"The Letter"

The letter was unexpected. But when it came to my relationship with Travis, most things were unexpected.

It looked beautiful though, like most things associated with Travis. His signature blue stationary and his initials, “T.J” stamped on the back, just in case I forgot who he was and what he once meant to me. No matter how hard I tried, no matter how many other lovers I had taken since him, I would never be able to forget the summer we spent falling in love.

He was twenty-six and beautifully magnetic from the moment I laid eyes on him. He was tall, brown hair, blue eyes that made me weak in all the right places, gapped teeth that made his crooked smile more appealing than it probably should have been. He was a pro skate boarder with the body of a surfer. He smelled like clean laundry and the salty sea – a sweaty combination that made me wonder how I ever managed life without that smell. He was the “bad boy” type and I knew it. It’s what made me fall in love with him.

I was nineteen and working at my parent’s hipster inspired café when I saw him for the first time. My long brown hair was pulled back in a bun, retainer left in my mouth from the night before, coffee stains on my skin and clothes when he walked in. He had been here before – I could tell. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move. I just stood there, staring at him. He later told me that my mouth was wide open and I was drooling. I would tell him he was ridiculous, though in reality, it may just well have been the truth.

#

As I stared down at the letter – his letter, his words, and his thoughts – his voice echo’s in my mind and I have to put it back down on the table. I stared at it, picked it back up, stared at it, picked it back up. I just couldn’t bring myself to open it. Not yet at least. So many memories of our summer together came flooding back.

#

We sat on the grass. He faced me and I faced him. We had only known each other for a few weeks, but I never wanted to be away from him. And there was rarely ever a time when we weren’t together. It was a warm day. I was wearing a green summer dress – strapless, it showed just enough of my glowing skin. He looked at me and smiled. I was lost in him. He had his notebook with him. He always carried that notebook with him. He sometimes let me read what he was writing. Some entries were just jumbled thoughts that didn’t make any sense to anyone but him. Some entries were poems he had written. Some he had written about me. Some he had written about past lovers.

I tried not to be jealous. I knew he had to have been with other women before me, but in that moment it didn’t matter. He was with me. He was mine.

#

I’m brought back to the present moment, as reminiscing takes its pause. My roommate is home.

“Hey Chelsea.”

“… Hey.” I struggle to get out. She looks at the table and she too recognizes the handwriting. This isn’t the first time he has written to me since that particular summer came to an end. She eyed me and I shrugged. She rubbed my shoulder and walked into the other room. She knows that sometimes it is better to be silent than to say anything.

#

Just more snapshots and fragmented moments that crept into my peripheral vision. The way he would touch me – that memory haunts me, even years later. For years after, I secretly sat on that patch of grass, on that same field –  on particularly warm, breezy days, just to try to feel him touching me.

#

When that summer so long ago came to an end, he left California. He didn’t say a word. He was just gone one day. No forwarding address. Disconnected phone number. He loved me one day and then the next day he was gone. Or maybe it wasn’t love. Sometimes, late at night, I’m not even sure anymore.

#

Tears fill my eyes as I pick the letter back up and slowly run my fingers over his initials. I take a deep breath. I take several deep breaths as I open the envelope. Inside, on blue paper he writes:

My love, my love

My heart, my love

I am lost at sea

My love, my love

Please save me

My heart, my love

I am sinking

I am drowning

My love, my love

Anchor my heart

My heart, my love

All I want is you

My love, my love

Without you – I am not me

My heart, my love.

You are what I need

My love, my love

My heart, my love

#

            I crumble the letter up into a ball. Anger more than sadness takes over me and I feel sorry for him. And that leaves me glad. Glad that he is tortured. Or at least he appears to be tortured. Sick satisfaction as it may have been.

#

            Many more letters came after that, and all were returned to sender – unopened. The letters are expected now. But the memories don’t have a hold on me anymore. And that is all the closure and peace I could have ever asked for.

"Convalescing" Reader Response

When I first began this short story, I thought that the main character was going to be an old(er) man whose wife/lover had died. And I am so glad that I was wrong and it wasn't something that was too cliche. This story did remind me a little bit of "The Vow." Only in "The Vow" it was the woman who was in a car crash and lost her memory.

There are so many heartbreaking scenes in this story. The first that caught my attention was when the author was talking about his (the main character's) daughter - "He loved her but could not truly believe in this love... and seemed to be forgiving him for not loving her, for having forgotten her." (pg. 1115) That particular part was so sad and so telling. The way Oates wrote it seemed like a sad love poem. 

I am not sure how I really feel about the fact that the wife was going to leave him and she decided to stay after he had his accident. It seems admirable that she did, but in literature, it almost seems cliche. Especially when the main character "remembers"a conversation he had with his wife prior to the accident in which she says that she has fallen in love with someone else and wants to marry him. But in the end he says, knowing/remembering/being haunted by events that happened prior, "You won't leave me? You'll never leave me?" and she says to him, "I'll never leave you. Please don't think of it." (pg. 1125) I thought that was a bit cliche. Sad, but cliche. 

The author also uses a lot of words to describe the feeling of not feeling. Something that I actually really like. She beautifully describes numbness, "Alone, he felt the new, familiar numbness again. It was his only emotion and it was not an emotion but the absence of one, the tingling of nerves in anticipation of an emotion, the regret of an emotion lost, not clearly remembered." (pg. 1156) I am not sure why I really loved that, but I felt like it was such beautiful prose. 

"My Father's Chinese Wives" Reader Response

This entire story kept me really engaged. The development of each character - even somewhat small - was done so very well in such a short story. This story almost reads like a piece of creative non-fiction and I could not help but to wonder throughout, how much of this was actually true?

From the very beginning, she grabs your attention. "My father doesn't want to alarm us." (pg. 896)
And you can't help but wonder what she's talking about at first. It's one of the things that made me want to keep reading. I wanted to know. I guess you could figure it out from the title of the story, but there was just something in that one particular line that caught my attention and kept me invested in the story.

The relationship between the two sister's and even the relationship between the father and Kaitlin is mapped out really well. At the beginning, I could not really understand why the sister was so angry with their father - which again is something that kept me invested in the story. I was hoping that the author would get there and she did in a very elegant way.

"I have left you and taken the Toyota, Dr. Chow - so there!" (pg. 900) quite possibly my favorite line in the entire story. And I think it says a lot about the father's character that he married again shortly after Liu had left him.

The piece really is wonderful and says so much about the dynamics of all different families. That not everything is perfect with anyone and that we are all looking for or "missing someone, something, that perhaps one can't even define anymore." (pg. 905) She writes so beautifully at the end about that and it resonates wonderfully and is incredibly relatable.

"Nap Time" - Postmodern Writing Prompt

Nap Time

            It’s that time of day again. The time of day when she puts me down and leaves me all alone. She takes me into my small room, which I love and hate at the same time. She leaves me in what is supposed to be a place of sleep and peace, but it feels more like a prison. There’s very little daylight coming through the cracks in the closed blinds. I suppose she thinks the elephants and the rest of the circus animals, painted brightly on the walls, will help to calm my nerves. They rarely ever do. I just want to touch them and play with them. Sometimes I sit and stare at Mrs. Giraffe on the wall by my bed and pretend she is talking to me. Sometimes the she sings me a lullaby when I can’t sleep

I don’t want my momma to leave me in here. She is so soft; I don’t want to leave the warmth and comfort of her arms. I had just fallen asleep, drunk off of her milk. I feel myself begin to get anxious.

“Shhhh… it’s okay, little one,” she whispers in my ear, as she loosens her grip on my and slowly puts me down in my cushioned prison. I try not to cry, but I just can’t help it.  The tears come and they won’t stop. I can feel my face getting red hot. I can’t tell if it’s anger, fear, or just being away from her. I can hear her slowly moving around the room and shutting the door behind her. I am still crying. I can’t see her anymore because the wetness in my eyes has blurred my vision. I try to take deep breaths, but it’s almost too difficult. I cough and cry. Cry and cough. I wonder if she can still hear me. I hope she can still hear me.

            This happens everyday. She does this everyday and she knows I do not like it. But eventually, I do end up exhausting myself with crying. I take another deep breath before I turn in my crib… my prison. At least she left me with Mr. Giggles – my stuffed monkey. I talk to him for a few minutes. I try to tell him how unfair all of this is. He is patient with me. He sits and listens to everything I say,

“ohhh…lagoublyehkhafjhsdhaklf,” I tell him in disbelief.

Mr. Giggles smiles at me. He’s always smiling at me. His smile calms me down and relaxes me. I don’t feel all alone with him here. Maybe that’s why momma has him in here with me, to keep me company when she’s not. My momma is smart. Mr. Giggles never talks back, but he smiles at me and he makes me giggle. No wonder momma named him “Mr. Giggles.”

Once I’m finished crying and I collect myself, I try to pull myself up. I slip my hands through the bars and I pull with all my night. Umph… Nope. I try again. This time I am successful and I bounce and giggle as I look around the room. The rocking chair is in the corner, by the window. The place they lay me down to change my diapers when I’m wet or dirty – I think they call it the changing station on the opposite wall. I look across the room the Mrs. Giraffe. She sings a little lullaby to me in hushed tones.

“You are my sunshine/my only sunshine/you make me happy/when skies are grey…”

She sings so soft and beautifully and I begin to yawn. She knows what she’s doing. Mrs. Giraffe and I have the same routine everyday. Honestly, I am thankful for her. It has been a long day today. I assist myself back to my bed and find Mr. Giggles. I smile at him and he smiles back. I rub my eyes and grab ahold of Mr. Giggles, as I yawn once more. I look around the room one more time at Mrs. Giraffe and the rest of the animals. I lay my head down on my soft cushy pillow and yawn one last time before I close my eyes.

I hear the door creak open and I struggle to open my eyes, but all I can make out is an arm above me. A hand tenderly caresses my cheek and then the mobile above my head begins to play a soft humming song that I recognize. It continues to lull me to sleep and no matter how hard I try to fight it and how hard I resist, my eyes just won’t open. I let the humming of the mobile, tender caresses, and Mrs. Giraffe take me peacefully into dreamland.

Reading Response to "Events at Drimaghleen" by William Trevor

My first reaction when reading this was, "what happened?!?" As with the other reading this week, the beginning of the story is what really captures you and bring you in. Because you cannot help but to have questions as you are reading it for the first time. It begins with great build up.

I was very glad to see that Maureen hadn't run off with Lancy; I would have been very disappointed if that were the direction this story was going. But then again, thinking back to the first few sentences, I don't think that would be the most controversial thing that has happened in this particular town.

I was taken out of the story at one point, on page 1557, when the author goes into the different townships and where the rest of the families are living. I'm not sure why, it just didn't seem to be in the right place for me. I wanted something else there. Maybe for the author to have introduced Hetty Fortune and Jeremiah Tyler sooner I maybe would have stayed more engaged in the rest of the story.

I think the author was wise in making the twist at the end. Though, in some ways, I did see it coming, stories like this are written all the time - he did it in a way that was interesting, easy to read, and for the most part, stay engaged in.

Reading Response to "Admission" by Danzy Senna

I loved how this short story began. There is just something about the way the beginning hooks you and keeps you invested in the characters. And as we move along in the story, the author uses such great imagery - "He was sitting in front of his television eating a mango with a knife." (pg. 1339) and so on and so forth.

What's also really great about this piece is that the dialogue really gets things moving along. You get to see so much character development within just a short period of time. You know who these characters are and what they are about. 

I couldn't help but wonder why someone would think that a person's life would be determined by that preschool their child went to. I know that it is in fact a concern with most parents these day and the realness within the story, the struggle (inwardly and outwardly) between the main character and her husband doesn't feel contrived. It feels incredibly real.

The character of Penny is a really interesting one - as I do not remember her from the beginning and I think she is introduced as the story progresses - and I am not sure I quite understand her obsession with getting Cody to come to the school. I am not sure if it's as what Duncan said, that their family will be fulfilling some sort of "quota" (thought it wasn't actually mentioned, it seemed that it could be a possible scenario), seeing as they are of upper-middle class standing and not white. Penny's actions at the end of the story as very interesting and I applaud the way that Cassie handled it. 

One technique that the author used that I really liked was when she did a sort of retrospective of when she was a little girl and she was remembering how cruel some of her peers were to others just because they were different. For instance the story of Tasha - it was a very powerful technique and it's not something that always works in pieces. But this author was able to do it wonderfully.

"Snow" Reading Response

I had to read this story a few times. It it so beautiful and so heartbreaking. There are so many instances in this story where the writer has made the narrators heartbreak seem so beautiful. I think anyone who has ever been in that kind of love can relate very well to this story. The language and the flow is perfection. I couldn't get enough and I wanted so much more at the end. I wanted them to be together towards the end, I just couldn't help it.

It is hauntingly beautiful and it goes to show that two people will always remember the love that they once shared differently. It made me really feel for the narrator of the story and how some memories can give life and how others can take us back to a place where there once was life and love. But also how strong certain love and memories can be that just the nearness of what you once had with a person can not only haunt you, but make you want them even more.

The fact that this was all conveyed in something so short is amazing. To be able to get that kind of emotion onto the page and use imagery and the kind of techniques she used, is wonderful. I sometimes wonder if it takes longer to write a short story that has so much to say in such a short amount of time or if it takes longer to write an entire novel where you continue along with the plot. Which one is more difficult? And which one is more fulfilling? Or are they both just as enriching of an experience?

"The Story of An Hour" Reader Response

As I was reading through, at first I couldn't help but to feel somewhat sad for Mrs. Mallard. She believes that she loses her husband and all the while you think she is truck with grief. And she may well have been for a moment. 

My favorite line would have to be, "And yet she had loved him--sometimes. Often she had not."  I just couldn't help but to giggle at that revelation. I think it is because you do not normally expect someone to admit that they did not love the one that they are with. 

Her reaction to her husband's apparent death is what you would think someone in shock would do, until she starts saying "free" over and over again. Maybe this could have been her wake-up call to actually start living the life that she had wanted to truly live and to not be tied down by the expectations that were thrust upon her. To begin again in some fashion. 

The ending had me completely surprised, which is something that I really liked about it. I was half expecting her to go off into the sunset (for lack of a better term) and live a more adventurous life, one in which she didn't feel stifled and she was free. I was not expecting her husband to have arrived at the end of the story and for her to die at the end. It was a great surprise. I had to read it a couple of times to make sure that the ending was going to stay the same. I would love to be able to write a story that not only has such beautiful and rich texture to it, but that also leaves the reader saying, "did that really just happen?" 

Reader Response to "Letter to a Young Writer" by Richard Bausch

The first thing is, I loved this so much for so many different reasons. The first reason was how it was set up. I really liked the way he set it up as a list of commandments and I found myself writing all of the commandments down as I was reading along and nodding my head in agreement. 

The first commandment struck me in a profound way and I think it's because so  many people these days that take literary courses are so set on reading a text - or piece of fiction - as a literary student. I simply enjoy reading for the sake of reading. And I admire so much the fact that he said to swallow and ingest what you are reading. 

Going through all of the commandments, and all of the advice and even the anecdotes that he gives, I love that he says to not let writing get in the way of life. To live your life and keep writing but to remember the important things as well. 

My favorite would be the tenth commandment where he says, "Be wary of all general advice" including his own. I thought that was striking in a way. That only you know what you want to write and what you dream of writing. Make it yours and continue to allow yourself to grow as a writer, reader, and as a human being.