, gracefully, sat in the seat next to me.

I froze.

Trying to get back to reality was like trying to catch a fish in a frozen river.

I was fully frozen, besides my eye lids, which would not stop quivering. I felt my eyeballs shaking in my skin, I felt like the blood inside of me was moments away from spurting out, from jumping onto the table and spelling out my fear.

But I remained.

Still.

For two hours.

Sitting in class, talking and looking around, like there was nothing going on, while inside of me I could feel the chaos burning my bones to dust.

I refused to look at you. Even when you handed me a stack of papers, classic take-one-and-pass-it-down, I still refused to look at you, even if only a glance.

I grabbed the papers, utterly fearful that my clumsy hands would grasp onto yours in a moment of err.

Shaking hands and bitten finger nails, I grab the stack of papers, I wonder where the invisible boundary lies between my fear and my action.

Staring at your stubby fingers and nothing else, I see your nails are bitten like mine too.

And that’s the worst fucking part. Feeling sympathy— empathy, for the person who riles your fears and raises your awareness to unnatural, unfathomable extremes.

I never told anyone that I had a stalker.

As a women, when something compromising happens to you, the past has taught me that it is best to stay silent, to let it pass. I learned that speaking up only hurts myself, that men will constantly get away with whatever they want, and it is my job as a woman to understand this and learn how to be successful despite this.

And I know, I know that is not what colleges teach. They want us to speak up, they promise they do. But once you’ve seen how much worse it gets before it gets better, you will understand my hesitance.

Once you experience being a female in a man’s world, maybe you’ll understand.

Silence didn’t last. But mysilence did last. Perhaps the silence itself, coming from as confident a woman as myself, is what brought this to light in others’ eyes.

My lack of worry.

My brushing it off.

My begging, pleading, crying to my friends to please not do anything.

To please not do anything because I can’t handle another day in a small windowless room, with two 50 year old white male cops, digging into my soul, tricking me into saying things I didn’t mean, determined to determine that I am the problem. That men do what men do, and that I need to get with the program.

I couldn’t go to the cops again.

I couldn’t handle it. I couldn’t.

That room with no natural light,

but one single, yellow, florescent light

stinging my skin, sitting atop a round table,

lighting up their faces in unflattering ways,

emphasizing their adam’s apples and pores.

I couldn’t.

I refused.

I refused to be vulnerable again.

I refused to let these men in power take over my being,

I refused to be at their will.

And I don’t care if people think they were trying to help me, they weren’t, they were trying to do as much as they could to make sure I knew what a whore I was, to make sure I knew all of my mistakes, to make sure I knew that if I kept dressing how I dressed, and speaking out confidently how I always did,

that I would be the problem. That I would always be the problem.

That no matter what, because of my body in a bikini, because of my eye lashes coated with mascara, because of my high-pitched, airy laugh,

that I would always be the problem.

“Boys cant control themselves around a girl like you. You’re going to have to learn that.”

…

That was five years ago. But when my peers threatened to bring the fact that I had a… stalker… to the school, I froze, all the memories flowing back of the hours alone in that room, when they refused to let me speak to my mother, when they pulled up pictures I didn’t remember and forced me to remember, to remember, to remember, to tell them everything, in detail. But at the end of the day, did they help me? They told my mom I was the problem— being promiscuous, drinking at too young an age.

The thought of telling my college about this stalker only worsened the situation. Every day I feared that a friend of mine was going to tell a Dean.

And I don’t know if I blame them. I mean, he showed up in my dorm room, late at night, unannounced, waking me up by talking about the stars.

He wanted me at every moment at his disposure.

And I was. I let the fear take over, and I was a prey to him.

I felt gross, constantly. I wanted to hide, constantly.

But I couldn’t hide, because wherever I went, he would find me.

But I finally escaped him, with summer bringing a new semester along. I didn’t see him, I was safe, I was okay again. I didn’t have horrible memories of windowless rooms and hairy men looking down on me anymore.

Until he walked into my classroom, signed the sign-in list.

I realized I would have another semester of fear.

I realized I would have another semester of escaping.

I realized I would have another semester of trying to hide my fear from those around me,

of trying to put on a smile each day,

of making everyone believe I still was,

still am,

the confident, unwavering, amazing girl I was.

Maybe I still am. I am sure that girl exists in me somewhere. Somewhere.

But as a woman, I don’t have the privilege to be who I want to be.

To be who I am.

As a woman, my priority is my safety, and thus I bring my confidence down, and raise my alertness up.

As I wait for another Monday to come, each day the heat rising, knowing once again, I’ll be forced to stare at your stubby little fingers,

questioning if it’s wrong of me to have blocked you.

Questioning if your bitten nails make you worthy of some type of redemption. Questioning if, all along, I really was the problem.

[cececreativewriting]

excerpt from an almost finished novel

So, the next day after I get my family home and we all sleep a few more hours, I finally awake with my black makeup running down my face. I lick my fingers and slightly clean it up, but still end up with rubbed in black makeup around my eyes. I try to run my fingers through my hair but prove unsuccessful, so I just grab my pac of reds and walk downstairs in my underwear.

I enter the kitchen and light my cigarette, seeing my mother at the table with a bowl of cheerios.

“Hi mom” I say before exhaling.

She doesn’t reply, just blankly stares forward.

I sigh and my tank top strap falls down. I open the fridge and pour myself a glass of water, then sit at the table next to my mom, who is mumbling something to herself that I cant make out.

We sit there in silence for a few minutes as I smoke my cigarette. She doesn’t say anything, but I can read her face by her eyes widening, and I know she’s craving one. So I gently place one in her mouth and light it for her. Her eyes are now less wide- she seems more at peace.

We both sit there quietly, until my mother says,

“Do you know why we named you ‘Lileth’?”

“I don’t know why you guys did a lot of shit.” I answer, without making eye contact, without blinking, without thinking too deeply.

“You were born a day early. But you fucking wanted out. We had you late at night, and the first moment I held you, I knew you were gonna be a creature of the night. And that’s what Lileth means: demon of the night.” She says, monotoned.

I ponder, wondering why my mother would name me after a demon, but surprisingly I think it’s kinda cool that she got my name spot on.

“That’s cool, mom.” I say before grabbing her stoge, putting it out, and throwing it on the table.

I exit, and she remains frozen, staring out the window like she does everyday, watching to see if anything changes. And it never does.

Sammy barges into the kitchen while holding Jacob and pulls out all the food she can find.

My dad walks in, and he’s actually in a pretty good mood. But then,

“Frank, go clean up.” My mom demands.

“Go fuck yourself” Her loyal husband replies.

And before I know it, they’re screaming at each other.

“You’re a fucking junky, Frank!” My mom screams.

“Well you're a goddamn whore!” Her loyal husband screams back.

“Fuck you, Frank! Fuck! You!” My mom says, moments before my dad lunges forward at her, wringing her neck.

I run over, and scream at Sammy to take Jacob upstairs. She, for once, follows my instructions.

“Get off her, dad!” I scream as I try to pull him back, which ends in me getting backhanded, leaving a huge purple mark on my cheek.

My dad finally lets go, and my mom gasps for air. I think he kinda gets off to abusing women.

“You two need to figure your shit out. Me, Scotty, and Sammy had to go through this shit, but you’re NOT raising my little brother in this fucking lunatic household. Work your shit out!” I scream before barging out, slamming the big red door behind me. I look up to the window and see Sammy wave while holding Jacob. Her eyes are lifeless.

I’m fucking pissed off right now, so I walk really vastly and have a sour look on my face. I blast Nirvana and walk to the pace. Once I get into the more urban area, gross guys in car yell obscene shit out the window at me, and I flip them off, calling them fat ass mother fuckers.

I make my way to Joyce Drive, and sprint down the narrow road. I finally get to the end which at the top of a huge cliff looking over the ocean. Theres a gate and i climb over it. I sit down on the dirt, put my head in my hands, and just fucking bawl my eyes out. Seriously, I fucking scream as loud as my lungs allow, and let myself completely free all of my tears. I cry for a good hour or so, scream, and slap myself in the face a few times. I call myself a stupid and pathetic and scratch my arms until they bleed. I deserve it.

Once I finally stop crying, I pull out a stoge and light it. Tears are still slowly rolling down my face, when I suddenly gasp as someone sits next to me. I look over, and it’s the same guy from the other day when I was in that person’s shitty garden smoking. I wonder who the fuck this boy is and how he keeps finding me, and why he cares about me- but I just fucking feel like he does. He doesn’t say anything, just looks Ito my red and purple, swollen eyes. He raises his head and I cry a little more. I really try not to, but at this point I just can’t hold back the tears, and I end up balling again. He sits there silently for a few minutes, then puts his arm around me, and I cry into his chest for a while. Once I stop my second crying round, I sniffle,

“Who are you?”

He looks at me and takes a drag, then hands me the cigarette, and I take a few drags between panicked breathes. I end up placing my head in his lap, and lay down looking up at the bright sun. I’m wearing a sundress which is kinda gross because I’m sitting on dirt.

I don't know how long we sat there for. Maybe a minute, maybe an hour. We don't speak- we’re in utter unison silence. The sun is hot and burns my pale skin, but I let it- I want to feel something… anything. He eventually runs his fingers through my hair, and I’m reminded of my childhood, being in my mom’s lap while she does the same to my hair. I question my sanity a few times, and I replay all the horrible things I’ve done through my mind over and over and over. But the sun cleanses me, and I feel the negativity begin to fade away, as my eyes slowly shut and I fall into a deep slumber.

When I wake up, he’s gone.

[cececreativewriting]

very short story

His stomach torn apart, the flesh rolls form like a kid on a hill. The side of his lung is shown and it is darker than the midnight sky in a small city. Dark, but full of specs of light. But, not everyone can see this light. I ponder if it is only I who can see this light. He loved his cigarettes. Once, he traded his whole loaf of bread for 17 cigarettes. Nobody could ever imagine someone willing to give up bread. After weeks, they sew him up and he eventually wakes up, both terrified and confused. He looks around and sees me; a river of tears flow down my cheek as his pale face places his lifeless eyes into mine. his lungs are darker than the sky, and He is paler than the moon. He stares into my eyes and it is as if I'm transparent, he can see straight through me. "War does not make peace," he trembles, his voice crackling and his lips breaking apart. He pulls off his clothes, and looks at his stapled, sewn up stomach. The river outside splashes and the rain hits harder against the windowpane. His stomach is brown, crusty blood in each staple like a zipper stuck on a jacket. He blinks, and it feels as if his eyes are closed for eternity, though it is only a second. His hands fall numb, and he drops his head. His cracked lips open, and his yellow teeth show. He closes his veiny eyes, and slowly, then all at once, he dies. And in that moment, so did I.

[cececreativewriting]

short story, “grey eyes”

Stern, gray eyes stared at him. A disappointed look from his mother, an angry, terrifying look from his father. The principal began to speak by continually explaining what he has done wrong. He looks down at his dirty hands and picks the dirt out from under his finger nails. His cuticles are cut open and traces of crusty blood surround around the openings. He looks up at the principal and his face almost seems as if the force of gravity is stronger at pulling it down. He opens his mouth to say something, then he quickly closes it, knowing that it won't matter what he says. Because it never does matter what he says, right? The principal dismisses him and his parents, and his shoulders slouch more than usual. He walks slowly with his head staring at his shoes, and his dad pushes him ahead while murmuring something. He doesn't look back because he knows if he looks into his fathers eyes, his dad will just be reminded of what a screw up he is. They get home, and he is sent to his room. His phone and computer and video games and everything away. His father grabs his favorite book and throws it in the fire. His eyes twitch and he runs to his room. His mom knocks on his door and walks in. She looks him in the eyes and starts to cry. She wishes she could be a better mother, but she knows it is far too late to try now. He pulls out a piece of paper and starts to write. His hands trembling, he signs his name. He looks in the mirror at his black and blue eyes. He takes off his shirt and sees the blood stains. He pulls up his pants- they're always too loose. He looks outside his window and sees children playing. He watches at the bright sky and the happy faces. He sees teenagers walking and couples holding hands. He begins to have a slight smile, but then sees himself in the reflection of the window and notices his puffy eyes. The scleras of his eyes are red in every way possible. From the same way he got his scars, from the same way he got suspended, and from the reaction he shows happening from all of this. He looks at his bloody arms and returns to his desk with the paper. He reads over what he wrote and his arms start to bleed again. He snorts in more than one way, and he feels numb. Finally, he goes to his closet and pulls out his favorite hoodie. He pulls in over his scarred, bare chest. He gets on his knees and reaches behind the clutter of junk all teenagers have in their closets, and pulls something out. He returns to the piece of paper and writes one last thing. Then, he pulls the trigger. His teeth are splatted all over the ground. A conglomeration of blood flows across the room. His nails that are dirty and bitten are no longer trembling. He reached his peace. He finally reaches his peace.

[cececreativewriting]

Excerpt from a novel I may never finish

How can one reflect on a time that was so beautiful, but so, so destructive? This is a difficult task, but to reflect on this time is to have introspection. Perhaps I can finally be at ease with my life after I come to terms with the time of my life that engrossed so much happiness, but so much sadness.

To preface, I’d like to say, I am not romanticizing any events that occurred during this period. I am simply stating what happened, it’s a lesson for myself, I guess.

But, it all started with the color blue.

SKY

I wasn’t used to a blue sky. I was used to a dark, grey sky. My whole life, I grew up surrounded by grey. My father’s hair, my mother’s eyes, my view of life- everything came in grey. There were no absolutes, only indefinites. I grew up in Washington, where it rained frequently, and most of the people were depressed. I never saw things for how they were, or for how I should have seen them, I saw things as simply existing, flowing like an omnipresent river.

That’s why the new flash of blue initially frightened me.

But, what begins as scary can some times result in beauty.

However, this was not the case.

The first time I saw the blue sky was right when I woke up. I was seventeen, and moving from Washington to Florida because my parents got a divorce, and my mom felt that a move would “help” us.

I still remember waking up, looking into my mother’s dull eyes, and opening the window of the airplane to reveal a sky of pure and beautiful strokes of blue. It was magnificent but unusual, and it made me a bit uneasy at first.

My eyes grew wide as I looked out the window and was introduced to color for the first time in my life.

We finally landed, and with a fake, dim smile, I grabbed our bags and waited in line for a taxi while my mother smoked and flirted with some TSA guy.

I was shocked by the amount of action going on. I knew Miami was a big city, but it was something I had never seen before, and it blew me away.

The taxi pulled up to a run-down, depressing apartment complex. The blue paint was chipping off the walls, but I tried to stay positive, despite the flash of depression that embraced my body.

“Look!” My mom said as she finally opened the door, after struggling with the key for about two minutes.

I walked inside and dropped the bags. It was a quaint apartment, unlike my old, large house. We were a block away from the beach, but I had no interest in the beach.

I did not want to upset my mother, so I quickly smiled at her as she reached in her purse for another cigarette.

“Mom, really? In the house?” I said, upset that we had moved in less than a minute ago, but she was already tainting our new home with smoke.

“Hey, I pay the bills.” She replied as she winked and lit her cigarette, inhaled, and exhaled a large puff of smoke into the atmosphere.

I looked around the apartment. It was a light blue color, and the walls were barely standing. The kitchen was small, and it was right next to the living room. There were two bedrooms, one of which had a balcony with a beautiful view of the beach. However, I chose the room with only a small window, since my eyes were immune to the bright light I would soon grow so fond of.

I opened one of my bags and took out an old Bobby Vinton hoodie that my father had given me for my 16th birthday.

I sat in the corner, and pulled out The Catcher in the Rye, and began reading it for the 12th time.

Eventually, I grew tired, so I set the book down and got up to see what my mother was up to.

She was passed out on the ground, dead asleep, and our new home already wreaked of booze and smoke.

I returned to my empty room, lied down, and cried.

I cried for what felt like years until finally exhausting myself, and falling asleep.

I was woken up early by the bright sun peaking through my tiny window. I refused to open my eyes, in fear of my reality, but I eventually gave in, exposing myself to the light, and to my new life.

I got up and went through my bags to find my toothbrush and toothpaste. I smeared on a thick layer of toothpaste and I watch the bristols fray out and I brushed my teeth.

I looked in the mirror of my gross bathroom at my pale face. I immediately knew I would not fit in here. My green eyes looked bright due to the sun peering through the shower window. I closed my eyes and sighed, then I spit into the already dirty sink, and realized that I would have to start my new life here, today.

I did not know what the teenagers did here, and I kinda wish I didn’t find out.

I went back to my bags and pulled out my clothes. I hung them up in my new closet, and I smiled once they were all color-coded.

It was hot as hell, so I put on an orange bikini under my sundress. I layered on sunscreen, knowing that my pale skin could not handle the harsh sun.

I walked into the living room, and to my surprise, my mom was awake.

“Hi, sweetie!” She said happily.

I smiled at her and told her that I was gonna go find somewhere to get coffee and a bagel. She came close to me, grabbed my face, and kissed my forehead.

“This will be good for us, I promise.”

That was the first time my mother ever lied to me.

[cececreativewriting]

Riding Horses to the Moon

Content warning: sexually explicit situations, drug use, mental illness

“Edrei!”

My mother’s voice amplifies in my ears like the vibrations of a heartbeat on a cheap pillow. My eyes, now wide open, settle to the bright sun shining through my dusty window. I look around to notice I am all alone in the room, and suddenly I feel the urge to squirm.

Getting up, I touch my toes to the cold wooden floor and shiver a moment before grabbing a soft, pink gown to put on. I know Father really likes this dress.

Looking in the mirror, the bright light reflects against my pale skin, and I notice each crevice, each line, each mark of impurity. I drag along the perimeter of the mirror and let the dust plague my fingertips.

I brush out my blonde locks and watch as they curl up like a pig’s tail when I let go. I think about how lucky I am that of all the moms here, I got my mother, the one with beautiful, long, thick hair. Many of my sisters aren’t lucky enough to have this, and some of them have to struggle with ratted, tangled hair.

I tiptoe downstairs to find my mother wiping sweat off her furrowed brow. She wears a long, baby blue silk gown with lace trimmings, and I wonder if I will ever be as beautiful and elegant as she.

She is sweeping to the sound of her hums, and I watch for a moment, unable to stifle a grin from emerging on my face. Sunday mornings always make me appreciate this existence because it is the only time you really see everyone at their worst while simultaneously at their best. Sunday is the day to fix everything you messed up in the previous week, to repent, to begin the new week with a better outlook.

Sunday is also the day we have Adoration. Father call’s Sunday, “Dad’s Day”, and each week, we all come together during the evening to exist as a family, in harmony and happiness.

Adoration has made me who I am, which is why I am a bit anxious. Next week, I will be eighteen, which means I will enter the outside world. Father says that he wants all of his children to experience the outsiders so that we can appreciate all he sacrifices for us when we come back. But, not many who leave return. I can’t imagine not returning, I mean, where would all my sisters and moms be without him?

Mother kisses my forehead and I look up at her. She squeezes my puffy cheeks and I laugh a little.

“Edrei,” she begins, her eyes fluttering away, focusing on nothing in particular, “Maria needs some help with the kids.”

I spin around in my dress, letting it puff out and watching my feet touch the kitchen floor.

Maria just gave birth to twins. Father has never had a pair of twins before, so this is obviously a huge and exciting event for the whole family.  

I enjoy living in peace with my family, apart from the outside world. I am safe here, I don’t face the normal struggles of high school drama and boys like I’ve seen during ‘Television Time’ or heard of from Father’s tales. During ‘Television Time’, Father brings a special box out, and we all gather around and watch as Father shows us what life is like on the outside world, with ‘Puppets’, these sock-like creatures that only have consciousness when on Father’s hands. He is powerful like that, giving life to all. Father educates us, and Father makes sure we steer clear of boys until we are old enough to understand. “Boys don’t love you”, Father says, “Boys will never love you. Only I will love you.”

We have a good amount of land, I am not really sure how to put it in units that outside people would understand, as Father taught us his own, better system of measurement. It is large enough that to get to certain spots, we must ride horses.

The horses roam free here, besides during times we need a ride. Father thinks horses are powerful. He does not want to tame them, he wants them to exist with us. It’s mutually beneficial, we’re equal to the horses, really.

All mothers are moms to all the children on the commune, and are referred to as ‘mom’, but personal mothers are referred to as ‘mother’. Each mom gets her own little hut, where she raises her personal children. Each mother has different numbers of kids, depending on how many Father deems she should have. Mother had me and Channing, my older sister, who is about 21 now.

Channing left the commune a few years ago, and we have not heard from her since. Channing was my best friend, truly. At night, when the wind would whisper fear into my ear, she would yell, scaring the breeze another day. When the days were dark, she would hold my hand, remind me that light will come again. She always knew just what to say, she always knew just when to say it.

Perhaps Channing and I were so close because she claimed to be a male. Father is the only male I have interacted with before, so having my sister claim to be a male was the closest I had to understanding the male mind outside of Father. Channing cut her hair short, actively upsetting Father. I was confused why Channing was not ‘Freed’ as a baby, like all other males born into the family, and she said it is because she is male in a female body. I do not understand what that means to this day, but I wanted to support my sister. Father was always unhappy with Channing’s behavior. Channing left about three years ago, and I have not heard anything regarding her since.

Father says that he loves all of his children equally, but I think he knows I’m special. He always tells me I’m special, that I’m the prettiest of all his little girls, that I look just like my mother did when he met her.

Father will be 64 years old this year. I wonder if his wisdom has grown with his age, or if he has always been this knowledgeable.

Sometimes, my sisters and I talk about the history of the family, even though we are strictly prohibited to do so. Whispering with eagle eyes, we talk about the first moms that Father discovered.

Rumor has it that Father found two 13-year-old girls, best friends Sharron and Stylone, who ran away from home together. Father found these girls on the street, they were having sex with multiple men to pay for ‘Drugs.’ Father taught these girls the value of love and family, these were the first people he introduced to Adoration. Together, the three had 11 children, 7 surviving past infancy. Only three of these kids are still here today, and nobody, not even themselves, know if their mother is Sharron or Stylone. Stylone died before I can remember her, but Sharron is still here. She doesn’t leave her hut very much, and neither do the three kids, who are even older than my mother. I do not know if they have left and come back, or if they have never left.

Father has saved many women from ‘Drugs Abuse’ and ‘Dependency.’ Father’s mission is to teach women all around the world that the outside world is full of disappointments. But, life with our beautiful family, and through expressing your love and devotion to Father, all will be okay. Outside world ‘Drugs’ are dangerous, impure. In our community, everything is pure, coming from our family and Father, you never have to fear what you are taking, as Father would never want to hurt any of us. I would trust him if he stuck a needle in my blue veins.

Outside, I can feel the sun on my skin, darkening the pigment as I roam the fields. I like the feeling of the grass between my toes, the moisture of the dirt taking over my senses.

I can’t help but squint my eyes because the sun is so bright. I look out at the field and see the horses running, playing. I want to join them.

I make my way to Maria’s hut, and each step makes the ground breath harder. My eyes widen as the grass opens and closes, breathing in the air as I soak in the light.

“Good morning, Edrei!” I hear out of the corner of my left ear.

I quickly turn my head and notice one of my sisters, Valery. She is on a horse, her black hair pulled back into two braids, her dark under-eye circles overtaking her soul.

I smile at her, “Excited for Adoration tonight?” I ask, squeezing grass between my sweaty toes.

“Oh yeah!” She yelps while trying to calm down the horse, “I just sewed the most beautiful yellow dress. I think Father will love it, I do.”

She smiles, and I notice the gap between her two front teeth, which seems to grow in size each time I see her, like an abyss or a lake that’s deeper than you believe.

“I can’t wait to see it, and I hope Father enjoys!” I say as I walk off, waving.

I get to Maria’s hut and knock on the front door, though it is half open.

“Edrei, is that you, sweetie?” I hear through commotion.

I step inside, “Yes it’s me, mom!” I am immediately engulfed by the smells of childhood- barf, beets, and oatmeal.

As I reach the room Maria is in, she quickly hands me Ella, one of the recent twins. Ella has twiggy blonde hair that is greasy to the touch. Maria asks me to clean her up and get her ready for Adoration, so of course, I comply. I would never want one of my sisters to look a mess for Adoration, and Maria is not the best at keeping her children properly up to Father’s standard.

I brush out Ella’s hair lightly, trying not to hurt her tender head. I put her in a purple dress, which Father taught me is the color of royalty.

Ella and I sit out front of Maria’s hut, playing in the grass. She crawls around and I chase her, letting her get away easily.

I hold her to my chest and I cannot wait to be a mother myself. I wonder how many children I will be told to have.

As the day passes, the shadows on the mountains change shapes, and the clouds begin to swirl. The sun is completely still, standing there, watching me, plotting its move. I have always felt that the light follows me, but I have no proof. Father says he thinks I’m onto something.

As Ella and I continue to lounge around outside, a couple of sisters stop by. Ava, age 12, Claire, age 22, and Sabrina, age 7, are walking by, dressed beautifully for Adoration.

When Claire turned eighteen, she left for about seven months, returning at a much higher weight and lower mentality. She never told anyone what happened. She never even told me if she saw Channing.

Ava, Ella, and Sabrina are running around, Ella in Ava’s arms, Sabrina dragging along behind them. I look around and see that the grass is breathing at a much calmer rate than before. The clouds are calmer too, like the sea before the moon got involved, swaying the ocean from shore to shore.

As Claire and I stare at the clouds and dream of riding horses to the moon, suddenly I speak, though I try to hold my tongue.

“What, uh, what was it like when you left?”

I don’t know why I say these words, I hate to break Father’s rules, but they exit my lips like a fish escaping someone’s underwater grasp.

Claire’s face is like a light switch, quickly going from a bright smile to a blank stare, from at-ease-with-the-evening to eyes-dull-but-wide.

She looks around, eyeing our surroundings. She sighs, “Next week, right?”

I nod.

“It’s going to be… weird.” Her bottom lip hangs fat and low beneath her crooked teeth. I see it vibrate, but she does not speak.

We sit in unison silence, the sun slowly fading the sky to a swirl of pink and orange shapes.

“It’s different. We’ve been raised to believe in one truth, well-” She cuts herself off, and grows much quieter, “There is more than one truth.”

I see her bottom lip linger again, shaking like she wants to speak.

“What do you mean?” I ask, “How can there be another truth?” Again, the words leave as though my body forces them out, not my mind, “That’s impossible. You know this is the way to live, Father has tested it multiple times, you know this.” I become aware that I sound frantic, and I don’t mean to cast judgement upon her, I just truly don’t know what she means, how can there be more than one truth? Doesn’t that defeat the point of having a truth?

Claire looks me deep in the eyes and begs me to not say anything, especially to Father. She tells me that though she learned ‘other truths’, she came back, she believes in the truth of the family.

I promise her I won’t tell anyone, but as she is walking away I grab her hand, “Did you-” my words stumble over themselves, “Did- did you see Channing?” I ask, my eyes ample with hope, the blues feeling brighter than before.

She looks at me and her mouth falls flat before she walks off.

The sun is almost down, and the colors grow deeper, as though paint is splattered and mixed across the sky, each stroke texturizing my existence.

I have to run home to change for Adoration, so I tell Maria I will see her there, handing Ella back into her mother’s delicate arms. To my surprise, Maria cleaned up the other children nicely, and even had time to prepare for Adoration with a Poppy.

I rarely take Poppy’s, as I can only when I am well prepared and finished with my day’s work. Poppy’s are these vibrant colored items of all shapes and sizes. Swallowing one makes colors seem brighter, music sound better, and makes everything to the physical touch feel absolutely amazing. To describe the feeling, imagine how the sun radiates heat. Well, it feels the opposite of that, as though you are soaking in the energy, warmth, anticipation. All you want to do is dance, sing, love. It is only positivity.

Father says Poppy’s are either to be taken alone, or promptly two hours before Adoration. Poppy’s make the experience of Adoration a bit different, though of course, every time is different in its own regard. But, Poppy’s can either intensify the positives or exacerbate the negatives of Adoration. And this effect can be extreme.

I change into Father’s favorite red satin slip, and look at myself in the mirror, letting my hands roam from my neck, to my chest, down to my waist, where I slowly graze my skin with my nails, feeling goosebumps immerge on my inner thighs.

I pull my hair back and look again in the mirror, practicing my smile and greetings for the night. I think about if Father truly thinks I am the most special. I mean, out of all his children, is it wrong of me to think I truly could be his favorite? The thoughts keep coming, and though I try to digress, they eat me away. I try to shake the ever-flowing thoughts, and focus on Adoration. I know that Adoration will remind me that Father thinks I am special, and that it is not important to be his number one, but rather to experience the life he has given us.

Mother and I walk to Adoration, since it is a nice summer evening and Father just invented a special spray to keep away the insects. He is so smart, I am so lucky to be a product of his passion.

My mother’s plump pink lips glisten in the evening glow as she purses.

“My sweet Edrei. It just occurred to me that this is our last Adoration together for a long time.”

Her cheeks falling and eyes looking away, she attempts a smile.

“Mother,” I give her a hug, “Let’s enjoy the time we have together, now.”

She nods, wiping a single tear. I can’t help but listen to my own advice, for thinking about the future can drive one to madness.

As we walk, mother’s favorite horse trots by, slowing to her whistle. She pets the horse roughly, but the horse enjoys it. She plants a kiss below its eye.

We arrive at Adoration and say our hellos to all of my moms/mother’s sisters, and all of my sisters/mother’s children. Mother makes her way to the other moms around her age range while I go more in the crowd. Everywhere I look, my sisters run around, my moms converse about Father’s latest discoveries. Though I try to fight, the thoughts return, and I can’t help but notice how it’s beautiful but it’s horrible, it’s revolting but I never want to leave.

The thing about the family is, a good amount of people here are truly practicing love, and I believe that everybodyhere truly attempts to practice love, but their minds get in the way. Father says Adoration is to clear this mind puzzle, to remind everyone why we are here, to be together happily with Father, but if anyone here is anything like me- and considering we all come from the same ‘dad’ I am assuming we are- Adoration sometimes just makes the mind issues even more confusing. I mean, of course it can help solve so many mind problems, but it can also make other ones worse.

And one of the biggest issues I have noticed is the jealousy amongst everyone to win Father’s utmost love. He claims that we all have it, and we all believe him, but everyone wants to be Father’s number one, his prodigy, his special one.

My family is willing to do whatever it takes to be Father’s best. Including me. I can’t help it, I want to practice love and be equal amongst my family, but I crave being Father’s favorite, being his number one.

I run into one of my sisters, Caroline, who is seventeen, but looks maybe fourteen. We hug, I notice she smells like goat cheese, and I question if I should say anything, then decide I better not. She smiles largely at me and speaks in a high pitch,

“Wow, you’re leaving next week!”

I sigh and look at my feet, bare in the dirt like everyone else. I shrug my shoulders but don’t say anything. Caroline continues,

“You must be so excited! You must have the longest list of things you want to do!”

I open my mouth but let it sit still for a moment before speaking, “Honestly, I don’t really have much I want to do. I’ve been so wrapped up, I guess I haven’t really thought about the outside world, I’ve just been enjoying my time here.”

Caroline nods and blinks quickly, “Wait, so this is your last Adoration!”

A deep pit knots itself in my stomach, “You’re right.”

I want the conversation to end, but Caroline continues,

“If you don’t mind me asking,” she looks around and lowers the volume of her voice, “How do you always get Father to pick you as one of the firsts for ‘Dad Time’ during Adoration? And how do you get him to pick you every time? I only get chosen every couple Adorations!”

I look at Caroline’s wide thighs, then notice how her dress is bunched oddly at her stomach, and make my way up to her face, where freckles complement her white eyelashes and ill colored hair. I smile at her and shrug.

Finally, the times comes for us to all take our seats on the ground for Father’s arrival. I sit next to Valery, Ava, and one of the babies, Sarah. She sits in my lap and holds my thumb- it takes all of her fingers to wrap around one of mine.

The crowd grows silent as Father walks to the front, smiling at us all. I swear he looks right into my eyes and winks, even though nobody believes me.

“My children, my lovers,” Father’s voice soothes a part of me that I don’t understand, but still desire to be appeased.

“Adoration, ‘Dad’s Day’, Sunday, my favorite day of the week. The day where we all come together, as the beautiful, indestructible, loving, strong family we are,” -some of the moms wipe tears from under their swollen eyes- “a day where I get to show each and every one of you just how much I love you.”

Father pulls out a sheet that has an image of colorful swirls printed on it. He passes it down. Each family member over the age of 10 rips off one tab, then passes the sheet to the next. Those between the ages of 3 and 9 take half a tab, while anyone under 3 takes only one fourth. Father says too much can hurt the developing brain.

When the sheet reaches me, I rip off my tab and look at it on my finger tip. How can something so small as to fit on my pinky prove to be so powerful? I place the tab on my tongue, then let my wet finger touch my lips and close my eyes, excited for the journey I am about to take.

The first 45 minutes are always difficult, especially if Father chooses you for ‘Dad Time’ during this period. We usually sit around and create music or art during this.

Though it feels like forever, the time does eventually pass, and Adoration can commence. The world becomes a different place, with each single fissure introducing a million different possibilities. Everywhere you look, everything becomes something else, reminds you of something important, teaches you some type of lesson. Your mind zooms in and out of your current situation and shows you the importance of balance, of structure, it shows you the way you’re supposed to live.

Father has us chant for certain hours of Adoration, as well as consistently leaving a tape on of the chant. It goes, “Father loves you, he won’t hurt you, Father loves you, it’s only him”. This is heard 100% of the duration of Adoration. There are images of Father put up, with statements under his smiling face stating his love for all of us.

And, of course, there is ‘Dad Time’. ‘Dad Time’ is when Father commits thirty minutes to one single family member to show her his love. Everyone wants to get chosen, and each Adoration, he usually goes through about fifteen family members. I am almost always chosen, and have been since the day I turned thirteen. Father very rarely takes anyone under thirteen to ‘Dad Time’, but he does want to show younger family members his love sometimes too, so he does occasionally. I don’t think he has taken anyone under three, though.

As the time passes, my mind continues to deconstruct in ways I can never put to words. My essence falls, my sense of reality becomes immersed in an acidic pool of mixed senses.

I feel myself melt deeper and deeper into myself, like I am shrinking in my own skin, and suddenly I cannot feel the difference between the dirt and grass between my toes.

I feel blissful, and my attention is suddenly drawn to the horses. They roam without fear, without ego, without the senses I so despise. I use my hands to push myself up from the ground and start to walk towards the horses, to run with them, but am promptly stopped by Elizabeth, one of my moms, who tells me that it is my turn for ‘Dad Time’.

Butterflies dance around the inside of my stomach, and each time a wing hits my lining, I don’t know if I am excited or nervous.

I make my way to Father’s hut. I knock three times, as I should, and slowly open the bright red door.

“Hello Father,” I say, going in for a big hug.

“Edrei!” My father exclaims, “My beautiful, special girl. How is your Adoration journey going today?” He turns around in his chair slowly, as he cannot move swiftly do to his on-growing age.

“Very lovely, Father, I am really experiencing the realms,” I look at his face, and it begins to age more than it already is. He ages beyond humanly possible, each second adding another ten years to his face.

“I am so happy for you,” Father exclaims, “My dear Edrei, I’m sure you know this is last Adoration for a while, and I want you to enjoy it, so I won’t keep you too long.”

I sit on the bed, on top of the blue wool blanket, “You could never keep me too long, Father.”

And when I say that, it comes out without force, naturally, as though I am a robot programmed to speak those exact words. I don’t even think about the words as the exit my brain, I simply feel them disperse.

“Edrei, I am a loving man, as you know. I want all of my children to experience the outside world for themselves. I want them to know what’s out there. But, I do this so they understand why I have provided this secure life for them,” He speaks lightly, like feathers drip from his tongue, “That being said, you must promise to never release any information about the family- what we do, where we are- never, no matter what. The community is sacred, and the outside world does not understand sacristy.”

As he speaks, I watch his wrinkles turn to geometric shapes, and it is hard to focus on his speech while he continues, “Edrei, this is always the hardest thing I ever have to say to my beautiful children, but if you release any information to the outside world, you will be ‘Freed’ by means of betrayal.”

I try not to gasp, but I am shocked that Father would ever go that far. He always states that he wants his daughters to experience life before they are ‘Freed’, and I cannot imagine him cutting this short for anyone he creates (besides a male).

“Edrei, baby, you know how much I love you.” He grabs my hands and they shake, appearing miniature in his, “That’s why you must understand that this hurts me more than it hurts you. You could never imagine the pain of having one of your own children be ‘Freed.’ There is nothing more painful.”

I want to ask Father why he would Free his own children if there is nothing more painful.

“Now, my beautiful, beautiful Edrei,” Father grins at me and lifts up my chin, “Let’s get to it, time is running out.”

I am timid and my mind is racing. I am still melting into myself, my mind acting as putty, so taking in all this information is a lot. I feel words against my body, I hear colors in my mind.

Nonetheless, Father undresses me and lays me down on the bed. I quiver when he touches my right thigh and grazes my hipbone.

Just as Father removes his pants and begins to show me his love, I am struck with a sudden, terrifying question, did Father Free Channing?

“Father,” I say as he moans, pulling me closer, my body miniscule next to his, “Father!”

He takes my pleads as pleasure.

“Father, Channing is still out there, right?” The words exit between Father’s thrusts. The thoughts returning at a much more intense rate, and I feel that if I do not speak these thoughts I will implode.

“I’m almost done baby,” He says out of breath. I sigh and let him continue until he is pleased, as my head turns over and stares out the window at the horses.