Moments by M.K. Cook by Mary Kathryn Cook

Moments Mary Kathryn Cook 2014-2015 Publications

Letter from the Author: My beginnings in the writing world were humble and stereotypical: I had a bad breakup. He was unhappy and took it out on me. I started my writing trying to convey my feelings on paper instead of to my poor tired friends and family members. My writing was poor and somewhat pathetic. Then through another boy, my “muse” as I affectionately call him, I started my serious writings. Though it has been my Creative Writing 2300 with Professor Beth Eakman in which I have taken leaps and bounds in my writing. I have begun to hone my writing skills and I am extremely proud of what I have produced through the Spring Semester of 2015. The first category you will come upon is Poetry. You will also realize this is the largest section within this portfolio. This is for two reasons: because as an English Literature major I spend a large amount of time with poetry. Second, I find the greatest expression in poetry form. This is because I have spent a large amount of my time devoting myself to my poetry pieces. My first piece is “Freedom”. It is one of my strongest poetry pieces to date. It explores themes of violation, trust, and, of course, Freedom. I crafted this piece from a small idea about trust and violation. I have worked with the imagery and I believe my piece creates a vivid description in the readers head. The second category you will come upon is Creative Fiction. While I have always been a quick reader, reading everything I could get my hands on, this is the first time I dabbled my feet on the writing side. The first piece you will come upon is “Silhouette” which takes a dark turn exploring a family’s descent into madness. In this one I explored my tone and manipulating the reader’s emotions. I believe I have achieved this through suggestibility rather than concrete images. The second piece is “Colorblind” and was published in the New Literatii journal. It is a short story exploring the themes of art and love. These two five-page pieces explore two extremes of Creative Fiction genre. I believe they showcase my diverse writing styles. The third category you will come upon is Creative Nonfiction. You will also realize this is the shortest section of my portfolio. This is because I have only begun dabbling in Creative Nonfiction. I have only written one piece so far, but I am justly proud of “Puppy Love”. This is an adorable short story about my dog falling in love with a Blue Heeler. This piece I explored a first person narrator, myself. Furthermore I believe it helped me explore the light hearted tones through the antics of my dog, Lucy I am excited to share these pieces with you! It showcases my different writing styles and themes within different genres of writing. Poetry, Creative Fiction, and Creative Nonfiction.

Enjoy the Read! Mary Kathryn Cook

Table of Contents (pg 5) Letter from the Editor………………………………………………... 3 Poems …………………………………………………………….. 7 Red, White, and Blue..…………………………..………….. 9 A poem without Faith…………………………………….. 11 The First Dance………………………………….............. 13 Opposites……………………………………………… 15 Celestial Mothers……………………………………… 17 Blown……………………………………………. …... 19 Winters Dream……………………………………… 21 Fiction…………………………………………………… 23 Silhouette…………………………………………. 25 Colorblind………………………………………... 32 Girl in the Yellow Shorts………………………... 37 Creative Nonfiction…………………………………… 39 Puppy Love…………………………………... 41 About the Author…………………………………..44

P O E T R Y 7

Red, White, and Blue I no longer fear Blue Because my lips have become permanently tinged. Gently kissed by a lover. I no longer fear White Because my skin has adorned it so well. A bride wearing her wedding gown. I no longer fear Red Because my body no longer holds it. Ran like wine from a glass.

I no longer fear freedom!

Because I have found it! In the Red, White, and BlueIn the cold grip of the metallic barrel of a gun I have freed myself! Shook hands like old frat buddies. I have freed myself I have freed myMind from your insanity. From your unforgiving hands. I have freed myself from you andI no longer see or feel fear.

I have freed myself

Saving You: A Poem without Faith As the Priest raised The pure white bread, A graceful slant of Light wafted into The church, anointing the alter. It lit the priestâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hands With a bright red light. Red glistened onto A pure white alter. Drop by drop by drop. A little curly haired Girl in white Watched with innocence. When it was her turn, She came forward with little Clasped hands stretched out For red little bread. But only a cross placed On her brow was made. She asked her parents, About the red bread, But they did not know They did not see Red. The curly haired girl Grew. She became a Woman she did not know. She grew And stopped Believing in miracles. Years later, when her Own child would pull on her red dress, And ask her about the red bread She would not recall The graceful light which Turned the Eucharist red. 11

The First Dance A Girl in a white dress, and a boy in dark blue jeans. Were out dancing that night for very different means. Not intending to have their lives changed, But fate had plans already arranged For the girl and the boy giving them a chance. And the boy asked the girl “Do you want to dance?” And it is two people meeting and touching hands Two people dancing to the bands And two people learning to love The stars are sighing up above As these two souls meet For the first time being swept off their feet Do people around them see, Two people dancing or two souls flying free? Do they understand their hearts Will be remembered by the stars? Did they see the sparks as their hands met? Or is it a moment they’ll soon forget? And as they part, the night sighs. Little did the other knows they were riding a high. For that dance was the start of something new, And each of them was wearing a flushed hue. Wondering if next week the other will return Then hearts already yearned For one more chance To have another dance.

Opposites I’m the cloud that floats you up to the stars. You’re the anchor that keeps me tethered down. I pull harder up, And you pull harder down. Your hands are raw and burned, I’m beginning to choke. Let me go, I’ll let you be Because all we are doing, Is causing eacchother misery.

Celestial Mothers Looking at the stars, Dotted across the night sky Winking friendly at me. And wondering. About all the stories They have ever seen. Which do they remember? Do they recount? The tales of pirates? The Adventurous Explorer. Sea Voyages, Sword Fights, and Star follower. Do the recall their loyal follower? Do they sigh? Over long-departed lovers? Their woes, great trouble and conquering love. Dutifully named “Star-crossed lovers”? As if they were as far away as stars. Do they relive? When the Great Kings Ruled? Their valor and honor revered. Struggling to protect and save. Do they relive their tragic battles? Or… Do they remember, The mothers? So a like they are kin. The ones who shine brightly and quietly? Watching over their children.

You blow on a dandelion And watch beginning’s plant. You ask for her hand to dance, And know it’s a start. You blow on a campfire To make the fire grow. Keep making her smile Watching love bloom. You watch leaves blow away On windy streets. You skip down streets with her Asking for forever. Snowflakes blow down, Blessing your union. You wish time with her Will last forever. Give her a ring And promise forever.

Their aroma fills the air. You smell cooking in the kitchen And smile because you’re home. Warm wind blows on Green summer grass. Kisses planted on messy children heads. School bells blow Sending kids to class Lives with kids is hectic But with her you never wish for anything different. Blow hot gasps into cold wind Kids have grown up And make their own families

Animals wake from hibernation, Blowing sleep from their lungs. Though her face is wrinkled, You’re still blown by her smile. Flies blow lazily by Creaking rocking chairs. You run fingers through the gray in her hair. Leaves blow by Scraping the ground You can’t imagine Not having her around. You blow on a candle And the flame goes out. You never thought this Day would come. When you would be Alone.

Winter’s Dream He is beautiful, elegant, and brilliant like a snowflake. Being with him penetrates me in every way. His eyes, his smile, his grace, his warmth, his soul. I feel my own soul moving to reach him, to be open to him, to make room for him. Everything about him makes me love him. Makes me want him. I want him. I, him, us. Every moment is precious, a piece of art. But all too brief Like a snowflake But quickly, like sand. It passes through tightly clasped hands. Dreams blinked away in moments of awakeness. I feel like I’m in a blizzard trying to grip one flake. It disorients me and I end up empty. When the blizzard stops, Everything is frozen. He is gone now. The sand slipped away from the glass. I wake up alone in bed. Winter passed. But I never felt as cold as you do When I’m looking at him through video chat. Because reality of the situation isn’t snowflakes. It’s cold, isolated, squared, bright pixels.

C R E A T I V E F I C T I O N

Silhouette I lay cowering in my huge bed. The rain keeps hitting my window and I could see the Ghost Forest, which Jesse had named it. It sat around the edge of our lawn, which mommy had stopped taking care of, and it always made scary noises at night. Earlier today I saw Dad going into Ghost Forest. I ran out our swinging back door and I heard it slam against the door as my small feet hit the small stairs. He was carrying a big brown sack on his shoulder. He looked like a woodsy Santa Clause. I ran after him, “Dad! Dad! I’m coming too!” He didn’t slow down. I sped up and I ran as fast as I could go. The dark trees were tall and I ran at them. I saw his silhouette moving away from me into the dark trees. When I was only a few feet away. I tripped over a rock! I screamed as I went face first into the brambles on the edge of Ghost Forest. Thorns and branches pricked at my hands, face, and legs. I could feel something wet on my forehead. I struggled face down. I stuck my hands on the brambles and tried to push up, but I was stuck in them. I could feel the thorns in my hands and it was caught in my pink jacket. “Dad! Dad! Please come back and help me!” I waited and listened for his footsteps. I didn’t hear anything. I pushed onto my knees and crawled forward, the thorns stuck my knees and I started to cry. I pulled myself out of the brush and I stood up on the inside of Ghost Forest. I looked around for Dad, but he wasn’t around. I couldn’t even see his footsteps. I turned around and walked out of Ghost Forest limping and bleeding. My nose was stuffy and I was crying. Mommy was on the phone when I got back in. A boy from my class hadn’t made it home. Mommy looked real worried and she kept looking at Ghost Forest where Dad went in. When she saw me at the back door she quickly hung up the phone. I cried and buried my head in her chest. The woods were really scary that night, I wonder if Dad was still in there. I hope not. I hope he got home okay. I tucked the blankets high over my head so I couldn’t hear the woods anymore, but suddenly there was a howl! I ran from my bed all the way to mommy’s room. She was alone in bed, but she was awake. I could see her sitting up in bed with her back against the pillows. I stood by the open door, I’m not allowed in their room normally. Daddy didn’t like it when I was in their room. I held onto the brass handle ready to bolt at any second. Mommy saw me and I tucked my head down, “is that you sweetie?” her soft voice made me feel good. So I ran over to her side of the bed and crawled up onto her lap. “Mommy the Ghost is really loud tonight.” I whispered onto her chest. She stroked my hair, “I know sweetie, I know.” We sat sitting in her bed until we saw daddy’s silhouette against the window panes. He was walking slowly and he carried something against his shoulder. Mommy sent me back to my big cold bed once we heard his key in the lock and his silhouette against the window blinds.

Mommy stopped going outside when I was ten-years old. She said there were things outside that she didn’t want to deal with. So she would wake me up early in the morning and get me ready for school. She would put my hair in braids like her own. Mommy and I had the same colored brown hair and blue eyes. People used to say that I was like her little doll, we acted practically the same!

It was once I left home when mom would start drinking apple juice. Except, she didn’t let me drink this apple juice. Mommy told me it was just “for her” when she was feeling a little low. One time when I stayed home sick from school, I asked if I could have some but she snatched it off my bedside table and said, “No!” sharply. It was the first time mom had snapped at me, my eyes welled up with tears and my nose got red and hot. Moms’ eye’s got softer when she looked at me. I looked away at the peeling yellow wall. Her silhouette was slumped over and gripped the bottle. She reached out and stroked my brown hair, “I’m sorry Sweaty. Mommy is just not feeling well.” Her hands didn’t feel as soft. When her red peeling lips touched my forehead- they didn’t smell like apple juice. I looked up at her from my bed, “Mommy. Where’s Dad?” She inhaled sharply, “He’s… out today at his job.” She knelt down in front of me and her pale legs bulged out from her cut off shorts, “Are you sure you don’t feel well sweaty? You can still make the bus if you hurry.” She bit her lip and looked at me, “You know Dad doesn’t like it when you stay home from school.” I went to school that day, and I puked in the bathroom. I didn’t tell anyone; I didn’t have another sick day again.

When I was fourteen I realized that my mom was insane. In the morning was when she was best. She was the kind mom that made me peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches for school, even after I had grown tired of them. The mom who would send me off to school with a banana every morning. When I got home from school she was always a whimpering mess. She couldn’t remember why I had left and she asked where I had been all day. I would make her tea and pour out her alcohol in the sink. I don’t know how she always managed to get more. I think Dad would always bring her more, because he was tired of listening to her. It was always the worst at night once Dad went away to work in his green pick-up truck. He did a lot of hauling, though I don’t know why he worked at night. He would always come home with dirt and blood caked on his hands. So I assumed he worked hard for us. Mom would scream and bang on the windows when she saw his green truck backing out of the driveway. The neighbor’s dogs from twenty miles away would be howling all night long. Their voices joined with moms screams, “GET THEM OUT! STOP HIM! LET ME OUT! OUT! OUT! OUT!” It was always best to just wait her out, instead of interfering. I still have a scar on my arm where she scratched from my shoulder to my wrist. Mom would only stop screaming when she passed out in her recliner by the window in the living room. I swear her silhouette was permanently sealed there amongst the green over stuffed cushions. Her body curled up on the chair and arms wrapped around her chest. I stared out the window petting her hair. ‘Huh’ I said under my breath. I had never notice that Ghost Forest had gotten closer over the years. It was about half the distance across the lawn now. She died when I was sixteen. One night I was lying in my small bed, my blankets tucked up over my head. My parents were fighting again. Dad was screaming and Mom was screaming. They were both incredibly drunk. Dad was gone all day, and he drank when he got home. Which was odd, because usually he was gone at night. Nowadays, it seemed like mom couldn’t 26

keep the bottle away from her lips. No longer was I able to tear the brown bottle from her grasp. All day she would sit in her chair by the window and stare at the Ghost Forest. It was even closer now. We never took care of it, and now it was growing close to the house. Mom started screaming as soon as Dad got home. I don’t know what they are fighting about. All of their conversations seemed to be the standard yelling match. Mom kept screaming, but dad kept screaming even louder. He would smash his hands into walls and throw things. I plugged my earbuds in and pulled a pillow over my head. It never worked completely, but I hoped that tonight it would. A sharp shatter broke through all the screaming. Then there was silence. I lay shivering in my small bed beneath my tiny blanket in my pink kitty pajama’s. I waited for the shouting to start. I prayed for the shouting to start. I started crying when I didn’t hear the shouting start again.

I walked down the next morning. There was a dark stain on the kitchen wall. Dad was sitting at the kitchen table with one hand around the neck of a bottle of beer and one cradled his forehead. I stood in my pajama’s looking at his silhouette. Finally, I turned my eyes toward him His eyes were bloodshot and his hands were covered in dirt and what I pretended wasn’t dried blood. I had pretended for a long time that I didn’t I stood in the doorway of the kitchen. My heart was drumming in my ears, and I could feel my pulse raising hot through my veins, “Dad, where’s mom?’ He didn’t even raise his head to look at me, “Dad. What happened to mom?” He took a swill from his beer bottle and slammed it loudly on the table. “She got what was coming to her.” Tears were blurring my vision, “What did you do to her?” He was across the room in a second and his hand held me against the wall by my throat. My head was leaning just under the mysterious dark mark on the wall, “What are you doing here Janice?’ I struggled against his hands on my throat, “Da-Dad! It’s me, Abigail.” His eyes were dilated and he was breathing heavily, “Janice. How did you get back inside? I cut you up and buried you myself.” I tried to scream but he tightened his hand around my air pipe. He was going to kill me. Oh God, this was the end. I was going to die. I’m only sixteen, this isn’t how this was supposed to go. Suddenly his eyes cleared and he dropped me to the floor. I laid gasping and coughing. Trying to force air back into my lungs. He lent down and tried to touch my back, “Abby- I’m I’m so sorry Abby! Mommy will be home soon, I promise.” I scrambled away from his hands. He had always been violent but he had never gotten his close to taking my life before, “Stay away from me!” I spat at him. I got up off the floor and I ran out the door and directly into Ghost Forest. I ran and ran and ran. I didn’t hear Dad behind me, but I wasn’t going to stop running. I needed to find mom. I could hear the leaves crunching under my feet, my heart was hammering in my ribs, the branches were cutting into my face, but I couldn’t stop until I found mom. 27

My face hit the soft dirt as I tripped over a branch. I gasped for air, inhaling grass and mud. I turned myself over on shaky arms until I could see the sky. Or if I could see the sky, Ghost Forest was really dense here and it was impossible to see anything else but it. I looked down at my ankle to make sure it wasn’t broken and I let out a scream. I clasped my hands over my mouth to not let out another noise. In front of me was a bone. A femur to be exact. It was small, it wouldn’t have been able to support my mom…. It was a child’s bone. My eye started crying as I crawled towards it. I scraped away the dirt around the bone. I don’t know how long it took, but soon I found a child’s skull. My hands were dirty and scarped. Nails were broken as I stared at the white orb in my hands. “Who are you?” The skull smiled at me. My shriek sent birds flying from the trees, but I couldn’t stop. I screamed and pulled my hair. Tears ran from my eyes flowing like a waterfall. I got up still shrieking and I ran deeper into Ghost Forest until it was so crowded that almost no light peeped through the trees. Bones littered my path all the way until I found her. That’s when I found her. He hadn’t done a good job of burying her. She was practically sitting on top of the dirt. Her upper torso was against the tree. It looked as if she had grown with the tree, as if she were a part of the tree. I dropped hard to my knees beside her, “No…” I put out a shaky hand to clasp her cheek. When my fingers touched her cheek her head leaned into my touch. “Mom? Are you there?” I moved my hand further up her cheek. Her head fell clean off. It hit the leaves with a sickly PLOP. I shrieked. The back of her head had been bashed in and blood was stuck to the trunk of the tree. Her blood was on my hand and I rubbed it against my kitty pajamas. “MOM!” I crawled over to her disembodied head. Gently I picked it up. I brushed her brown hair away from her blue eyes. Eyes that looked exactly like mine. “Mommy?” I cried and clutched her bloody head to my chest. “Please come back. What do I do?” I rocked back and forth for a long time on Ghost Forest’s leafy floor.

I emerged from Ghost Forest when it was completely black outside. The moon was shining, but all the stars had winked out. My father was sitting on the back step smoking a cigarette when I remerged from Ghost Forest. I was limping hard on my left leg. My pink pajama’s had been torn apart and there were holes where there wasn’t blood. There was blood on my face, hands and chest. I looked at my father. A thick lock of hair was in front of my face. I stared at him breathing hard, my nostrils flared like race horse. He stood up when I stopped just feet out from Ghost Forest. There was an axe leaning against the wooden banister. There was dark red on its blade. 28

The murder weapon. Under the full pale moon I could see its silhouette sharp against the grass. “Well, I was wondering when you would show up. Surprised you didn’t die in there.” He grinned at me like he was my buddy-dad again. I stared at him blankly. His smile wobbled, “Ghost Forest claims its victims. You must be a fighter” He started walking towards me, “Come on Champ. Let’s go inside.” He put his hand over my shoulder. I was trembling. “Sweet Abby! You are shaking like a leaf!” I walked with him towards the house. His hand on my shoulder, and I was limping harder. I stopped by at the end of the stairs. My words came out slowly and breathy, “You’re right, Dad. Ghost Forest does claim all its victims”

When I went to bed that night Ghost Forest’s skeletal branches were tapping at my window. I opened the glass and invited the branches inside. The branches knocked down my dad’s head from the window sill. It fell with a wet PLOP onto the floor.

Colorblind There once was a renowned artist who lived in a black and white world. He was known throughout this world as a brilliant realistic artist. Everything he drew was drawn in extensive detail and he drew the black lines with ease. His art hung in galleries in expensive frames. People with overstuffed pockets clapped their fingers, the clink of their rings were applause all their own, and then their gluttonous eyes moved on to the next piece in the gallery. Losing interest once their eyes reached the next piece. He was well-known, the mass public enjoyed his work, and he was constantly running to keep up with the fast paced world. He needed to be the best. He needed to showcase his abilities. Except, he had run out of ideas. Currently, he was pacing around his tiny dark one-bedroom art studio. Grey light streamed in from the two tiny windows which opened out on a tiny street. He ran a hand through his unruly thick black hair. He could draw everything! Lionesses growling, flowers blooming, women brushing their hair! Many white papers filled with black lines covered the floor. The artist didn’t seem to care that he was crumbling the papers underfoot. He was bored with anything that popped into his mind. As he walked to the other side of the room he ran a long lean white hand through the dark mop of hair on top of his head. He stopped and dropped his head on the window. Arms crossed in front of him and his weight on one hip. His grey eyes surveyed the busy street in front of him. Mothers and children were walking to the park across the way, merchants were peddling their wares, and dogs were snuffling in the garbage. He sighed frustrated with himself, there was an art exhibit in two months and he was completely out of ideas. He muttered to himself, “You’ll get no inspiration by looking out two tiny windows.” He pushed off the window, strode across the room, grabbed his black jacket off the grey chair, snagged the tall black hat off of the coat rack, and slammed the door behind him as he left.

He walked down the grey street hurrying away from the busy city. His feet tapping the pavement, his eyes turned upwards, and his grey eyes took in the darkening grey sky. He closed his eyes breathing deeply the fresh country air. His eyes opened searching for inspiration while walking past a little white picket fence when he lazily moved his eyes over to the house and on the front steps31

He came to an abrupt halt at the sight of the woman in the rocking chair. Her grey hair was coiled gracefully on top of her head, a few pieces hung down by her cheeks, her slender neck was bent over her lap, her lips were parted and her tongue stood out between them. She was gently rocking back and forth tapping her little pale bare foot. She was angelically beautiful. Though it was not her looks which caught his attention. What caught his eye was in her lap. It looked like a blanket! Except, it was not black, grey, or white. It was an entirely different color all together. It was… airy. It was a light and open. It was peaceful and yet it seemed sad somehow. The artist could not come up with the words to describe what was in her lap. This was it! This was the next brilliant thing he could do in the art world! He needed it. He must have it! He rushed over the little white picket fence which separated him from her, leaned over until he was nearly bent in half, and called to the woman, “My lady! What is that you have in your lap?” She sat up abruptly and let loose a YELP at his voice. The fabric fell to the white porch steps, and from the way she rubbed her tongue, it was clear she had bitten it. Whoops. The artist felt the blood rush to his cheeks as she stared at him with accusatory fiery light eyes. She leaned over and plucked the wonderfully colored fabric with two graceful fingers. “I am sewing a blanket, sir. What does it look like I am doing?” Her face showed irritation at his presence at her picket fence. The artist would not be put off by a disgruntled facial expression. He was the best artist in the world! He would not be kept from the colors! “No, my good lady. I mean how did you make that exquisite color?” The woman looked confused at his question. She stroked the blue fabric sitting in her lap,. She brushed the stray grey hairs back behind her ears, “This color I call blue.” She paused for a moment “I-I felt sad, so I felt like making it. Haven’t you ever made something because you felt compelled to do so?” She stared at him with curiosity burning in her eyes. The artists scoffed, “Art is not feeling it is about impressing people! It is about making things people will buy!” Then he pointed to himself, “I am the best artist in the world, and if you tell me how to make the colors I will be the best artist to ever live!” He looked at the woman eagerly awaiting to be invited in. 32

Only she didn’t. She stared at him with thinly veiled disgust in her eyes. He gulped hard. She appraised him slowly with her eyes, “No, I cannot teach you how to make the colors.” She had a far off look in her eyes and muttered “least of all the color blue. I don’t think you have loved a thing in your life.” She cleared her throat and refocused her eyes, “Furthermore sir, I would not want to teach you if I could teach you.” The artist’s mouth dropped open “Don’t you know who I am?!” he said indignantly. The artist pushed off the white picket fence and stood straight glaring angrily at the grey haired woman. The woman too stood to her full height and caught his eyes with a fiery glare, “Pardon me sir, but I do not really care.” with that she grabbed her blue blanket and stormed inside. The white door made a loud ‘BANG’ echoing across the tiny country neighborhood. He stood slack jawed on the grey street outside the little white house with the little white picket fence. He stood. And he stood. The grey haired woman’s words echoed in his head.

It was late when he reached the city. He stomped into his dark apartment. He shucked off his black jacket and threw it into the blackness of his apartment. He walked in and struggled to find a candle. He tripped over his discarded jacket, banged his knee on the desk. He cursed loudly and fell on top of his desk. His expensive vase shattered on the floor. He felt his feet crunch the glass of the vase as he worked his way around his desk until his fingers fumbled and found the cold glass of lamp. He located the cardboard box of matches next to them and lit the lamp. His dark art studio was lit with grey light. He would do this! He would prove the woman wrong! He threw all of the white used parchment paper off his dark desk and onto the messy dusky floor. He grabbed a new white parchment paper, grabbed his sketching pencil, and dropped down heavily into his dark wooden chair.

“I’ll show her! I’m the best artist in the world!” He shouted to his empty room. Only the cats in the alley answered him.

Hours later dawn was creeping through his window. Fresh light grey light fell through his two tiny windows and alighted on the artist’s dark messy head. He was staring at the paper with a few absent minded pencil marks on it. His mind was a blank. His mind was completely and utterly blank. There were no ideas running through his head. It was blanker than it had been the day previously. That was not strictly true. The grey haired woman with the fiery eyes and the blue blanket which was stitched by the most graceful hands kept running through his mind. He swore he could hear her words echoing off the blank walls of of his dark art studio. “Haven’t you ever made something because you felt compelled to do so?” He ran his hands through his unruly black hair. He sighed. He dropped his pencil. He stretched. He sighed. Finally, he picked up the pencil and started drawing. By the time he finished the light was streaming in and lying across the white parchment paper in front of him. There were more black lines than he had seen before on any of his artwork. They were curled and long and slender. The grey haired woman was on the paper. Her fiery eyes stared up at him from the parchment paper. The artist traced over her lines with his fingers. He followed as her grey hair was piled on top of her head. His fingers followed as the few pieces fell from her messy bun. He traced up her neck and to the slope of her nose. His fingers followed the slender lines of her cheeks to her lips. He traced them and imagined her saying those words to him “Haven’t you ever made something because you felt compelled to do so?” 34

He tore his hand abruptly from the paper. The dark chair scraped the floor with a large SCREACH and fell back with a BANG with the artist still in the chair. The artist tumbled out, flipped over himself, and landed on his knees and hands. He breathed heavily. His chest heaving panting up and down. He stared cautiously up at his dark wood desk with the grey lamp light shining upon it. It-it couldn’t be. There, there, there was no way! She said she couldn’t teach himThe artist stood slowly from the floor. The papers rustled beneath his feet. He lifted the paper up into the morning grey light and looked at his picture. He didn’t understand, He only used his fingers. He didn’t use his pencil… On the grey-haired woman’s lips there was a color. It was only slightly lighter than grey, but it was there none the less. It looked almost…feminine. Yes, that was it! It was feminine and gentle and looked very soft. Flower petals blooming with hope in the spring. He traced the lines with his fingers and he whispered, “Beautiful”. Just like the grey-haired woman. As the dawn fully shown in through his two tiny windows. The grey light seemed brighter and he decided that he would call this new color… “Pink” he breathed into the light.

The girl in yellow shorts I sigh and stretch my arms above my head. I lean my head to left and hear a satisfying crack as my neck pops. I have started to get bored. Bored, incredibly bored, very bored. These swing lessons have stretched on and on. I only got here early because I wanted good parking. You never get free parking unless you come early and park on the only open street. I blow my bangs out of my face. I pull at my yellow shorts which have begun to crawl up my legs from all of the dance lessons. They are only teaching the basic “intro to swing” for the newbies. So they aren’t teaching the Lindy Hop, or West Coast, or Blues, really nothing at all interesting. I wish I hadn’t have the long-sleeved green top, it’s hot and I don’t want to get pit stains. Though why should I care? My partners have been less-than stellar. There are slim pickings of the partners. None of them are hot, or can lead properly, or can even keep up semi-decent conversation. I run my fingers through my raven colored curls and sigh loudly. My current partner looks at me almost embarrassed. He’s young, probably eighteen, way too young for me a twenty-six year old. Poor baby, he hasn’t even reached college yet, and he still thinks he is cool stuff. I adjust my dark square rimmed glasses on my nose. Partners keep swirling around me and I get swept up in the music, but no one sweeps me off of my feet. I’m beginning to lose hope, well I’ve been losing hope for a long time, that I would find someone to sweep me off my feet. I fidget with my yellow shorts on the edge of the dance floor. Maybe I should have been nicer during lessons. Or not, definitely not, I didn’t like any of my partners. Except, I would like just one dance. Am I too picky? I just want a dancer who can lead me around the dance floor and maintain eye contact with me once we stop dancing. Well, and maybe a man with a job? Or at least a promising future? A man who isn’t cowed by a strong opinioned woman. It would be nice if he was taller than me. It would also be nice if“Dance with me?” a deep voice interrupted my thoughts. A boy, a little taller than me, with brown slanted eyes smiles at me. His lean hand is stretched out, offering me a dance. I blush and my red lips turn up in a bright smile “I’ve been waiting for you”

R E A T I V E N O N F I C T I O N

Puppy Love The Time I First Noticed the Blue Heeler: was a few weeks after I first adopted my schnauzer terrier mix puppy, Lucy. Lucy has dark fur mixed with dark yellow and dark greys patches on her. She looked like a little oncoming storm, and had the energy of a full blown storm. The imagery stops there because she was as sweet as a sugar plum cloud. She was only six weeks old and her chubby little puppy legs enjoyed little walks to escape my small enclosed yard. Her pink puppy harness, which I had bought when she was only an idea in my head, was practically hanging off of her but she didn’t notice she could walk right out of it. This was a major relief to my new owner nerves. We walked through my country neighborhood all the way down to a house on a street corner before turning back around. There was a blue heeler in the yard of the little one story house which resided on the corner and he sat so still I thought he was a statue. “Maybe he likes that spot”. Lucy, the darling puppy she was, obliviously kept walking. When we started walking back to my house, the blue heeler was sitting still in the yard only wagging his tail when Lucy walked by. The Time I Realized They Were Friends: was a few months later as Lucy got older and I got into the school year. Our daily walks became weekend walks. It had been three months of walking her daily and she was not adjusting very well to the weekend walks. College was wreaking havoc on both of our nerves. She had separation anxiety and I homework anxiety. We were a match made in the mad house. This day, when I got home from school she immediately jumped on me knocking my laptop out of my hands, and putting dirty paws on my white dress. I groaned and patted her head to soothe her anxious nerves, even though my own nerves had turned up when my laptop slapped on to the wood floor. I sighed and I gently placed Lucy’s paws on the ground, threw the stuff in my room, and off we went on our walk. This walk was a little different than usual. Generally, Lucy was pretty good at ignoring other dogs. As they were far beneath her majestic self. The Blue Heeler I had noticed on our first walk had become a permanent fixture during our walks. Even though we didn’t actively interact with him, he was always there either laying beneath the large oak tree or sitting in the blue draped window of the small white house. This day, we left the house about an hour later than usual, Lucy was pulling and anxious to start walking around our neighborhood and to make sure no mischief had occurred under her watch. When we passed by the house where the Blue Heeler was, I noticed he was missing. I shrugged, “maybe he went to the vet or was sleeping in the house”, and I kept walking. Lucy, however did not. She pulled at the pink harness and she barked. She put her whole weight into the pink harness and her lungs were exercising their full power. I struggled to keep her moving, not wanting to draw any attention to my bad pet ownership with her racket. My heart was racing and my blood was in my ears from the potential embarrassment from neighbors seeing my poor dog ownership. While I was anxious about drawing attention to myself, the Blue Heeler popped up in the window of the little one story white house. Lucy ceased her racket immediately and wagged her tail at the Blue Heeler. Whom I swear, waved his tail right back at her. The Time I Realized They were Dating: was every walk, after our frantic dog walk, for the next three years. The Blue Heeler would still sit in the yard waiting for Lucy to come strolling by in her pink harness. Unlike three years ago, Lucy will now sit at the end of the drive way and bark to the Blue Heeler until she is satisfied she is properly up 41

to date about his life. I have finally let her sit there until her hearts content. I have yet to meet the Blue Heeler’s owners, but I know he must have some because he is a well fed dog. Now, when I come home, instead of asking Lucy, “Do you want to go on a walk?” I ask her “Who wants to go see her boyfriend?” I realized the irony of this every time I said it as I myself did not have a boyfriend. Lucy and the Blue Heeler have yet to go on their first date, but I’m sure it will closely resemble her favorite movie Lady and the Tramp. The Time I Realized it was Puppy Love: was when I came home one day and she wasn’t waiting for me in the front yard as she was prone to doing. It was dark outside and opening my door I soon realized she was not in the house. I panicked, called my mother, grabbed a flashlight and started walking around our normal path in my neighborhood. “Maybe she took herself out for a walk?”, I tried to rationalize. I broke into a run calling out her name, and swinging the flashlight around the trees, When I got to the little one story house I swung my flashlight under the big oak tree. I found her curled around the Blue Heeler in the front yard of his house. She looked up and wagged her tail upon seeing me at the edge of the yard, as if saying “oh boy! You’re here! Look what I did!” Then I realized Lucy was in love with the Blue Heeler. The Time I Realized Lucy was my Role Model was when I entered into a long-distance relationship. I grew more aggravated every day not seeing him, and I think Lucy picked up on it. One day I took her for a walk. It was nothing special, the sun was out and the breeze was lousy. I was thinking about taking Lucy back home, because her black fur would suffer in the heat. Except, she kept pulling at her pink harness, I sighed knowing she wanted to see the Blue Heeler We walked the rest of the way to the little corner house and the Blue Heeler was dutifully waiting in the front yard beneath the large oak tree. Lucy sat and barked happily at him, he barked back, and I waited for them to be done so I could take her back home. When we turned back around and were headed home, that’s when it hit me. Lucy had been in a long distance relationship with the Blue Heeler for three years. So if Lucy could do it, then so could I! Recounting this story later to people, they would chuckle at my story. “A dog can’t be your love role model!” they would scoff. Lucy has always been faithful to the Blue Heeler, she has never let a day go by without talking to him, and she is waiting for marriage to have puppies. Truly, Lucy is a better role model than today’s society. So if you are reading this, take comfort from Lucy and her Puppy Love.

About the Author Mary Kathryn is a junior at St. Edward’s University double majoring in Catholic Studies and English Literature. She loves writing, swing dancing, and playing “peak-a-boo” with her dog, Lucy. She has loved reading since her father read her “Mother Goose Bedtime Stories”, and she has love writing since her mother told her stories about the unicorn named Grace. Her lifelong goals include: being an elementary school teacher, earning a PhD, and writing a book not about romance.