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View Finder Term 3

(1)

she stands, waiting for her person to come. She wore her favourite pants today; they are maroon and swish softly against her thighs as her ambitious legs move freely in them. She taps her foot on the concrete pavement and stretches out her legs on the staircase leading to their apartment.

(2)

She stares at the ground beneath her feet and notice the rough composition of rock. She wonders, if she embarrassed herself today, if she can rely on this ground to swallow her whole. She wonders if it’ll forgive her shadows for being extra dark if something goes wrong tonight.

(3)

She painted her face pretty today. She wanted to look pretty, wanted to show that she wore lipstick for them, wanted to scream out that it smelled of cherries and probably tasted like them too, and suggest that they have a taste. She wanted to suggest a kiss they would not forget.

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Term 3 Journal Entries 3: you prick my skin and blame the bleeding on its thinness

you prick my skin and blame the bleeding on its thinness

i need to grow thick skin, you say, it needs more fibre, more carbs, more calcium or whatever you read in an unreliable article,

so you grease me up with my own roasted flesh.

hold onto every hair follicle you have ‘cause if i see even one on the floor i’ll get crossed.

no, those aren’t mine

mine are short and dyed black to hide that i’m old enough to have a daughter who hates me,

and a son who doesn’t speak to me.

and today’s mother’s day

and the only bouquet i’ve gotten is the collection of your fallen hairs in my rubber gloves:

the flowering of your frustration,

the heat of your aggravation reaching to your scalp,

but it doesn’t reach me because i dismiss that shit

with good posture and positivity

and my pretty smile, everyone says that it’s so pretty.

you should try it too, you have such a lovely smile,

and when you do your makeup in a certain way you can be so pretty.

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Term 3 Journal Entries 2: The Random Plot Generator

“So we’re going to use the random plot generator and use that as a prompt, sound good?”

The teacher clicks through the options for the situation.

A pregnancy is announced.

A long-lost family member visits. The options flicker past the screen, each one not being enough to satisfy the teacher, just like her students.

Someone is being bullied. It was for less than a second that the words passed by, but in Nelly’s eyes, the words seem to flash before them. Although the teacher decided against it, Nelly could not help but think that she saw her hesitating for half a second before flipping to a different option. She must know. Everyone must know. There was no way of them knowing of course, logically: The storm of texts she had received, each more difficult to read than the other, attacking her habits, her posture, the way she talked, how she wanted attention, how she dared to want to be loved and expected it. How she was “annoying”.

However, it was like it had been announced to the whole class; as if the random plot generator was a seer, who knew, just knew, what happened to Nelly merely yesterday.

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Term 3 Journal Entries 1: when I was with him/when i’m with her

still, it wasn’t uncommon for me to feel nervous around people

so what’s more peculiar, my heart going bump bump bump when I was with him

bumping up these so-called feelings I could’ve had

or my heart beating in the steadiest motion it’s ever been around her

average rate, the only average I feel good in

when I talked to him my voice elevated

I twirled my front hair not (necessarily) to flirt, but to have something

to hold on

to any grammar rules left in my head

as I tried to form sentences, interesting ones with a voice that shivered and shook

when I talk to her, my voice is deeper and mellow.

mellow, that was the whimsical word she used

to say that my voice was calming and it gave her innocent sensations

the kind you feel when you listen to those songs with earbuds on

at night to try and fall asleep

or when you talk to strangers with thin line smiles

when I was with him

I asked how he was and stared at him with disbelief

because his answer was always “good”

when he asked me how I was,

I told him about every thought meditating couldn’t chase away

and he replied with silence.

when I’m with her

and she asks me how I am

I can say “good” or “okay”

or the confused “I think so”

and then we talk about her day

how she’s frustrated and nervous

and she apologizes for her anxious ramble

and I say it’s okay

and I mean it

because I know that’s what I wanted to hear from him

when I was with him we danced

to upbeat songs in fountains

and yelled at each other for not knowing each other’s legends

and I promised to watch his favourite movie when I got home

(so I can talk to him about it)

when I’m with her we lay on the grass

of the park in her childhood memories

we let the playlist roll on for hours

admiring how the songs blend and mix with our conversations

my playlist is called conditioner

it smells of macadamia oil and her soft curls

and my skin tingles and every muscle in my body melts

from any accidental touch

when I was with him

I begged for his hoodies and got sad when I’m not as small in them as I wanted to be

we cuddled and I longed to be the little spoon

but my shoulders drilled into his arms

when I’m with her

I wear my own oversized jumpers and jackets

that I bought proudly in the men’s section

not withering to the employee’s and my friend’s advice

and they’re raggedy and soft from the rough sheets of her bed

to meet him I wore my subtly sweet perfume

only two spritz so no one’s nose crinkles

when he buried his nose in my neck to breathe it in,

I believed that he’s breathing me in, and smiled

thinking it was worth spending the money I got on my last birthday

to meet her, I shower

just shower

but she says she likes my scent

my purple shower gel that smells of citrus and plum

bergamot in my tea

and the air freshener in my room I use to chase away the smell of my dinner

It’s curious

how I can love both of them

but with her, I can love both of us

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Free Assignment: Starbucks Cup by Shelly Bahng

Themes: lack of acceptance and freedom, and motion.

Abel comes into the classroom with a Starbucks cup in his hand, ten minutes late. Ms. Dover glares at him as he passes the door with each leg, clad in loose navy denim, heavily landing on the floor. The boy’s dark curly hair is toppled atop his head, shiny in a way that isn’t from any product.

“Oh, you had time to get coffee but couldn’t make it to class on time?” She points at the cup with the end of her green pen, as the edge of her tranquil pink lips points at the fluorescent lights of the classroom ceiling. Her grin indicates that she is feeling proud, and a couple of students chuckle soundly in their stiff plastic stools. His embarrassment is served as the only source of entertainment in the dull Tuesday morning.

Abel looks mortified, but his body is too drained for blood to rush to his cheeks and make them blush. Instead, his eyes droop and barely widen as much as he can lift his eyelids. There is a deep sigh in his throat dying to release itself, but he manages to hold it in. The boy with a rough stubble on the lower half of his face picks up pieces of himself from the floor, then replies.

“Sorry, I just really needed coffee after the sleep I got last night.” He says nonchalantly without a smile. He’s too tired to care, or tired of caring; at least that’s what he’s trying to convince Ms. Dover, his peers, and himself.

He calmly walks to his seat. He sits down as he puts his backpack on the desk with an exhausted thump. In the row in front of Abel, his classmate has a thermos with steam coming out of it. The steam surrounds the classmate, making his vicinity smell of freshly brewed coffee. He holds up the thermos with his veiny bicep, puts the rim on his lips and drinks out of it. He must have brought it from home, Abel thinks, he didn’t have to run to the nearest coffeeshop, which just so happened to be Starbucks, because he knew he looked like the sleepless night he had: dark, agitated, and heavy. He didn’t have to wait in the obnoxiously long line or barely keep his scowl to himself when the barista wished him a good day with a smile. His hands didn’t slip when he opened his wallet, spilling out all the coins, his metallic late-night thoughts clinking at the waxed floor.

Abel starts picturing a coffee maker full of the black liquid in the kitchen. He sees a kettle boiling, squealing loudly about its presence, demanding attention. The classmate probably didn’t even pour the coffee himself, his mother must have poured it into the thermos as he brushed his teeth, and her loving hand closed the lid when he was putting on his shoes, and then she reminded him that his laces were untied.

Oh, and the lid, how his hand turned it firmly on the stainless-steel rim and sealed it tight. Not a drop of coffee would have fallen on his wrist as he ran to the bus. He would have been able to run to the bus with that lid. He wouldn’t have had to slow down, keep his frail paper cup parallel to the ground to prevent brown stains forming on the sleeve of his sweatshirt. He would have made it on the bus. He wasn’t late.

[wri12shelly-blog]

Symbol Story Pitch with Theme

Theme statement: violence cannot bring about lasting peace.

Symbols: fire, broken pen, freshly-bloomed flowers

Characters:

Revolutionary - wants to kill the king.

Bourgeoisie - wants the war to stop.

Writer - wants to get rich for telling the truth.

Plot: (1790’s) French Revolution.

- Revolutionary and bourgeoisie are forbidden childhood friends. When they were teenagers they had a short romantic relationship. It ended on a bad note.

- Trying to sign treaties aren’t going well, the pen breaks and they need to grab a new one.

- Fighting breaks out again, the revolutionaries set a field of flowers on fire.

- They meet during a fight, and insult each other.

- The writer eagerly writes this all down.

That’s all we had.

Written with Alex, Claire, and Daisy.

[wri12shelly-blog]

Persimmon Boy (Sonnets)

Elizabethan Sonnet

I’ve been always told that love comes in spring;

let my cocoon crack, and the shell falls off.

all this for a fleeting, just pretty fling.

it’s filled with air like an empty cream puff:

no cream, no frozen goods, just vapid talk.

don’t know your name, just what they all call you:

persimmon boy, shapeless under my touch,

sweet words oozing out of your lips, a tool

you were, unripe when I bit you with teeth

astringent taste covered my whole tongue dry

my body devoid of fluid, you cheat.

don’t you worry, you’ll never hear me cry.

I’ll shop wisely, support local business,

get fruit that can provide me with more closeness.

Petrarchan Sonnet

persimmon boy, ran into you in spring;

for a chill while, I believed you were hers

when you turn up breakup songs my cat purrs

just before the first date, bon iver hymns

when you see my bloody nailbeds, you sing –

your honeyed lies slipping through my fingers,

your careless talk pulling all my triggers –

I only bite back at myself, it stings.

persimmon boy, your real name was sundry.

at the shop, you were three dollars a pack.

why’d you have to be so orange, so bright?

no, maybe tangerine, or key lime pie?

no colour named after you on the rack.

all this regret, regret, gives me a fright.

[wri12shelly-blog]

The Starbucks Cup (In House Publication Submission)

The Starbucks Cup by Shelly Bahng

Abel comes into the classroom with a Starbucks cup in his hand, ten minutes late. Ms. Dover glares at him as he passes the door with each leg, clad in loose navy denim, heavily landing on the floor. The boy’s dark curly hair is toppled atop his head, shiny in a way that isn’t from any product.

“Oh, you had time to get coffee but couldn’t make it to class on time?” She points at the cup with the end of her green pen, as the edge of her tranquil pink lips points at the fluorescent lights of the classroom ceiling. Her grin indicates that she is feeling proud, and a couple of students chuckle soundly in their stiff plastic stools. His embarrassment is served as the only source of entertainment in the dull Tuesday morning.

Abel looks mortified, but his body is too drained for blood to rush to his cheeks and make them blush. Instead, his eyes droop and barely widen as much as he can lift his eyelids. There is a deep sigh in his throat dying to release itself, but he manages to hold it in. The boy with a rough stubble on the lower half of his face picks up pieces of himself from the floor, then replies.

“Sorry, I just really needed coffee after the sleep I got last night.” He says nonchalantly without a smile. He’s too tired to care, or tired of caring; at least that’s what he’s trying to convince Ms. Dover, his peers, and himself.

He calmly walks to his seat. He sits down as he puts his backpack on the desk with an exhausted thump. In the row in front of Abel, his classmate has a thermos with steam coming out of it. The steam surrounds the classmate, making his vicinity smell of freshly brewed coffee. He holds up the thermos with his veiny bicep, puts the rim on his lips and drinks out of it. He must have brought it from home, Abel thinks, he didn’t have to run to the nearest coffeeshop, which just so happened to be Starbucks, because he knew he looked like the sleepless night he had: dark, agitated, and heavy. He didn’t have to wait in the obnoxiously long line or barely keep his scowl to himself when the barista wished him a good day with a smile. His hands didn’t slip when he opened his wallet, spilling out all the coins, his metallic late-night thoughts clinking at the waxed floor.

Abel starts picturing a coffee maker full of the black liquid in the kitchen. He sees a kettle boiling, squealing loudly about its presence, demanding attention. The classmate probably didn’t even pour the coffee himself, his mother must have poured it into the thermos as he brushed his teeth, and her loving hand closed the lid when he was putting on his shoes, and then she reminded him that his laces were untied.

Oh, and the lid, how his hand turned it firmly on the stainless-steel rim and sealed it tight. Not a drop of coffee would have fallen on his wrist as he ran to the bus. He would have been able to run to the bus with that lid. He wouldn’t have had to slow down, keep his frail paper cup parallel to the ground to prevent brown stains forming on the sleeve of his sweatshirt. He would have made it on the bus. He wasn’t late.

[wri12shelly-blog]

Wasted Emotions (In House Publication Submission)

haley took that photo of us (it’s still on her Insta)

we take up a third of the photo, in the background, just slightly off from the supposed real subject of the pic

holding hands and smiling at each other

if you look closely you can see our mouths saying,

I like this. this is nice.

we said those languid words, hoping they would have the same affect, because we couldn’t dare say

I like you.

but why can’t we?

I like you.

do you know that I like you, not because you like me,

but because you let me like you?

I adore you, and you accept the ways I show it

the maternal ways of treats and snacks

and that’s enough

because of you, I stopped staring at untied shoelaces

because to see your glinting green eyes

I need to look up

why can’t we be obvious?

acquiescent / give in / eagerly

I listen to my favourite songs and wish the next time I hear them with you,

my lips will be too busy to mouth the words

put your finger on my lips

glide along and there are bumps and scrapes of my own doing in your path

then, there’s a wetness

it is saline and shamed into hiding

these goosebumps are every nerve in my body rising for you

will you rise for me?

can I lift your grey sweater

stretch its threads

change the pattern of its knitting (you already changed the pattern of my day)

stain it with my acrylic colours

you say you’ll taint me

that I don’t deserve your murky palette

I wonder how long I can hide behind words

because when I say my mood is bright blue

I mean, bright blue is still blue

I am full of spite

from wasted time

and wasted emotions

these feelings are to be spent like currency, not saved up to nothing.

let’s spend it on the smooth planes of your body

and the rough curves of mine

share the stories beneath your scabs

and I’ll tell you how I patched up mine

we talked about stars, but we never walked on starlit streets together

if we had, you would have seen my eyelashes heavy-loaded,

full of ideas

they remain as just, ideas

like me, so I can like you

as much as I want, as much as I please

and you can do the same.

[wri12shelly-blog]

The Moon (New Shoots Submission)

The Moon by Shelly Bahng

The night sky is as clear as the cold air. Christie let out a breath and a translucent white fog fumes out of her mouth. The pavement was steady beneath her feet, grounding her to the faint reality in her already inebriated brain. She saw her reflection in the car window, it was too dark out here to check if her eyeliner’s smudged but she didn’t need a distinct reflection of her face to know that she looked like shit. There was a breeze around her bare legs and through her washed-black denim skirt. The night was only beginning, but she already knew the night will be memorable though she was sure she’ll hardly remember it tomorrow.

The crowded apartment was barely lit. A raging party was happening in there, only the second one she had entered this night. There was noise, swear words coming out of speakers and sweaty bodies bent over, they shook and shivered all night and they’ll be sore tomorrow morning. Amongst the intoxicated faces, there was one she wanted to see but didn’t want to face. A picture of pale green eyes full of contempt, body language full of discomfort as arms flail right before a hug is decided to be a bad idea floats in her mind. Meaningless words and lies like “I’m good” flew around. The word “pathetic” came to her mind.

When Christie got there, the unexpected happened. His eyes were not avoiding her, and his body passed by her as he reached for another drink. His arm hit hers and he apologized, looked up and said something bland but laughable. Instead of looking up and meeting his eyes, she muttered a meek reassuring phrase and moved onto the sofa. Christie sat down, her flushed bare legs stretched out over the ivory carpet, and her eyes trailed back to him. He was wearing the same grey sweater he wore on their first date, and a smile on his face. She wondered when he stopped being sad. Then, she got up from the comfort of the sofa, and the discomfort of the ambient presence of the guy next to her.

“Hey,” she heard the moment she got up, but ignored it and went to the kitchen table. She poured another drink into her cup, figuring she needed another one to handle the possible conversations ahead of her.

“How do I look?” Her friend, Lan posed in front of her, his hand on his hips and wearing a red glittery crown on his head; who knows where he got it from in this extravagant house.

“Absolutely ridiculous, but, it’s fitting.” She simply put it as she took a significant gulp out of her cup.

“How could you say that!” Lan gasped then put a hand on the place of his heart, “you really hurt my feelings, Chris.”

Christie shrugged her bare shoulders and finished up her drink. Her petite lavender top grazed her upper body freely and her ample legs were peaking out of her skirt. The frayed edges skimmed her thighs as if acrobats were hanging on the strings. Instead of engaging in conversation, Christie listened to Lan talking about a series of different bad dates with a girl who hated dogs and a guy who was arrogant. Christie’s eyes wander and meets His eyes. He smiled, and she smiled back. She wondered if it was convincing enough, but also surprised at how effortless and painless it actually was. She wondered when she stopped being sad.

“What have you been writing lately?” Lan asked. Clearly, he sensed that Christie was out of it and knew exactly what topic would centre her. This time, he was mistaken.

“I’ve stopped writing lately.” Christie replied and tried not to feel ashamed.

“How come?” Lan furrowed his eyebrows.

“I’ve been writing so much about boys. Boys who probably go about their day not even sparing me a thought. I want to stop writing about them.” She lowered her voice to make sure He didn’t hear her. She knew there was no way of making sure.

“You and I both know you’re never gonna stop writing about boys.” He said, stating the obvious.

“But you don’t know if he’s not thinking about you.” Lan said affirmatively, and Christie rolled her eyes at his use of “he” instead of “they”. She had hoped to make the topic general and not about Him, who was sitting right there on the green sofa.

“I think, in my own humble opinion, as a boy who likes both boys and girls,” Lan said with a hand on his chest, “that boys think about girls as much as girls who like boys do, but girls are so grand for us, too heavy for us to hold on our pens. So we don’t write about girls that often. We’re too much in awe. When we do, we reduce girls down to their sadness, and reduce even their sadness down to the sadness they have for boys.”

“If only my sadness only came from boys.” Christie muttered and gulped down her third drink of the night.

“Sounds like there’s a simple solution.”

“What?”

“You could start writing about girls. Specifically, one girl.” He said as he poked her near her collarbone and grinned at her.

Later, Christie left the party and stared at the moon. A cloud covered her, but she waited. She was still emitting bright light through the seams of the frothy cloud. Soon, the cloud moved away. He disturbed another star, or bothered a satellite trying to do their job. The moon stayed. She does not falter. She was full, but her potential is unsaturated. She is glorious and powerful and as bright as can be. After some time, she will no longer remember how tight he held her with his heavy tear-filled biceps. She won’t remember how the only time he cried was when she told him to leave her. She won’t even remember his name. After all, she changes every day.

[wri12shelly-blog]

View Finder Term 2

The night sky is clear as well as the cold air. You let out a breath and a translucent white fog fumes out of your mouth. The pavement is steady beneath your feet, grounding you to the faint reality in your inebriated brain. You see your reflection in the car window, it’s too dark out here to check if your eyeliner’s smudged but you don’t need a distinct reflection of your face to know that you look like shit. There’s a breeze around your bare legs and through your washed-black denim skirt. The night is only beginning, but you already know the night will be memorable though you’ll hardly remember it tomorrow. 

The crowded apartment is barely lit. A raging party is happening in there, only the second one you’ve entered tonight. There’s noise, swear words coming out of speakers and sweaty bodies bent over, they shake and shiver all night and they’ll be sore tomorrow morning. Amongst the intoxicated faces, there’s one you both want to see but don’t want to face. Pale green eyes full of contempt, body language full of discomfort as arms flail right before a hug is decided to be a bad idea. Meaningless words fly around, and lies like “I’m good”. The word “pathetic” comes to your mind.

You stare at the moon. A cloud covers her, but you wait. She is still emitting bright light through the seams of the frothy cloud. Soon, the cloud moves away. He disturbs another star, or bothers a satellite trying to do their job. The moon stays. She does not falter. She is full, but her potential is unsaturated. She is glorious and powerful and as bright as can be. After some time, she will no longer remember how tight he held her with his heavy tear-filled biceps. She won’t remember how the only time he cried was when she told him to leave her. She won’t even remember his name. After all, she changes every day.

[wri12shelly-blog]

Wasted Emotions

term 2 fav journal entries #3

I like this. this is nice.

we’ll say that instead of “I like you.”

but why can’t we?

do you know that I like you, not because you like me,

but because you let me like you?

I adore you, and you accept the ways I show it

the maternal ways of treats and snacks

and that’s enough

because of you, I stopped staring at people’s untied shoelaces

because to see your glinting green eyes

I need to look up

 why can’t we be obvious?

acquiescent / give in / eagerly

I listen to my favourite songs and wish the next time I hear them with you,

my lips will be too busy to mouth the words

put your finger on my lips

glide along and there are bumps and scrapes of my own doing in your path

then, there’s a wetness

it is saline and shamed into hiding

these goosebumps are every nerve in my body rising for you

like they were all tickled at once but mischievous hands are nowhere to be seen

will you rise for me?

can I lift your grey sweater

stretch its threads

change the pattern of its knitting (you already changed the pattern of my day)

stain it with my acrylic colours

you say you’ll taint me

I wonder how long I can hide behind words

because when I say my mood is bright blue

I mean, bright blue is still blue

 I am full of spite

from wasted time

and wasted emotions

these feelings are to be spent like currency, not wasted.

let’s spend it on the smooth planes of your body

and the rough curves of mine

share the stories beneath your scabs

and I’ll tell you how I patched up mine

 like me, so I feel allowed to like you

as much as I want, as much as I please

and you can do the same.

[wri12shelly-blog]

Cafe

term 2 fav journal entries #2

I’ve been sitting on this couch of this café long enough for the pouring rain outside to stop and the clouds to clear up and reveal the sun in the spotless blue sky,

and the sun soars into my eyes

it glares over my thighs my leggings might burn off them

my book is no longer visible in my sore eyes, not that I was reading it anyways

but I can’t move

other seats are filled with families, friends, significant others

people who fill each other whole

woke up together, here for brunch

or just a cup of coffee

or hot chocolate with heaps of whipped cream

devoid of makeup, clad in fuzzy scarves and wind breakers

evident bed hair and fogged-up glasses

 since I’ve been here, I’ve moved twice for them

One didn’t even have to ask

Family of four, polka-dot dress girl with hair as curly and brown as her mother’s.

a boy who, when his marble eyes met mine and I smiled,

hid behind his mother’s scarf and slapped his father’s hand trying to make his wave

They deserved to be together, without me in their way

a lump, been here for hours

not on this couch but absorbed into it

pretending to read a book just to hold it close

and hide the tears that fall down my chin

 why are you crying? one might ask

no one does, but let’s just pretend that someone did

I don’t remember anymore

whose finger was it on the trigger,

does it matter if the gun was a toy?

now, the reason behind this episode is much more ambiguous

seemingly ineluctable

maladies beyond a solution

I practice this while my thumb draws circles around my phone screen

about to text my friend to come over

code for please listen to me fall

a friend who I’m not sure if I can trust

because now I can’t trust any of my friends

so I would rather tell them about the boy I have a crush on

than why I buried my face in folded arms against the leather armrest

blamed it on the coffee steams

wiped tears on plaid sleeves

stained in shapes of eyelash

looked up into fluorescent lights,

kickstart riptides in my eyes

make my friends play guessing games about who he is

but also, who I’m upset at

and the answer is always me

but they’re better at guessing the former than the latter

 what kind of friends do you have if you can fully trust them?

good friends, I guess.

ones that appreciate candour and distract you from distress

watch you instead of hold you

because they’re not sure if you want to be touched

too polite people aware of boundaries

won’t hug you unless you ask

pat your shoulder with mitten-clad hands

they don’t say smile for me, but smile for yourself

when I say,

I’m sorry,

it must be exhausting to hear me vent

hips move on cushioned seats, lips sip on coffee,

black with two sugars

no, it’s not like it takes me energy to sit here and listen

but no one I know is sitting beside me

because they never ask because they’re unaware

because my damned eyes won’t puff up or stay red

they don’t know if I cried the minute before

and if I want them to know then I should talk

give them a chance they will help you.

I press send,

“what are you doing right now?”

[wri12shelly-blog]

Do You Mind

term 2 fav journal entries #1

I look at the dust particles in the air

to avoid your stunned face

how ironic

your understanding of particles

and what the world is made of

much exceeds mine

but if I tell you that all of my body

is made up of nerves

and at this moment

or for the past three days

all of them are raked with worry and doubt

but nothing was nerve-racking

I don’t know what to do with my hands

I want to shout / I would rather feel hazy

but that just makes me look / weird

see? this drives me to go off topic / and I’m not holding the wheel anymore

maybe because I don’t know how you would react

but then again, you don’t either

you want to tell me what I want to hear

and I don’t know what that is, either

[wri12shelly-blog]

Relapse

Poem using only words which can function as nouns or verbs.

love wants cuffs

sweets sense trouble

party rises

dares dive, skin collides

fear ends

relapse.

[wri12shelly-blog]

Script: The Coat

[wri12shelly-blog]

One More Time with Feeling

The inside of the café was ridiculously warm, there were plumes of steams rising from the coffee machines and heat radiating from the tiny ovens reheating toasted wraps and grilled paninis. There was steam on the large windows, making it pointless for people to sit at the seats near them, but it was this element of not being able to see or be seen that attracted loners, with a beanie plopped onto their heads, to the tall stools by the windows of Elle’s. At one of the wooden stools, there was a girl with dark brown hair with tints of ash and green, sitting with a steaming blue mug in both her hands. The girl had her white earbuds in her ears, the long cord dangling in front of her stomach. Putting down her mug, she changed the song she was listening to and put her hands in the pocket of her red hoodie that was somehow dark and bright at the same time. She barely wore hoodies, to her the hood weighed backwards and stifled her neck. On days she did wear a hoodie, it was always oversized to the point of swallowing her whole. This time, the hoodie wasn’t the one swallowing her whole. The anxiety of the future and the frustration of feeling helpless, feeling like she could not do anything to help it, became too much to bear and she tried to make her breaths heavier, hoping they would be heavy enough to pull her down to the earth.

On the bar in front of her, a hardbound purple journal was out and opened to a dotted blank page, with a pen without its cap laying on top of it. Gripping the pen in her fawn coloured hand, she drew a cloud around the word “the party” at the centre. It began to draw a mind map of all the thoughts in her head, organising them by cause and effect, reason and result. How did she get here? What was there to be so afraid of? That much was obvious. It was the feeling of being afraid of the past repeating itself, ending up with more memories to confirm the belief that either she was pathetic or she was bound to meet mean people. Trying to disprove it, her hand wrote phrases like, “it’s not your fault,” or “you’re overthinking it” on the paper, but she could not believe the words that sounded like they had come out of a cheerful YouTube video, uttered by a woman with bright pink hair only two years older than her but claimed to have gained so much wisdom.

Gina’s phone on the table lit up with a notification. It was a text from her friend, Zannah, and she didn’t have to see it to know that it was probably about a cute person or dog she had seen today or her complaining about an assignment she hadn’t done yet, due tonight.

When she opened the text, it read, “omg I just saw the cutest boy”.

She laughed, for the first time that day, and thought of a reply. An impulse of spontaneity swept over her, and instead of sending a bland, made up reaction, she decided to lie.

Omg me too, she sent, then put down her phone and smiled at the normalcy of her state, so different from how merely minutes before, she was hyperventilating and scribbling in her journal like a mad man with a bottle of whiskey squeezed in his hands. In this moment, she was a normal teenage girl, raving about a boy in her imagination and texting her friend about it, sitting by a window at a café drinking coffee.

She regretted the lie immediately when she saw Zannah’s reply. Her small friend had sent a photo she sneaked from the cute boy she saw, and was now demanding Gina to send her one, too. Panicking about getting caught in a lie, Gina tried to tell her that she would not part take in creepy, and not to mention illegal, behaviour. Zannah would not budge, instead she told Gina to “live a little” and that everyone does it. She could have ignored her friend’s nagging, she could have listened to the rational side of her brain, but it was already a day when she couldn’t ask much of her brain to function properly. As she looked around the café, it was again, the spontaneity, the craving for normalcy that tipped her off the edge. If everyone who is normal does this sort of creepy behaviour, then she would, too.

There was a boy with sandy brown hair leaning on a plastic chair, relaxed, as if he was having lunch with life long friends, when he was actually all alone. His arm stretched out to bring his tall glass to his mouth, and he sipped on the straw in his black coffee. There was ice floating around inside the glass, which he played with after drinking his coffee. His eyes gleamed in the noon sunlight and one piece of his wavy hair curled like comma on his forehead in a way that Gina wanted to wrap her finger around it.

With shaking hands, Gina held her phone to the side and slightly up to take a photo. She tried to look like she was just checking another text from her friend, but inevitably the camera had to be at a ninety-degree angle, which didn’t make it look very convincing. She zoomed in on the boy’s face, the two of them being on opposite sides of the café made it difficult for her to take a picture of him that Zannah could make out his face. Her fingers finally zoomed in enough, was when she saw the boy also holding out his phone trying to take a picture of her, too. The boy looked forward and made eye contact with her through the screen, and she almost dropped her phone, barely catching it with her intricate fingers. She quickly brought her phone close to her face and pretended to text. Then, after a second of not knowing what to do, she stopped pretending and actually texted her friend.

Oh no I just made eye contact with him

He was taking a picture of me too

Her teeth and legs were shaking from the panic, but Gina managed to roll her eyes when she received a reply from her immature friend.

OMG LOL THAT’S SO CUTE

Has the internet romanticized embarrassment and creepy behaviour? She has always been someone who worried if she was being polite enough and is even awkward around her closest friends. Yet then there were people like Zannah, people who socialized and actively posted on Instagram, roasting people in comments and throwing pick up lines at strangers when she herself struggled to say hello even to her friends when she saw them with other people. Of course, Gina realizes that people her age don’t exactly say hello anymore. Instead they say…

“Hey.”

Suddenly, he was in front of her.

She looked up at him, and found that up close, his eyes were of a pale green. His lips held a self-assured grin and he wore straight washed jeans.

“Hey.”

Gina’s face was tinted of pale daffodils at the corners of streets, peaking out of the pavement and begging for sunlight and protection from crows and dogs. Her deep brown eyes reminded him of the iced coffee he was sipping on just moments ago, until he abandoned it at his table to come and talk to her like this. He could see hazelnut syrup floating and whirling around in them, something he didn’t notice through the lens.

She started fidgeting with her fingers, picking at the cuticles in a nervous habit. There was already damage done on her thumb, red from the blood it spilled earlier that day; Gina thought about how her anxious fright seemed like such a long time ago. The circled topic in the mind map she drew in her journal was still there in her mind, but wasn’t troubling her as much. Its presence and disturbance were more faint, easier to push away to the back of her head. She was more frightened by a recent threat of embarrassment, standing in front of her, and was confused by why he was there.

“I just wanted to come up and talk to you. I would say sorry for trying to sneak a picture of you, but, I guess we can call it even.”

He said and laughed at the end of the sentence, putting his hands in his pockets.

“Yeah, sorry, I don’t know what got into me today. I would usually never do this.”

She rambled on about how she wasn’t feeling well today, how she was trying to calm herself down when her friend, Zannah, dared her to take a picture of him and she obliged out of a whim. She continued to apologize, when she realized that all of what she was saying was unnecessary. He had already said that they could call it even. She assumed that he came here with some purpose, and so she hit a pause in her apology and looked up at him, expecting him to say something.

“Sounds like you’re having a bad day.” He said, and she nodded, her chin almost hitting her chest, and she looked up at him with fluorescent glassy eyes.

“My name is Thomas, by the way.”

“Gina, nice to meet you.” she hid her hands in the long sleeves her hoodie. Her pale beige fingers and coarse nail beds peaked out of the soft red fabric.

“Did anything happen to make you feel this way?”

“No.” That was the

“I was wondering,” he paused, correcting his posture meaninglessly. “If you want to be friends?”

Gina thought his question was odd. Nobody after the age of five bluntly asks people to be their friends. She tipped her head to the side in confusion and grinned, trying to seem like she saw through his intentions when she had no clue of what they were.

“Well, friends don’t usually meet for the first time like this.” She said, gathering sham confidence in her words.

“Come on.” His words lingered, as if he was trying to continue them but couldn’t think of anything that would convince her.

Her eyes were purplish brown now, maybe it was gloat, a hint of hope telling her that this guy, wearing a grey sweater and washed jeans, might be interested in her. Or maybe it was dread, because she was afraid of this unknown and uncommon phenomenon.

“Sure.”

She nodded, and her eyes went back to stare at her fingers, scaly from her own doing. After a second, she looked up again to see his glinting green eyes, and opened her mouth to say something.

“Can I get a hug?” She blurted out, not thinking about the consequences of asking a total stranger for physical reassurance. The idea was ridiculous, but she was having a bad day, and none of her friends were here. If he wanted to be her friend, then he would act like it. This was how she rationalized herself. Of course, she didn’t believe what she was saying.

“Uh, sure.” Now he was the one tilting his head in confusion, but he still leaned in and hugged her, and the silver-grey sweater was softer than it looked.