Creative Writing Student Portfolio 2019-2020

THE DOCUMENTARIANS FELIX LECOCQ (AB’20)

I like watching Asha’s mom make dinner. There is so much sound in the kitchen and the air smells of Old Bay seasoning. Asha’s little brothers, Scott and Caleb, clatter on the tiled floor, carrying knives and forks from the kitchen to the dining room, while Asha’s mom scrapes the scales off a fish into the sink. Asha puts a bowl of rice and peas into the microwave. As it hums and glows, she fills two new bowls with flour and milk to batter the fish.

Although she and her mom aren’t using it today, my favorite sound in Asha’s kitchen is the timer shaped like a tomato. It twists its stem around, muttering quietly, and rings when the stem returns to its natural position. One day I want things to move around me so suddenly that I have to own a tomato timer.

Because I’m a guest, Asha’s mom shoos me to the kitchen doorway, where Mrs. Lisa is sitting in a chair from the dining room. The boys scamper around her.

“Hello, child,” Mrs. Lisa says, when I stand next to her. I know she has forgotten my name. When we first met, we traded the syllables of my name back and forth until I forgot it too. Mrs. Lisa is a nurse like Asha’s mom, and she’s eight months pregnant. Her house doesn’t have air conditioning, so she spends most of her time at Asha’s.

“Hello, Mrs. Lisa,” I say.

“Are you having dinner with us?” she asks.

Asha’s mom drops the fish into a pot of oil. The oil screams and pops like fireworks. Mrs. Lisa and I wait in the doorway together, listening.

When the dinner is ready, Asha’s dad has come home, and we all sit around the dining room table. Scott and Caleb are sitting in white plastic chairs from the backyard because there aren’t enough dining room chairs for everyone. The fish has crispy skin and a soft inside. After dinner, Asha’s dad drives Mrs. Lisa home, while I help Asha with the dishes.

At seven, it is time to watch the movie. Asha’s mom and two brothers sit on the couch while Asha and I are on cushions on the floor, backs against the couch. I try to remember to blink. Asha shuffles forward and kneels in front of the television. She extracts the VHS from its box and slides the cassette into the VCR player.

She presses play.

The screen shivers. I let go of the breath in my chest, slowly.

A man is walking home at night. His home is a cabin in a wheat field. The man is wearing a brown suit and whistling. There are no crickets in the wheat field. The words THEY HAVE ARRIVED creep out of the darkness, then vanish. The wheat field begins to flicker. The man stops whistling.

“Oh, Asha,” Asha’s mom says. “I said no horror movies.” The twins squeal at the word ‘horror.’

The man stands on his front porch. Light flashes through his world. I want to press my hands to the screen and feel the light flash through me. He shields his eyes with a salute and looks up at the sky. Wind ripples through his hair. He runs into his house and shuts the door. Light falls through the windows like rain. He shuts the blinds, but it’s not enough. All the books in his bookcase fall off the shelves. The radio in his kitchen blares static. The house creaks, shatters, falls open. The light enters.

Light pours down the throat of the man’s house. Light holds the man in a bright-knuckled clench. Light 3