Thursday, September 23, 2010

Creative Writing Class Series #2

Walking down a gum-strewn sidewalk, cracked and weary, she heard a glass bottle shatter behind her. Several drunken men erupted with laughter. One of the men had thrown a bottle at her and her friend but his stupor skewed his aim. She considered how much more terrifying drunk white men were to her than drunken black men. When white men were under the influence, their actions were unconcerned. They knew little about any consequences that might come about if they were to hurt someone or damage property. Rather, they embraced their mental vacancy and encouraged others to join them in destruction. At least that’s how Anastasia saw it. And felt it, as she increased her speed and clutched her friend’s arm more firmly.

Her friend of course was also drunk. Stuck in her own merry nightmare of insanity and liquid courage. She was mumbling to herself. It was dark and it was Spring Fling and Anastasia knew that drunk black men in college were loud but they lived with the knowledge that any wrong move could take away whichever future that they could have hoped for. It was a social handicap and they were subconsciously limited, though they still got all of the reputation. White men, however, would take action. Theycould take action. They were following her now and she wished her friend would pick up her feet so she wouldn’t have to put so much effort into dragging her. It was late and Anastasia no longer felt like babysitting, no longer felt like being the “exotic” black girl in a school filled with whites. She wanted to sit in her room and read or do homework. She wanted not to be scared of the boys steadily following her.

Finally, one wish was answered as the boys lost interest and wavered around a corner to find another muse.

Saturday, September 18, 2010

Creative Writing Class Series #1

I'm in a class so if I like my piece, I'll post it on here. The assignments can only be 200-300 words that's why they are so short. I don't have the actual prompt for this first one but when I find it, I'll update this post. Welllp, here it is:

I can’t say that I ever trusted her the way she would have liked. I was her daughter and she my mother biologically; that was about the extent of it. People said that we must have been close the way I used to drop everything and run if she called. I’m not sure if it was necessarily closeness, or more like what I knew was an obligation I had to my matriarch for bringing me safely into this world. She had not, after all, drank or smoked to the point of rotting my fetal brain before it ever had a chance to develop. She also had not declined to feed or cloth me at any times after she had birthed me. It was this kind of love that made me happy to stay in the house if she needed me while all my friends were out together, only for her to fall asleep minutes into a movie night. And her general concern for my well being that made me content to get her random, last minute, non-refundable plane tickets only to have her change her mind at an even later time knowing that the dollar over minimum wage that I was making per hour was not exactly high rolling and I still had bills to pay. It was my pleasure and the least that I could do now that I was in college.

“Caroline!” she’d say persistently anytime she wanted something and I looked as if I might not oblige immediately. She lit her temper and her face would contort. “You never…” and her list would begin of all the times I had slighted her, embarrassed her, and forgotten her. The list undoubtedly was short, but her tone made it crucial. So I’d forget my plans, loan her money, give her something or all around subject myself to experiences I would otherwise avoid. But at least I knew she’d sacrificed to raise me well and therefore I could sacrifice to keep her happy.