This isn't the workshop piece I read in class (I read a scene from my play) but I've already heard comments on that so I wanted to post a poem on here. I wrote this a few weeks ago. I'm in the process of revising (this is the first draft) so any comments/ suggestions are appreciated! The title is working; I'm not sure what the final one will be.
Oh- I also have this one posted on my blog, Words of Couture, if you'd like to check that out :)
Time Travel
By Alexandra Evans
When we turn on the senses, prisms and light,
Waves on transcendental perceptions,
Surround a blade of grass-
An overload of cornea exposure
To saturate the concept of seeing.
And it is there when the dangling strings of mind
Begin to clutch to fragments of dust
Left scattered on the memory's floor-
An ink stain left on brittle parchment
A crumb of opportunity pushed to the side.
But it is by corners that man has made his numbers
around one wall we react by solvent
A cell for those particles gone astray
Where the eye can see its prey
And is reflected upon the gentle waves
of nerves twitched underneath the lash
Blink once for understanding
Or twice for no such comprehension,
Confusion
True of such rays of light
That color knows not of
Only travels through
To send a signal:
Wake up behind that pupil
For your precious metal eyes,
Stones of stormy aftermath
Can't even capture this moment
Due to harsh winds
Predict but never follow through
So vague that the newscast
Seems blank today,
So interfered that even the weatherman
Is glazed by bolts of light that
Block the colors in the prism
A hinder, a sty ingrained in grey
Storms not recognizable by us today.
So that we never sit through casting blind, we
Are given forms and figures
Temperate colors
That are not inside the rainbow
And imagination is the only vice
We have to ever see,
We have to ever separate
Of black and you and white of me.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Chelsea White ~ Workshop Piece
"Holder 1918"
By Chelsea White
((A note to you guys: You know the word verifications you have to type into a lot of websites now before you can post? I used that as my prompt and made it my title for this poem.))
The number stands beside the hour,
listen now and and do not cower.
My words are not that to fear.
I am simply stating what you must hear.
When traveling to the land you seek,
many temptations at your feet.
You must hold fast to your determination,
for turning to those are false salvation.
If what you seek is the land of gold,
then to the gold wind you must hold.
The fear is not within the number,
the holder is that to encumber.
With words false as the absence of truth,
this being shall offer you the fountain of youth.
Do not accept his false proposal,
your life will be at his disposal.
Nineteen- seventeen lives he has stolen.
Though only with one more will his stomach become swollen
- with that of hunger forever gone,
from his belly more will spawn.
And with that final life he takes,
nineteen-eighteen will be man kind's mistakes.
So please, my dear, let him remain unseen,
and do not turn to the holder of nineteen-eighteen.
By Chelsea White
((A note to you guys: You know the word verifications you have to type into a lot of websites now before you can post? I used that as my prompt and made it my title for this poem.))
The number stands beside the hour,
listen now and and do not cower.
My words are not that to fear.
I am simply stating what you must hear.
When traveling to the land you seek,
many temptations at your feet.
You must hold fast to your determination,
for turning to those are false salvation.
If what you seek is the land of gold,
then to the gold wind you must hold.
The fear is not within the number,
the holder is that to encumber.
With words false as the absence of truth,
this being shall offer you the fountain of youth.
Do not accept his false proposal,
your life will be at his disposal.
Nineteen- seventeen lives he has stolen.
Though only with one more will his stomach become swollen
- with that of hunger forever gone,
from his belly more will spawn.
And with that final life he takes,
nineteen-eighteen will be man kind's mistakes.
So please, my dear, let him remain unseen,
and do not turn to the holder of nineteen-eighteen.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Religion, Chelsey Shannon
You were like a good book,
drawing me in with your charms,
keeping me in with honeyed words
and a sad story.
Or perhaps you were like
The Good Book,
feeding me the sweetest lies
i happily swallowed,
hopes of eternal love
in our version of heaven.
I'm saying goodbye to you here
because i cannot say it to you.
You wouldn't understand why i have to.
But i do.
I've given up on believing.
I've lost my faith in you.
I want
more substantial spiritual food,
stronger than
broken promises
—still hymns to my ears—
deeper than
i love yous and babys
handed out like communion
to anyone who comes to you on their knees
for salvation.
I deserve more than a rootless faith.
I deserve more than you,
my preacher, my priest,
my charlatan.
But i'll remember
the psalms of your words,
will never forget
the holiness, the wholeness
of being near to you.
I love you:
final prayer
on these lips.
drawing me in with your charms,
keeping me in with honeyed words
and a sad story.
Or perhaps you were like
The Good Book,
feeding me the sweetest lies
i happily swallowed,
hopes of eternal love
in our version of heaven.
I'm saying goodbye to you here
because i cannot say it to you.
You wouldn't understand why i have to.
But i do.
I've given up on believing.
I've lost my faith in you.
I want
more substantial spiritual food,
stronger than
broken promises
—still hymns to my ears—
deeper than
i love yous and babys
handed out like communion
to anyone who comes to you on their knees
for salvation.
I deserve more than a rootless faith.
I deserve more than you,
my preacher, my priest,
my charlatan.
But i'll remember
the psalms of your words,
will never forget
the holiness, the wholeness
of being near to you.
I love you:
final prayer
on these lips.
The Businessman
The Businessman pressed the thick sheets of smooth and pale blue stationery on which he had been engraving his graduated handwriting into his leather briefcase. He could see his face reflecting pallidly back at him and considered the idea of a haircut, crisp and chaotic, the scissors cutting halos around his head. He allowed the individual planes of the Venetian blinds to descend from their divine repose. He felt godlike as his thumb fondled the light switch and he watched on as the room swam in deliberate darkness in front of his eyes, completely expected, producing the perfect, desired, effect. He closed the door with care, smiling slightly as the lock clicked shut, leaving his large mahogany desk, his luxurious blotter, the sepia tinted gold of his letter opener to hum with the motion of atoms, delicately, unseen.
His steps crushed the pile of the amber-hued carpet satisfactorily as he perambulated toward the ornate grille of the elevator, which opened seemingly of its own accord as he approached, the doorman more a creature of the dark than the light. The grille shut, a rich man’s toy accordion, and the Businessman was pulled a little less willingly towards the bottom of his building—well-proportioned as it was, it seemed only appropriate that he was positioned at the top.
He strolled across the gently illuminated lobby—everything marble and sumptuous sofas and lighting like lime, greenish nimbuses thrown against the walls, floating islands between the Black Seas of his shadow, the only part of him which drifted, disconnected, from the rest of the earth, his anchors of limbs, blood and bone. His carefully constructed feet, the web of slender tendons each supported by strips of muscle and vein. Feet had always fascinated him, the fluted way they slipped from heel to instep to pragmatically ordered toes—their practicality paired with pleasant panache.
The Businessman steered his feet in the coffins of their shoes over the resplendent threshold of the restaurant that glimmered on the first floor of the building—they moved forward in well-measured increments until the net of nerves in his extremities caught up with the realization of his retinas. She stood behind the polished podium, dark hair shining around her oval face, her eyes like tumbled jewels still shining with movement as they roved thoughtfully, lazily over the room. She caught sight of him, stranded in his movement across the floor, and smiled—surely this must mean something—her lips revealing stripes of white that seemed to burn against his eyes: a camera flash, a fork of lightning.
Was she saying something? Was her unseen but already beautiful tongue touching letters meant to reach him? He shook water out of his ears.
“How many, sir?” She murmured, her breath somehow reaching him across the room like the draft from a wing fluttered. He gasped a solitary response, his loneliness as sharp as if the letter opener left gleaming on his desk was slicing through the top of his head. Was he just getting a headache? Or had he never noticed before that he had no one? The grey graves of his mother, his father, his sisters, grandmother, grandfather, ancestors galore making perfect, even pairs for him to adorn with flowers that weren’t as perfect anymore—nothing was perfect but
Her hand as she poured a slip of red wine into his blown glass like the bubble of his eyes as he felt his pupils enlarge by her nearness, an incredible red brown pale magnet, shining and shocking the domes of his eyes. Had he asked for this? No matter. He wanted it, he wanted anything she had to give, even this poor reflection of shine that he was already cataloging against the blood of her lips, the glass, too, somehow substandard now that he’d been exposed to the translucence of her skin. He could see her veins. They tracked like moving roads down her arms, concentrated in a snarl in her chest, flooded downwards to the flowers of her knees, the contraction of her ankles, the unimaginable fans of her feet.
“Will you be having anything else tonight, sir? I would be happy to bring you a menu,” she whispered and the sheer delicacy of her voice already put the untasted wine to shame. He couldn’t manage his esophagus, the ribbed inside of his throat. He merely closed his eyes. (Say something. Tell her what you want. Tell her you want the world, in her hands. Tell her the world is her hands. No, no, no tell her. Tell her the world is under her feet. Tell her you are under her feet.) And so he muttered something he’d never heard before and had still never heard because his vowels became consonants and the inside-out envelope of his voice reached the wrong addressee. But she understood, didn’t she? Of course she understood. She didn’t smile because he wasn’t trying to be funny. She just lowered the fermatas of her eyebrows, her eyes singing arias as she turned like the earth, she was the earth, she was gravity, she was water and the hot sun over the desert she was everything he’d ever thought before compounded into one being with her feet aching. All he wanted to do was call her back as he rose through the same air that had clung to her and take her back against his arm, drape her knees over the fold in his elbow, sweep her through the restaurant and into the wild world which he would shield her from, his suit impeccable and impenetrable, pinstripes of chain. (This is all you want? Then you must have it. If the snow starts to fall, it is your birthday and if the smoke from his cigarettes curls into the air you have blown out the candles and your wish is your power, your wish is her feet between your hands).
As she takes another step and her ankles hold her barely because she’s been turning all day long, she’s been gravity all day long, how weary the world must be!, the smoke from the Banker’s cigar is caught in the draft, the empty space, created by her absence. Snow materializes outside. He’s given himself reasons and he doesn’t accept excuses so he stands and he calls her back as he rises through the same air that had clung to her and he takes her back against his arm, drapes her knees over the fold in his elbow, sweeps her through the restaurant and into the wild world.
Somehow she is unsurprised, and only asks “Why?” so he touches her spiked feet and mentions that they are sore. She tells him she dances all night long and he can understand as he soars down the street like an angel with a broken child in his arms. He turns corners like they are the flaps of letters, he cuts them open and doesn’t stop. The snow melts moments before it touches her skin though it settles in his hair. She is warm but not soft in his arms, her body made for precise results, she dances ten hours a day for the ballet but she is nothing, she says, she is nothing. (She is madness and glory. You are nothing). And her feet are already worn when she is born from the dark backstages of randomized theaters into the shock of the sunlit, snowy world, hurrying like a peacock among pigeons to the dance of table for two, table for two, table for two?
(Speak to her: let me rip off your shoes). Let me take off your shoes his hands mutter as soon as they let the snow disappear into the world sealed by the inch of wooden door and he barely knows her name is Magdalene, he only knows that his fingers aren’t trembling because this must be perfect as she reclines in plum velvet and he lifts her skirt in thirds of inches to reveal just the spires of her ankles. He traces them. He considers the reflection of his fingers in the black shine. He slips off shields. This must be rebirth.
Or maybe he has just dug up a grave. The span of skin is scabbed. The toes twist under like they are insects afraid of light. Scars tattoo the places where her nails should be, torn down, worn down, white eyes blind. (You wish you were blind.) These feet should be white like porcelain. They are red like a baby crying. They bulge in the wrong places. They are patterned like the bottoms of fountains swimming with algae on the surface, sun shining through unevenly, dying stretches beet, stretches almost blue.
“I’m a ballerina!” she snaps, her voice suddenly loud because the snow has stopped and her feet have already been stepped on by dirty shoes, unpleasant, rusty imprints. The Businessman closes his eyes. (You consider everything you could say. You couldn’t love her. But maybe you could say something). He opens his eyes. He closes his eyes again because her toes are near his nose. They might bleed. He might cry.
“Here are your shoes.”
His steps crushed the pile of the amber-hued carpet satisfactorily as he perambulated toward the ornate grille of the elevator, which opened seemingly of its own accord as he approached, the doorman more a creature of the dark than the light. The grille shut, a rich man’s toy accordion, and the Businessman was pulled a little less willingly towards the bottom of his building—well-proportioned as it was, it seemed only appropriate that he was positioned at the top.
He strolled across the gently illuminated lobby—everything marble and sumptuous sofas and lighting like lime, greenish nimbuses thrown against the walls, floating islands between the Black Seas of his shadow, the only part of him which drifted, disconnected, from the rest of the earth, his anchors of limbs, blood and bone. His carefully constructed feet, the web of slender tendons each supported by strips of muscle and vein. Feet had always fascinated him, the fluted way they slipped from heel to instep to pragmatically ordered toes—their practicality paired with pleasant panache.
The Businessman steered his feet in the coffins of their shoes over the resplendent threshold of the restaurant that glimmered on the first floor of the building—they moved forward in well-measured increments until the net of nerves in his extremities caught up with the realization of his retinas. She stood behind the polished podium, dark hair shining around her oval face, her eyes like tumbled jewels still shining with movement as they roved thoughtfully, lazily over the room. She caught sight of him, stranded in his movement across the floor, and smiled—surely this must mean something—her lips revealing stripes of white that seemed to burn against his eyes: a camera flash, a fork of lightning.
Was she saying something? Was her unseen but already beautiful tongue touching letters meant to reach him? He shook water out of his ears.
“How many, sir?” She murmured, her breath somehow reaching him across the room like the draft from a wing fluttered. He gasped a solitary response, his loneliness as sharp as if the letter opener left gleaming on his desk was slicing through the top of his head. Was he just getting a headache? Or had he never noticed before that he had no one? The grey graves of his mother, his father, his sisters, grandmother, grandfather, ancestors galore making perfect, even pairs for him to adorn with flowers that weren’t as perfect anymore—nothing was perfect but
Her hand as she poured a slip of red wine into his blown glass like the bubble of his eyes as he felt his pupils enlarge by her nearness, an incredible red brown pale magnet, shining and shocking the domes of his eyes. Had he asked for this? No matter. He wanted it, he wanted anything she had to give, even this poor reflection of shine that he was already cataloging against the blood of her lips, the glass, too, somehow substandard now that he’d been exposed to the translucence of her skin. He could see her veins. They tracked like moving roads down her arms, concentrated in a snarl in her chest, flooded downwards to the flowers of her knees, the contraction of her ankles, the unimaginable fans of her feet.
“Will you be having anything else tonight, sir? I would be happy to bring you a menu,” she whispered and the sheer delicacy of her voice already put the untasted wine to shame. He couldn’t manage his esophagus, the ribbed inside of his throat. He merely closed his eyes. (Say something. Tell her what you want. Tell her you want the world, in her hands. Tell her the world is her hands. No, no, no tell her. Tell her the world is under her feet. Tell her you are under her feet.) And so he muttered something he’d never heard before and had still never heard because his vowels became consonants and the inside-out envelope of his voice reached the wrong addressee. But she understood, didn’t she? Of course she understood. She didn’t smile because he wasn’t trying to be funny. She just lowered the fermatas of her eyebrows, her eyes singing arias as she turned like the earth, she was the earth, she was gravity, she was water and the hot sun over the desert she was everything he’d ever thought before compounded into one being with her feet aching. All he wanted to do was call her back as he rose through the same air that had clung to her and take her back against his arm, drape her knees over the fold in his elbow, sweep her through the restaurant and into the wild world which he would shield her from, his suit impeccable and impenetrable, pinstripes of chain. (This is all you want? Then you must have it. If the snow starts to fall, it is your birthday and if the smoke from his cigarettes curls into the air you have blown out the candles and your wish is your power, your wish is her feet between your hands).
As she takes another step and her ankles hold her barely because she’s been turning all day long, she’s been gravity all day long, how weary the world must be!, the smoke from the Banker’s cigar is caught in the draft, the empty space, created by her absence. Snow materializes outside. He’s given himself reasons and he doesn’t accept excuses so he stands and he calls her back as he rises through the same air that had clung to her and he takes her back against his arm, drapes her knees over the fold in his elbow, sweeps her through the restaurant and into the wild world.
Somehow she is unsurprised, and only asks “Why?” so he touches her spiked feet and mentions that they are sore. She tells him she dances all night long and he can understand as he soars down the street like an angel with a broken child in his arms. He turns corners like they are the flaps of letters, he cuts them open and doesn’t stop. The snow melts moments before it touches her skin though it settles in his hair. She is warm but not soft in his arms, her body made for precise results, she dances ten hours a day for the ballet but she is nothing, she says, she is nothing. (She is madness and glory. You are nothing). And her feet are already worn when she is born from the dark backstages of randomized theaters into the shock of the sunlit, snowy world, hurrying like a peacock among pigeons to the dance of table for two, table for two, table for two?
(Speak to her: let me rip off your shoes). Let me take off your shoes his hands mutter as soon as they let the snow disappear into the world sealed by the inch of wooden door and he barely knows her name is Magdalene, he only knows that his fingers aren’t trembling because this must be perfect as she reclines in plum velvet and he lifts her skirt in thirds of inches to reveal just the spires of her ankles. He traces them. He considers the reflection of his fingers in the black shine. He slips off shields. This must be rebirth.
Or maybe he has just dug up a grave. The span of skin is scabbed. The toes twist under like they are insects afraid of light. Scars tattoo the places where her nails should be, torn down, worn down, white eyes blind. (You wish you were blind.) These feet should be white like porcelain. They are red like a baby crying. They bulge in the wrong places. They are patterned like the bottoms of fountains swimming with algae on the surface, sun shining through unevenly, dying stretches beet, stretches almost blue.
“I’m a ballerina!” she snaps, her voice suddenly loud because the snow has stopped and her feet have already been stepped on by dirty shoes, unpleasant, rusty imprints. The Businessman closes his eyes. (You consider everything you could say. You couldn’t love her. But maybe you could say something). He opens his eyes. He closes his eyes again because her toes are near his nose. They might bleed. He might cry.
“Here are your shoes.”
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Along the way
Autumn Marie Foster
I've been looking; searching for new ways to complete myself. I've been restraining every bone in my body from everyone and everything and this has done no 'good' for me. I am a beat within every measure and still, most of the world wishes for me to be the common one sided, blunt, one beat note, the everyday working man, woman, and teenager that everyone is brought up to be. If you look me in the eyes, you will get lost forever. If you take the time to hear; not the "last minute, belly aching, I don't really care" hear... I mean actually listen. You will learn a thing or two about me. Maybe it's me too, that needs to listen. I see the world but do I really feel it? I won't walk away from you, and to me, I am a fault, at fault. Perfections are just a waste of time anyways. Know how many times I have been defeated, given up on, left. I am no fool and I will determine myself to you soon. The fire has yet to burn out. After all, freedom is the chance to spread your wings and not change for anyone.
I've been looking; searching for new ways to complete myself. I've been restraining every bone in my body from everyone and everything and this has done no 'good' for me. I am a beat within every measure and still, most of the world wishes for me to be the common one sided, blunt, one beat note, the everyday working man, woman, and teenager that everyone is brought up to be. If you look me in the eyes, you will get lost forever. If you take the time to hear; not the "last minute, belly aching, I don't really care" hear... I mean actually listen. You will learn a thing or two about me. Maybe it's me too, that needs to listen. I see the world but do I really feel it? I won't walk away from you, and to me, I am a fault, at fault. Perfections are just a waste of time anyways. Know how many times I have been defeated, given up on, left. I am no fool and I will determine myself to you soon. The fire has yet to burn out. After all, freedom is the chance to spread your wings and not change for anyone.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Banana Popsicle
2 feet hang over the side of a porch swing, one tiny, one big, both with metallic purple toe nail polish
2 giggles break through the muggy hotness of summer,one loud and deep, the other soft and high
1 banana popsicle is taken out of the wrapper
1 smile breaks out
2 pleading eyes look at the 2 brown hands holding the cold treat
1 mouth opens, "Y'know I don;t share my banana popsicles with just anybody, and this is the last one."
1 lip pokes out pleading; a cold trickle of juice runs down the popsicle
1 mouth opens, "Oh please? Just this once?"
1 brain begins to think
2 hands break the 1 popsicle into 2
1 hand greedily accepts it's half
2 sisters happily lick away on thier sweet banana popsicle watching 1 sun set
1 little sister leans on her big sister
1 big sister embraces her in a hug
2 sticky sticks are discarded
1 bond is made stronger
2 giggles break through the muggy hotness of summer,one loud and deep, the other soft and high
1 banana popsicle is taken out of the wrapper
1 smile breaks out
2 pleading eyes look at the 2 brown hands holding the cold treat
1 mouth opens, "Y'know I don;t share my banana popsicles with just anybody, and this is the last one."
1 lip pokes out pleading; a cold trickle of juice runs down the popsicle
1 mouth opens, "Oh please? Just this once?"
1 brain begins to think
2 hands break the 1 popsicle into 2
1 hand greedily accepts it's half
2 sisters happily lick away on thier sweet banana popsicle watching 1 sun set
1 little sister leans on her big sister
1 big sister embraces her in a hug
2 sticky sticks are discarded
1 bond is made stronger
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Paris Talk
Autumn Marie Foster
A woman by the name of Daniella sits at a table, sipping her hot Oolong tea with a few of her close friends, Sophia, Allie, and Bree.
"So have you called the mystery man yet? Sophia gasped with excitement. Daniella blushed with vibrant, unwilling nervousness.
"Well," she exclaimed. "He hasn't called me yet He doesn't know yet..."
"Know what?" Allie sneered viciously.
"What, do you not tell me things anymore?" Bree started to cry out.
"How could you tell Sophia all this, but never tell us? Are we less important?"
"Let me explain," Daniella stumbled upon her words.
"Allie heard me talking on the phone."
They all turned to Sophia.
"Well, Sophia, tell us what you've heard."
Sophia blushed, almost in aggravation and unruly embarrassment.
"I do not wish to be in the middle of this. Let's
just end it. If Daniella wants to tell you two about it then she will. I will not be help accountable for something I overheard."
Allie scaled.
"So you agree that you overheard?"
"Now, girls let's forget about Sophia being involved in my little secret. I didn't know if you two would ever understand I was nervous to tell you."
"Let's hear it, if you please." Bree craved.
"I fell in love with an American young man. His eyes, green, hair raven black; a beautiful soul he was. The last I remember of him was that he was standing on my balcony, french doors open, starry sky out as we sipped Jean's french brewed coffee."
"Sounds ravishing, my dear. What's the kind sir's name?" Bree jolted.
"His name is Isaiah. Beautiful, green eyes I call him." Daniella sighed.
Allie began to get frustrated, She could never be happy for her friends. He friends would even call her 'argumentative Allie' when she got moody.
"Does this 'champion' of a man have a last name or is he just a mystery to you?"
"Well, no, I do not know. He was always so sweet and gentle though. He bought me flowers for my elanniversaire." She blushed a bit while grasping her beaded necklace her grandmother bought her when she turned eighteen.
"Let's be specific, now. What kind of flowers? That should tell us how serious the man is!" Bree was filled with excitement.
"Well, red roses." The girls screamed in excitement and joy, lots of big smiles were obvious on the young women's faces.
"Good gracious!" Allie and Bree smirked in harmony.
"Well, where is this man?" Sophia wondered once more.
"Has he called?" Allie demanded.
The girls bombarded Danielle with extensive questions.
"He left for London where the rest of his family had moved to. He hasn't called. I am a bit worried."
Sophia was quiet through out the whole time until the conversation struck her.
"I think you should tell them Daniella."
"Tell us what??" Bree was anxious.
"I didn't know if I should. I didn't know if you'd abandon me because...just...I don't know! I'll just say it. I am pregnant,"
"That's great hunny." Bree explained.
"yeah, I know but, he doesn't know it either." All the girls sighed and shook their heads. They couldn't believe what they just heard.
"How are you gonna tell your husband, Josiah?" Allie complained.
"He left me already. He found a pregnancy test in the bathroom trash bin and knew it wasn't gonna be his child because we hadn't been trying. I tried to call Isaiah, but some girl answered the phone. He said he had a daughter and a house cleaning lady, but I don't know anymore girls!"
Bree smirked in pure sarcasm. Why don't you email him. It's so much easier and you don't have to be put on the spot."
Allie laughed. "Just forget about the low-life. Do you really believe that he's got a daughter that sounds 20 and a housemaid? Forget him."
Sophia just started crying.
"What's the matter?" Daniella worried.
"Because he's your lost love and you hold the only thing you can of him; his child, his baby, your baby. You were meant to be! I bet he's trying to reach you."
Sophia chanted on. She was known to watch several hundreds of love stories and "chick flicks" more than the average, or average being all together.
"I highly doubt that Soph. I think he just might be ignoring me. Maybe he never wanted to see me again."
Suddenly, a tall dark shadow appeared at the coffee shop door way. It was a male figure and his hair was gelled spiked and sported a suit with an urban touch. Daniella saw the man walk to her and gaze at her as if she just appeared from heaven, ab angel.
"Daniella, I've gotten your messages,"
"Let's step outside if you please." She became so serious.
The girls gallantly thundered past everyone sitting down and followed Daniella and the mysterious man, looking just outside the door. The girls heard arguing.
"Can you explain to me where you've been the past two months? I've been trying to reach you. Why haven't you called? I've been needing to talking."
Daniella stuffed her hand in her pocket to pull out a balled up wad of tissue from her front pants pocket.
"My darling, why are you crying? I was...I mean I am...I'm scared of...I'm scared of being abandoned. I'm scared of being forgotten, I'm scared of being in love."
"Yeah?" She pryed out of her mouth.
"I'm scared of being alone while I'm pregnant."
His mouth dropped, moved by what she had just said.
"Pregnant? You're pregnant?"
Yes is all she could say at the time without bursting out with tears.
Daniella gave a quick glance over her shoulder to see where her friend were; somewhat hoping they would steal her from him. The didn't. Instead, he took her in his arms and kissed her forehead, concerned about her every emotion.
"I'm never letting you out of my site," Isaiah admitted. "I'll never leave you."
Walking back in the cafe, Daniella's friends, Allie, Bree and Sophia all glanced at the man in front of them.
The couple stood hand-in-hand taking quick glances at each other. You could tell Daniella was 'showing' a bit and Isaiah noticed; even though she wore a more flowy shirt. Isaiah bent down on his knees to kiss her 'baby bump'. They both sat down. Daniella introduced her American love she found once again.
A woman by the name of Daniella sits at a table, sipping her hot Oolong tea with a few of her close friends, Sophia, Allie, and Bree.
"So have you called the mystery man yet? Sophia gasped with excitement. Daniella blushed with vibrant, unwilling nervousness.
"Well," she exclaimed. "He hasn't called me yet He doesn't know yet..."
"Know what?" Allie sneered viciously.
"What, do you not tell me things anymore?" Bree started to cry out.
"How could you tell Sophia all this, but never tell us? Are we less important?"
"Let me explain," Daniella stumbled upon her words.
"Allie heard me talking on the phone."
They all turned to Sophia.
"Well, Sophia, tell us what you've heard."
Sophia blushed, almost in aggravation and unruly embarrassment.
"I do not wish to be in the middle of this. Let's
just end it. If Daniella wants to tell you two about it then she will. I will not be help accountable for something I overheard."
Allie scaled.
"So you agree that you overheard?"
"Now, girls let's forget about Sophia being involved in my little secret. I didn't know if you two would ever understand I was nervous to tell you."
"Let's hear it, if you please." Bree craved.
"I fell in love with an American young man. His eyes, green, hair raven black; a beautiful soul he was. The last I remember of him was that he was standing on my balcony, french doors open, starry sky out as we sipped Jean's french brewed coffee."
"Sounds ravishing, my dear. What's the kind sir's name?" Bree jolted.
"His name is Isaiah. Beautiful, green eyes I call him." Daniella sighed.
Allie began to get frustrated, She could never be happy for her friends. He friends would even call her 'argumentative Allie' when she got moody.
"Does this 'champion' of a man have a last name or is he just a mystery to you?"
"Well, no, I do not know. He was always so sweet and gentle though. He bought me flowers for my elanniversaire." She blushed a bit while grasping her beaded necklace her grandmother bought her when she turned eighteen.
"Let's be specific, now. What kind of flowers? That should tell us how serious the man is!" Bree was filled with excitement.
"Well, red roses." The girls screamed in excitement and joy, lots of big smiles were obvious on the young women's faces.
"Good gracious!" Allie and Bree smirked in harmony.
"Well, where is this man?" Sophia wondered once more.
"Has he called?" Allie demanded.
The girls bombarded Danielle with extensive questions.
"He left for London where the rest of his family had moved to. He hasn't called. I am a bit worried."
Sophia was quiet through out the whole time until the conversation struck her.
"I think you should tell them Daniella."
"Tell us what??" Bree was anxious.
"I didn't know if I should. I didn't know if you'd abandon me because...just...I don't know! I'll just say it. I am pregnant,"
"That's great hunny." Bree explained.
"yeah, I know but, he doesn't know it either." All the girls sighed and shook their heads. They couldn't believe what they just heard.
"How are you gonna tell your husband, Josiah?" Allie complained.
"He left me already. He found a pregnancy test in the bathroom trash bin and knew it wasn't gonna be his child because we hadn't been trying. I tried to call Isaiah, but some girl answered the phone. He said he had a daughter and a house cleaning lady, but I don't know anymore girls!"
Bree smirked in pure sarcasm. Why don't you email him. It's so much easier and you don't have to be put on the spot."
Allie laughed. "Just forget about the low-life. Do you really believe that he's got a daughter that sounds 20 and a housemaid? Forget him."
Sophia just started crying.
"What's the matter?" Daniella worried.
"Because he's your lost love and you hold the only thing you can of him; his child, his baby, your baby. You were meant to be! I bet he's trying to reach you."
Sophia chanted on. She was known to watch several hundreds of love stories and "chick flicks" more than the average, or average being all together.
"I highly doubt that Soph. I think he just might be ignoring me. Maybe he never wanted to see me again."
Suddenly, a tall dark shadow appeared at the coffee shop door way. It was a male figure and his hair was gelled spiked and sported a suit with an urban touch. Daniella saw the man walk to her and gaze at her as if she just appeared from heaven, ab angel.
"Daniella, I've gotten your messages,"
"Let's step outside if you please." She became so serious.
The girls gallantly thundered past everyone sitting down and followed Daniella and the mysterious man, looking just outside the door. The girls heard arguing.
"Can you explain to me where you've been the past two months? I've been trying to reach you. Why haven't you called? I've been needing to talking."
Daniella stuffed her hand in her pocket to pull out a balled up wad of tissue from her front pants pocket.
"My darling, why are you crying? I was...I mean I am...I'm scared of...I'm scared of being abandoned. I'm scared of being forgotten, I'm scared of being in love."
"Yeah?" She pryed out of her mouth.
"I'm scared of being alone while I'm pregnant."
His mouth dropped, moved by what she had just said.
"Pregnant? You're pregnant?"
Yes is all she could say at the time without bursting out with tears.
Daniella gave a quick glance over her shoulder to see where her friend were; somewhat hoping they would steal her from him. The didn't. Instead, he took her in his arms and kissed her forehead, concerned about her every emotion.
"I'm never letting you out of my site," Isaiah admitted. "I'll never leave you."
Walking back in the cafe, Daniella's friends, Allie, Bree and Sophia all glanced at the man in front of them.
The couple stood hand-in-hand taking quick glances at each other. You could tell Daniella was 'showing' a bit and Isaiah noticed; even though she wore a more flowy shirt. Isaiah bent down on his knees to kiss her 'baby bump'. They both sat down. Daniella introduced her American love she found once again.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
ABCD Prompt: The Twenty-Year Secret
The Twenty-Year Secret
By Alexandra Evans
Isabelle always gets herself into trouble and now I have to be in the middle of it all. Why are girls so stupid sometimes? Don’t get me wrong; I don’t hate females. I am one of them, after all. But I’d rather have a night out on the town with my boys, not sit at a Bistro all afternoon comforting a broken-hearted girlfriend whose American lover left her pregnant in Paris. It had been two weeks since she left him and she had gotten no call, no text, nothing. Kind of the modern French version of Madame Butterfly, you know? Anyway, this was twenty years ago, a time when we were young, around twenty two years old. Isabelle was sobbing about this baby that (surprise!) Wasn’t her husband’s. He was away on business at the time, which set the scene for that American man to have his perfect little rendezvous. Janice was just lonely, is all.
So we had the husband, Jacque, away on business. His wife, Isabel, stayed home and got herself pregnant by an American. This was the dilemma she posed us with twenty years ago. Our other friends told her to contact the secret lover, but that would have been the most ridiculous choice in the world. I mean, Isabelle was drunk 75% of the time she spent with him. It was just a mistake. So I told her to forget about him. Her husband had been wanting a baby, anyway. Why not just pretend the little Parisian American was half of Jacque? So that’s what she did. The happy family lived without knowing the truth until now. And all of the sudden I get a phone call from Isabel claiming it’s my fault. Good lord, what a mess.
This whole predicament seemed to come back into my life right when I answered the phone just a few minutes ago. Isabel was sobbing in-between exasperated breaths as she told me that her husband had just found out that his son wasn’t biologically his. It really was a heap of irony but Isabel found it absolutely devastating. Jacque is even threatening to leave her now because of this! In fact, they’re probably arguing about it right now. It was extremely difficult to hear her over her sobs but the story seemed to unfold somewhat like this:
Clyde, Isabel’s son, had just finished his sophomore year of college and was interested in applying for an internship with a company in France. His study at the lycee is marketing. Evian Water’s commercials appear in this US in English as well as here in French, of course. Clyde’s an amazing linguist and applied for an apprentice marketing manager that keeps in contact with American media in order to promote and sell the water in the States. After a series of interviews and waiting period of a few weeks, he was told that he got the position. This was during the family’s golden time, about a month ago. Jacque and Isabel were the perfect couple. Many people around here were jealous of how well they seemed to get along, manage their household, and take care of a son, who turned out to be quite exquisite. Jacque and Clyde went through their entire life thinking they were father and son while Isabel hid the secret, finding it rather easy to do so considering how well her family had turned out.
Such secrets are often revealed at some point, and this one was revealed through a partner of Evian that Clyde had to correspond with. His boss had asked him to get in touch with some American magazines and ask about pricing for ads in their upcoming issues. He called Elle, Good Housekeeping, Vogue, Seventeen, and Cosmo Girl. Then, he got to Women’s Health, the head of marketing of which was a man by the name of James Hubert Maxton III. They struck a deal, and Clyde’s boss was so impressed by his work that he allowed him to fly to America to oversee the photo shoot that was to take place in New York City at Hubert Maxton’s request.
Much to Clyde’s disappointment, he actually ended up being a nanny for Hubert Maxton’s children during the duration of his stay. On the plus side, he was given free shelter, food, and nightly talks with Maxton himself during which Clyde acted as a type of therapist for the poor man. His family was in shambles; his wife was having an affair with the cook’s brother and his children were all failing in school and proclaiming to drop out when they turned sixteen and get tattoos of their favorite movie stars on their necks. It was a rather sad situation, but the worse of news didn’t come until Hubert Maxton started to go deep into his past, telling Clyde that he still felt guilty for never contacting his French lover back in 1988. He wanted to come back and visit or at least call but felt guilty because he didn’t want his girlfriend (now his wife) to find out.
“Why don’t you try to contact her now?” Clyde asked.
“Oh, God no, my boy. I could never go through with it.”
“Well, why not? I’m sure she would love to hear from you again.”
“I just don’t think I can do it,” Hubert sighed. “It was such a horrible thing for me to do- to just run off like that and never call again. Perhaps it’s better if I let her think I forgot about her. Maybe she’s happy and married like me. I should just let it go.”
“Hubert,” Clyde started, “you need to contact her again, just to let her know you exist. I’m sure she’s been wondering about you for years.”
“Maybe. I don’t know if she’ll want to speak to me, though.”
“The choice is up to you. But as an unbiased opinion, I urge you to contact her,” Clyde got up and proceeded with his previous task of organizing the children’s backpacks.
Over the next few weeks, similar conversations arose until Hubert decided to show Clyde some memorabilia from his rendezvous. Upon seeing the photograph of the slender, dark-haired lover from twenty years ago with her sparkling azure-blue eyes matching the crystal waves of the ocean in the background, Clyde suddenly felt his entire being halt.
“Where did you get these photographs?” Clyde spat out, amazed.
“Well, I took them, of course, during my stay in Paris. That’s Isabel, the one I’ve been speaking of.”
Clyde packed his bags and was back in Paris within three days. A week went by before he found the courage to contact Hubert, who was surprised to hear that he had left so quickly. “Why did you leave so suddenly?” he asked.
“I just felt the need to return home,” Clyde said.
“To Isabel,” Hubert stated.
“To my mother,” Clyde replied.
“I hope you find work with an impressive company,” Hubert said. “If you ever need a recommendation, you have my number.”
“Thank you,” said Clyde.
“Of course,” Hubert smiled from across the universe. “Tell Isabel I said hello, will ya?”
“I will,” Clyde said and hung up.
Through a series of conversations with his mother, who eventually broke down and admitted everything to her son and husband, we have come to this point. I sit, thinking of the story ten times over in my head as Clyde, Isabel, and Jacque sort out the messy pieces of the past. Slowly, they’ll pick them up. But unfortunately, the picture will never quite be acquiesced within the frame that Isabel hung her family in so many years ago. As I have previously mention, I suppose things like this come back to haunt us eventually. Maybe she shouldn’t have listen to me at that café on the summer day of our youth.
The family will be fine. I’m banking on a phone call from my dear Isabel tomorrow saying everything’s sorted out. It always is between those two.
By Alexandra Evans
Isabelle always gets herself into trouble and now I have to be in the middle of it all. Why are girls so stupid sometimes? Don’t get me wrong; I don’t hate females. I am one of them, after all. But I’d rather have a night out on the town with my boys, not sit at a Bistro all afternoon comforting a broken-hearted girlfriend whose American lover left her pregnant in Paris. It had been two weeks since she left him and she had gotten no call, no text, nothing. Kind of the modern French version of Madame Butterfly, you know? Anyway, this was twenty years ago, a time when we were young, around twenty two years old. Isabelle was sobbing about this baby that (surprise!) Wasn’t her husband’s. He was away on business at the time, which set the scene for that American man to have his perfect little rendezvous. Janice was just lonely, is all.
So we had the husband, Jacque, away on business. His wife, Isabel, stayed home and got herself pregnant by an American. This was the dilemma she posed us with twenty years ago. Our other friends told her to contact the secret lover, but that would have been the most ridiculous choice in the world. I mean, Isabelle was drunk 75% of the time she spent with him. It was just a mistake. So I told her to forget about him. Her husband had been wanting a baby, anyway. Why not just pretend the little Parisian American was half of Jacque? So that’s what she did. The happy family lived without knowing the truth until now. And all of the sudden I get a phone call from Isabel claiming it’s my fault. Good lord, what a mess.
This whole predicament seemed to come back into my life right when I answered the phone just a few minutes ago. Isabel was sobbing in-between exasperated breaths as she told me that her husband had just found out that his son wasn’t biologically his. It really was a heap of irony but Isabel found it absolutely devastating. Jacque is even threatening to leave her now because of this! In fact, they’re probably arguing about it right now. It was extremely difficult to hear her over her sobs but the story seemed to unfold somewhat like this:
Clyde, Isabel’s son, had just finished his sophomore year of college and was interested in applying for an internship with a company in France. His study at the lycee is marketing. Evian Water’s commercials appear in this US in English as well as here in French, of course. Clyde’s an amazing linguist and applied for an apprentice marketing manager that keeps in contact with American media in order to promote and sell the water in the States. After a series of interviews and waiting period of a few weeks, he was told that he got the position. This was during the family’s golden time, about a month ago. Jacque and Isabel were the perfect couple. Many people around here were jealous of how well they seemed to get along, manage their household, and take care of a son, who turned out to be quite exquisite. Jacque and Clyde went through their entire life thinking they were father and son while Isabel hid the secret, finding it rather easy to do so considering how well her family had turned out.
Such secrets are often revealed at some point, and this one was revealed through a partner of Evian that Clyde had to correspond with. His boss had asked him to get in touch with some American magazines and ask about pricing for ads in their upcoming issues. He called Elle, Good Housekeeping, Vogue, Seventeen, and Cosmo Girl. Then, he got to Women’s Health, the head of marketing of which was a man by the name of James Hubert Maxton III. They struck a deal, and Clyde’s boss was so impressed by his work that he allowed him to fly to America to oversee the photo shoot that was to take place in New York City at Hubert Maxton’s request.
Much to Clyde’s disappointment, he actually ended up being a nanny for Hubert Maxton’s children during the duration of his stay. On the plus side, he was given free shelter, food, and nightly talks with Maxton himself during which Clyde acted as a type of therapist for the poor man. His family was in shambles; his wife was having an affair with the cook’s brother and his children were all failing in school and proclaiming to drop out when they turned sixteen and get tattoos of their favorite movie stars on their necks. It was a rather sad situation, but the worse of news didn’t come until Hubert Maxton started to go deep into his past, telling Clyde that he still felt guilty for never contacting his French lover back in 1988. He wanted to come back and visit or at least call but felt guilty because he didn’t want his girlfriend (now his wife) to find out.
“Why don’t you try to contact her now?” Clyde asked.
“Oh, God no, my boy. I could never go through with it.”
“Well, why not? I’m sure she would love to hear from you again.”
“I just don’t think I can do it,” Hubert sighed. “It was such a horrible thing for me to do- to just run off like that and never call again. Perhaps it’s better if I let her think I forgot about her. Maybe she’s happy and married like me. I should just let it go.”
“Hubert,” Clyde started, “you need to contact her again, just to let her know you exist. I’m sure she’s been wondering about you for years.”
“Maybe. I don’t know if she’ll want to speak to me, though.”
“The choice is up to you. But as an unbiased opinion, I urge you to contact her,” Clyde got up and proceeded with his previous task of organizing the children’s backpacks.
Over the next few weeks, similar conversations arose until Hubert decided to show Clyde some memorabilia from his rendezvous. Upon seeing the photograph of the slender, dark-haired lover from twenty years ago with her sparkling azure-blue eyes matching the crystal waves of the ocean in the background, Clyde suddenly felt his entire being halt.
“Where did you get these photographs?” Clyde spat out, amazed.
“Well, I took them, of course, during my stay in Paris. That’s Isabel, the one I’ve been speaking of.”
Clyde packed his bags and was back in Paris within three days. A week went by before he found the courage to contact Hubert, who was surprised to hear that he had left so quickly. “Why did you leave so suddenly?” he asked.
“I just felt the need to return home,” Clyde said.
“To Isabel,” Hubert stated.
“To my mother,” Clyde replied.
“I hope you find work with an impressive company,” Hubert said. “If you ever need a recommendation, you have my number.”
“Thank you,” said Clyde.
“Of course,” Hubert smiled from across the universe. “Tell Isabel I said hello, will ya?”
“I will,” Clyde said and hung up.
Through a series of conversations with his mother, who eventually broke down and admitted everything to her son and husband, we have come to this point. I sit, thinking of the story ten times over in my head as Clyde, Isabel, and Jacque sort out the messy pieces of the past. Slowly, they’ll pick them up. But unfortunately, the picture will never quite be acquiesced within the frame that Isabel hung her family in so many years ago. As I have previously mention, I suppose things like this come back to haunt us eventually. Maybe she shouldn’t have listen to me at that café on the summer day of our youth.
The family will be fine. I’m banking on a phone call from my dear Isabel tomorrow saying everything’s sorted out. It always is between those two.
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