Fiction Writing Gallery

Braids
by Tamasia Johnson, mentee and
Maggie Pouncey, mentor

VM:
The last time I saw Turquoise Lettuce was a hot Sunday in July. She’d come into my life two months before, when against the advice of everyone I knew, I became a foster mother. Of course, the advice givers were all practically dripping with family members, and the anxiety of dying alone was not one with which they were intimately acquainted. But for me, finding a reasonable man had begun to seem impossible, and having children the old fashioned way looked more and more unlikely; this, I thought, is something I can actually do.

TL:
Turquoise Lettuce, Turquoise Lettuce, Turquoise Lettuce. Oh how I hate my name…. If only I had someone to help me, show me, guide me, encourage me, maybe even tell me my name was pretty. Maybe I’d like my name. Just maybe. But why does my name have to be turquoise lettuce anyway? Maybe I can get a name change; Strawberry lime, or Watermelon Kiwi, perhaps. Maybe if I had a friend, person, companion, anybody to tell me my name was beautiful or make me feel special, for once…. (SIGH)

Why don’t I have a home? Here at this place, kids come in and go out. But me, I am always stuck here, in this place, sitting alone in my corner. Doesn’t anyone want me? Why am I not wanted? Why did my mom leave me here? Am I ever going to be able to leave this place?
“Ugh. Look at my hair. I am so stressed how did I let my hair get this way? I always wash it, comb it, love it, but why? I just don’t understand. My hair used to be so beautiful. Am I treating my hair how I’m getting treated? No, that can’t be. Can it? No…yes…no... No… maybe? No, I doubt it. (T.L. Looks around)

VM:
When I first met Turquoise Lettuce, I knew we could save each other. We bonded over hair—a shared obsession. Mine is long, straight as an arrow—violently straight, a man I used to know had called it, like a weapon. Turquoise had long hair too. Her highlights had grown out and she kept nervously touching the top of her head as though she were investigating a wound. Other people might look at hair like ours and call it vanity, but in it, we recognized each other’s insecurity. Hair is a big deal to all women; but hair is everything to women who don’t have enough other things going on in their lives.

TL:
The first time I saw her, I chuckled at what I saw. She was an extremely skinny woman with super straight hair and these black high combat boots and this really long black coat and a dress that went down to her ankles. She looked really, really, tall. But she looked at me! She took me! She loved me!

VM:
In my apartment the first night she wouldn’t touch anything, as if she didn’t believe it was real, as if it might dissolve on contact. I’d left her room pretty plain: I told her I wanted her to make it her own—move the furniture around if she wanted, choose a color for the walls. When she chose to paint the room turquoise a few weeks later we both felt proud. It seemed like a good sign. You’d think I’d know by now there’s no such thing. What looks like a sign is really just your own dumb hope shining back at you.

We went for walks in the neighborhood, and made up stories about the people we passed. The sedate couple with the corgi were secretly bank robbers; the gray haired man with the pipe who looked worldly had never even been on the subway, he’d never left home. One night we watched old movies on the couch and I let her curl my hair. I looked like a middle aged woman trying to relive her prom. Turquoise laughed hard, like she hadn’t laughed in a long time, and I didn’t even mind that she was laughing at me.

TL:
Dear Journal, This place is so awesome. I cannot believe she let me paint my room. How cool! I even have my own bed with my own sheets, pillows and covers. This morning, Mom… (BREATH) Mom made breakfast. Eggs with bacon and a happy face pancake. It was delicious! And it was all for me. Then, later, as I was looking in the mirror, she came in and played with my hair. She put it into a braid, and we told stories, and played cards, and slid around the house in our socks. We even like the same TV show, I Love Lucy.

VM:
The next day we walked in the park, which was filled with families barbecuing, tossing Frisbees, playing soccer—honestly these families had enough people in them to make up two small teams. I was standing, watching a father try to teach his young son to dribble the ball…

TL:
I just can’t take it. But didn’t I ask for this? A loving home and a mom. She was everything I could ask for… But why am I leaving?

VM:
And I turned and reached out my hand to tell Turquoise their story— the father had a brother who was a professional soccer player and this man was tortured by his envy—but she was gone, vanished, as if she’d never really been there in the first place, as if she’d dissolved on contact.

TL:
Should I return? Would she want me? Does she want me? Did she want me? Will there ever be anymore picnics in the park? Anymore trips to museums? (Sigh) No more seeing her strap her boots… No more having to hurt my neck so that I can talk to her. No more hugs. No more laughter. No more Joy. No more

 

Through the Eyes of a Bull
by Anna Witiuk, mentee

My old Legos sit on our garage window collecting dust. They sparkle underneath cobwebs and splintered wood every time the sun hits them. I played with them all the time when I was young. I loved making up adventures about pirates and their captives. I always had the one Lego girl as the center of attention. She wore a simple blue dress, but I was attracted to it all the same. Mom has a few sundresses. One that I particularly like is white and it has a low, frilly V-neck. The ruffles perk up when Mom spins and she looks like a beautiful blooming flower. I’ve tried it on a couple of times when she wasn’t home, but it doesn’t fit, of course, because I don’t have such childbearing hips as she does.

My father’s race car also sits in our garage. She’s a ’72 Porsche Turbo Carrera. He named her Ella. She’s only about five years old. Every morning, before anyone else is up, he tiptoes down the garage steps to look at her. He keeps her perfectly clean and dust-free. She’s red and she has one yellow stripe riding over her hood and down over her trunk. My father doesn’t brag about her. He never has. He likes keeping her a secret among only a few of his friends. I’ve followed him a few times to the garage, silently watching him. He stands back from her for a second. Then he slides the cover off and his eyes light up, like a little boy at Christmas. He smoothes his fingers over her windows and wheels. He looks into her mirrors and always makes sure he can see his reflection in her hood. It’s strange though, because he never gets in. He just sits on the ground and watches her, admires her. She’s his prize. I think he feels the safest around her. My father’s never caught me looking at him, unlike Mom.
Every Saturday morning, Mom puts on what she calls her “cuttin’ loose” make-up. She says since it’s the day before church, God will allow one day of outings and drinking. She sits at her mirror in her room and does her little routine. I’ve memorized it.
First, she pulls her hair back. Then she washes her face. And then, she pulls out her drawer filled with makeup. When I was little, it looked like a deep cave full of magical gems and jewels. Life has taken a toll on Mom’s face making her look tired and weather-beaten. But when she puts on her Saturday make-up her face becomes alive and it glows with a beauty that can only be magic. When she applies her make-up, she’s so gentle and precise. She’s exactly what I imagine femininity is. I always watch her intently, looking at how she moves her dark rouge in circles.
She is a real woman, I think, as I sit on the corner of her bed. She smiles at me through the mirror. She brushes her hair behind her ears and shakes it a bit.
“Whaddya think?” she asks. She adjusts her earrings. I stare at her for a moment.
“Perfect,” I whisper. She smiles again and turns around to look at me. Her brown curls bounce and shine. She looks as if she’s about to do the same.
“Okay, your turn honey,” she says excitedly. I think she loves making me up more than she does herself. She gets up and moves me to her chair. I carefully sit, not wanting to break her chair. She plays with my hair for a few seconds.
“So,” she says, “what shall it be this week?”
“I dunno.” I’m really bad at making decisions.
“Well… fifties vogue or… summer colors, since it is summer… or,” she gasps, “how about Cabaret! Like night time Cabaret! A little scandalous?” She raises her eyebrow and gives me a seductive halfsmile. “I can give you that Marlena Deitrich face, honay!” She laughs richly, opening wide her lovely red mouth. I love that idea! I nod slowly. I don’t want to seem too enthusiastic because this is all new tome still. She opens up her drawer of tricks and within a half-hour, I have deep reds and browns streaked wildly across my face. I look beautiful! My face is like a dark, porcelain bowl.
“Look at you,” Mom stammers, “You look gorgeous.”
“It’s all on you, Ma.”
“I know but…you make it special,” she says. I smile.
Mom caught me with her make-up on when I was ten. She had gotten really angry and shouted that I was too young, how dare I go through her personal things. But I knew she was avoiding the real reason she was feeling so pissed. She also knew that my father would kill me. We didn’t talk about that incident until about two months ago. She had caught me again, on my seventeenth birthday, with her Lord & Taylor eyeliner and lipstick. She had instinctively yelled, but after a moment she smiled and told me I was applying it wrong.
I’m not very good at applying make-up. She’s shown me billions of techniques, and now I do it on my own. Saturday mornings are especially for us, though.
“Okay, honey, you need to take it off. You know what he’d say.” Her face becomes sullen and she looks like she’s going to cry. She takes one more look at me and kisses my head.
“You’re truly beautiful, sweetie. This look suits you.” She pauses and then sings, “You do zat voodoo zat you do so vell.” Her voice barely squeezes out this sultry verse. She hands me the tissue. “I’ll be in the kitchen.” She tugs on my hair teasingly and leaves the room. I stare at myself.
I imagine that I’m on a dark stage. The black lights are hitting my body. I’m dressed in a corset and blinding red heels. I can feel the audience’s eyes on me. My body is curved in a sexy position and the velvet from my corset is rubbing up against my stomach. My hand lifts from my chair, and the audience gasps. I reach for the veil covering my face. The audience becomes a small murmur. I have them in the palm of my hand. The drum roll starts and the lights flicker. I can hear the audience getting louder. My insides turn with adrenaline and I feel like I’m going to burst. So the moment of truth comes and I grab the veil and yank it off. It falls to the stage. My heart is beating ferociously. I can see Ella. She’s gleaming red, like my lips. She challenges me. The audience challenges me. Then Father stands up from the audience. I open my eyes.
His face is in the mirror. He’s yelling and bright red. He hits me. I’m on the floor. I can feel the burning heat on the side of my face. I hear Mom shouting. She’s trying to pull him off of me. I’m crying. The make-up is smearing and he’s hitting me.
“John! Get off him!” Mom is sobbing. My father is yelling FAGGOT and FUCKING PANSY. I fall into my own dreams, trying to escape. He finally lets go and falls back onto the carpet. We’re all staring at each other, catching our breaths.
“Just go outside, John,” Mom forces out, “go outside, John.”
He pauses for a moment, and then he stands. He steadies himself with the bedpost. He then looks me up and down really slowly, and his face turns to total disgust. My heart drops, and my knees go completely numb.
“Fucking fairy,” he mutters as he turns and leaves. Mom and I don’t move. I think Mom is trying to calm herself down before she deals with me. I touch my face and look at my hand. Blood or maybe lipstick is smudged on my palm. I get up. I can’t stay here any longer. As I limp through the door, I pass Mom who’s still standing, staring off into the distance of the rug. Her chest is heaving with quiet sighs. I run to my room and slam the door. I fall into my bed exhausted. I cry harder than I think I ever have in my life. I cry until I can feel the make-up has been completely washed from my face.
I guess I had fallen asleep because the next time I open my eyes, it was much later. I’m hungry, so I silently creep out of my room and go down into my kitchen. Mom isn’t there. I suddenly need her. I feel scared without her. I leave the kitchen to find her.
“Ma! Where are you?” I pass by the garage steps and I can see Father sitting inside his car. His knuckles are white as a ghost and they grip the wheel. He looks up at me, his eyes glazed over. I feel horrible and dirty inside. I’ve let him down, haven’t I? We stare at each other for what seems like forever. I try holding my ground. I’m scared shitless.
“You like chicks?” he asks, breaking the silence.
I’m taken aback. I always have! But when I’ve looked at the faggots on Christie Street, wearing stilettos and big wigs, I’ve imagined myself wearing their dresses. But I’ve always liked girls! I nod.
“You don’t like to fuck guys?” I look down at the smudged rouge on my arm. My heart skips a beat. No. I’ve never wanted to. I shake my head ‘no’. He stares more inquisitively into my eyes. He’s looking for a flinch, something that would tell him that I am lying. But I think I’m telling the truth, so I don’t move. He turns his head back towards the wheel. He nods slowly. He looks so tiny and frail now. Ella seems to have swallowed him inside of her as he slumps farther into her seat. I want to run and hug him. I want to tell him I’m still the same old Thomas, his little man, Thomas. I am the same fucking Thomas who watched him as he changed Ella’s tires. But I can’t. I can’t take one more step closer to him.
“I’ll be outside,” I say. I walk out onto our porch steps and sit down. The setting sun glows like amber. It pours down onto my face. I close my eyes and I feel the summer dusk creep into my skin and bones. My body that once felt tied up and bonded is untangled. I can never explain it, because to him, it is all black and white. I’m done with wishing that I could. So I just sit here, with an uneasy sense of peace and, for once in my life, a silent mind.

A Single Prayer
By Iemi Hernadez-Kim, mentee

In Catholic school they teach you that a prayer is a conversation with God. You can ask God anything and if you deserve and need it, He’ll give it to you. That’s what they told me; a single prayer can change everything.

Martha was beautiful. All the young boys wanted to date her. She had this presence with her that made you smile and laugh. She was modest about her beauty, too. She wouldn’t talk about it, but she knew that she was gorgeous. Her heart was warm; also she always thought of others before herself.

She grew up in a typical Mexican home: family everywhere, celebrating September 16, living in a house that was huge in order to fit a huge family. Her mami would always cook Mexican food every day and squeeze orange juice. If you looked out the window of her house, you’d see the mountains, and each morning you’d wake up to the smell of freshly baked bread, since the house was by a market—but at night you had to close the doors or mosquitoes will come and suck your blood. But she moved to the States at age 6, exchanging a great life for a two-bedroom apartment and all of the flaws that New York had to offer.

I met her at school when she first moved in. There were a lot of Latinas in my school, so she really didn’t have a big problem getting used to the school, and she also had a lot of cousins in the states so everything was fine. Some girls were jealous of her because she was the prettiest girl and nicest girl in first grade, but their jealousy evaporated when they started to talk to her.

Even though everything in school was great, everything at home wasn’t. Her papi wasn’t the healthiest person around. In Mexico his health wasn’t that great, but in the States, it was much worse. He was open to fast food and a job that required him to lose a lot of energy. One day Martha didn’t come to school because her papi had to have surgery. Actually, she didn’t come for that entire week. When she finally came back, dark lines were imprinted below her eyes.

She told me that she couldn’t wait until summer, so she’d be able to rest and take care of her papi and be there for her mami. But summer made things worse. Even after the surgery, her papi still smoked and ate unhealthy food. There was a rumor one time, when Martha came to school with bruises for a week, that he’d started to beat her. As her papi got worse, so did she. Sometimes she called me crying, because she was so confused and didn’t know what to do. I never knew what to tell her.

Second grade started, and she came back with the circles still imprinted under her eyes. For fun, our new teacher wanted to make a long prayer for the class that would have everything that we wanted to pray for throughout the year. She taped a long piece of paper on the board and wrote “My Second Grade Prayer.” Two people went before Martha. One said she wanted to pray for her grades to get better, the other one said she wanted to pray for a new bike; when Martha stood up she said she wanted to ask God if he could take her life in order to save her papi’s. The teacher stopped the exercise and made Martha go to counseling and even talked to her parents, but that did nothing to help.

During the spring we started to get ready for First Communion. As all the girls got excited at the thought of buying new dresses that would make them look like brides, Martha kept getting worse. This time she would miss weeks of school and when she did come to school, she still had the lines underneath her eyes. And she had messy hair, no lunch, and a dirty uniform.

The day before First Communion we had rehearsal at church. She sat next to me. After we practiced receiving the bread, we had to kneel down and pray. In the middle of it, she whispered to me, “Remember the first day of school, when the teacher had that paper with the prayers on it?”

“Yea.”

“I just asked God if he would take my life for my papi’s, but this time I’m really serious.”

I had no idea what to say. I just turned my head and kept praying.
The next day, at First Communion, I received the Bread for the first time and then walked down the aisle and looked at all the faces smiling at me and taking pictures. When I got to the bench, I knelt and folded my hands. Then I looked to my side and saw an empty seat. Martha wasn’t there.

I found out later, that after rehearsal, Martha went home, went to her room and fell asleep. Then, at 9 AM, when her mami went to wake her up, Martha just kept sleeping. She was dead. The doctors said that she died because her heart had just stopped beating. But everyone knew the true reason.

Her funeral was a week later, and everyone in the class went. Martha lay in a small casket and she wore a lot of makeup so you couldn’t see her tired face. Her mami had dressed her in a beautiful white dress, polished white shoes, a sheer veil, and nicely polished nails; her fingers were wrapped around a small bouquet. I’ve never seen anyone more peaceful than Martha. When I saw her papi, I’ve never seen anyone healthier and more depressed than he was.

It’s true what I learned in Catholic school: A prayer is a conversation with God. A prayer can change everything. I’m still trying to figure out if I’m ready to ask God.

Para…
Mi familia
(en los Estados Unidos, Mexico, y Corea)
Dios
Y
Mi Tia

 

 

Chess Warfare: Trapped
By Carmen Li, mentee

King; don’t go towards the forest, tricky tree folks linger at the borders for someone to fool; not to the left either, your opponent is waiting; do you see the deep, black hole over there in the corner, so dark and unclear; it is not the best place to go; don’t even think about the swamp; you don’t want to walk right into a confusing death; it’s anytime now before you make your move; before you lead yourself right into your own deathbed; why not that move; but you will need to sacrifice the other pieces that you would need, the companions you are needy towards; how about that move; but you would sacrifice your most important piece; queen, how wounded your heart will be when your queen is gone forever; it’s anytime now before you make your move; before you lead yourself right into your own deathbed; there are many places you can choose and still survive; but think carefully; choose carefully; you don’t want to be trapped in the corner that you are already in; make a move, any move; but you don’t want to lead yourself right into your own deathbed; you won’t want to walk into that trap, do you; you see that trap over there; don’t go; your opponent is waiting for you on the left, filled with his sly eyes, his wicked, disgusting grin; towards the forests, the tree folks are unpredictable, the ones who can lead you around in circles in the forest, for the rest of your life; think carefully; choose carefully; importance is defense; importance is protection; save as much as you can; don’t offense until it is done so to you; anytime now; it is anytime now that you lead yourself into your own deathbed; King.

 

The Uniques
By Arielle Pine, mentee

I can’t see people who aren’t as they appear to be. They’re all invisible and phony. They smile in your face and pretend like they care about you, but all the while, behind closed doors, they despise you for reasons unknown.

All the while, I’ve been blinded, unable to see the negativity, unable to feel the bad vibes coming from them. Poor me. What did I do to deserve this? To end up the target of such hate? I say to myself, “It’s not right, it’s not fair. I was nice. Well, most of the time. And I didn’t get mad at anybody. At least, not all of the time.”

Then the idea comes. I know: I’ll always be nice I’ll never get mad again. See, I’m going to prove to them I can be the perfect friend. The perfect person to be around. I’ll always be the one to make you laugh and smile. But wait a minute, what about when somebody makes me unhappy? What about when somebody tries to upset me? Shouldn’t I get
mad? Shouldn’t I get angry?

No, I guess I shouldn’t. I guess I should just keep smiling as if none of it bothers me. I guess I should wear a sign, “Only here to please,” and then everyone will like me. Everyone will always want to be around me.

I close my eyes and open them a few years later.

Why is everybody so sad? Why is everybody crying? And why is everybody dressed all in black? And why am I lying down in a coffin dressed up so nicely? Oh my god! No, this means…I can’t, I can’t be dead. How, why, when, and where did this happen? What was the cause of it? I don’t remember the circumstances.

My eulogy is being read aloud. It says that I was such a good person. It says that I always made everybody smile and everybody happy, which was a good thing. At least I didn’t die the person everybody didn’t want me to be. But wait, there’s—oh goody—some more. I hope that they mention how I stopped saying what was on my mind and how I stopped mentioning what was bothering me!

The sad pastor begins to speak about how it was such a shame that I died from stress and the pressure of being what everybody wanted me to be, and not speaking my mind and keeping whatever bothered me all bottled up on the inside. “If she just had been herself,” he says, finishing the sermon, “this unnecessary death would never have
happened!”

I feel myself being lowered into the ground.

No, wait! This can’t be happening. I should be alive, smiling and laughing. I should be happy, playing and having fun. Not resting eternally until the Almighty comes. It’s early for me to go. I want to live again.

Then that’s when I realized I was–I wasn’t—really living to begin with. Of course, I was alive. And if I was alive, then I had to be living, right? I open my eyes a little wider, and see Truth.

“Oh yes, you were alive but you weren’t living at all,” Truth says. “You were just being.”

“You were being what everybody else wanted you to be. You were so busy thinking about them and not concerned with yourself that you let everybody step all over you. You stopped saying what was on your mind and you kept everything bottled up all on your poor insides. And while you were busy being what everybody wanted, you were getting weaker, and suddenly your heart just stopped trying. It couldn’t take all the stress, all the pain that was stored inside it. It stopped living for you when you stopped living to be with them.”

At last, Truth asks me a question.

“Why did you do this to yourself?”

And all I say is: “I do not know. I wish I could’ve been able to figure this all out before I died. I wish I could’ve figured out that everybody doesn’t have to be like you, and if they can’t accept you for you, then they aren’t the type of people you need to be around. I wish I could’ve figured out that it’s always good to be nice, kind, caring and gentle to people who treat you nicely, kindly, and gently. And that when something is bothering you, you shouldn’t keep it inside. When you want to speak up, just say what’s on your mind, as long as you do it in an appropriate way. And last but not least, I wish I could’ve figured out why—why did I wait, wait until it is too late to realize that it is wrong to try to be everything people wanted? Nobody’s perfect!”

The Truth is, I was trying to please the Clique. They have to talk to a certain kind, the kind exactly like them. They spend a lot of money on accessories instead of necessities. They don’t like people who don’t watch the same thing they watch. They like to go out with each other, with people who only eat the things that they eat. They discriminate against people like me, the Uniques. But that shouldn’t be my concern. I shouldn’t care much about people who like to hang out with their clones.

I am—I was—part of another group. We’re the Uniques. We like to do our own thing. We don’t try to fit in by changing ourselves to accommodate with the likes of others. We are friends with anyone who is friendly and respectful. We don’t try on friends for fashion and fit.

 

The Tongue-Twisted Tooters
By Mona Haddad, mentee
Andrea Juncos, mentor

A Tudor who tooted a flute, tried to tutor two tooters to toot. Said the two to their tutor: is it harder to toot or to tutor two tooters to toot?

The Tudor replied: One-One was a racehorse. Two-Two was one, too. When One-One won one race, Two-Two won one, too.

What about Elvin and the eleven benevolent elephants? Did they win, too?

Not in unique New York, because a noisy noise annoys an oyster, and well, there are no oysters in New York (those selfish shellfish).

Do you think you’ll need our needles?

I need not your needles, they're needless to me; for kneading of noodles, they’re needless, you see; but did my neat knickers but need to be kneed,
I then should have need of your needles indeed. Where are your needles anyway?

They’re down in the deep damp dark dank den, drowning under dust bunnies. The number of dust bunnies is not even funny. Can you recommend a good maid?

I would if I could, but I can't, so I won't. My maid with a duster made a furious bluster dusting a bust in the hall. When the bust it was dusted, the bust it was busted; the bust it was dust, that’s all.

I heard about that! A pack of pesky pixies known for their scams, stings, and skullduggery tricked her into this troubling trap. Round and round the royal rooms these ragged rascals ran until the coast ‘came clear, where they poured a putrid potion over the trusty dusty bust and when the maid came with her duster, they huddled hushed and watched.

Right! With giggles and guffaws they paraded the halls, pausing for a proper applause. In a fury she fled, flailing her duster, feathers falling all over the ground. She was quite flustered! How do you feel, by the way?

Of all the felt I ever felt, I never felt a piece of felt which felt as fine as that felt felt, when I first felt that felt hat's felt.

You feel felt.

It’s from wearing too many preshrunk silk shirts.

Oh. Now, pick a partner and practice passing, for if you pass proficiently, perhaps you’ll play professionally. Tooting is a job, you know.

We can’t. We have the flu. Please don’t scoff at our cough. Thank the other three brothers of our father's mother's brother's side instead.

Well, you know – it's not the cough that carries you off; it's the coffin they carry you off in.

…Huh. I just thought a thought, just now, but the thought I thought wasn't the thought I thought I thought. Incredible.

I, Peter Piper, pick a peck of pickled peppers at least once a month. You’re a pickle, now. You’ll never be a cucumber again.

(Oh. and I think it’s harder to toot.)

 


Triumph of Music, by Carmen Li, mentee
Sources of Music, by Susanna Horng, mentor

 

Triumph of Music

Swirls of fire represented those crisp waves weaved by Lady, who has waited on rose-colored sheets with thread between her delicate fingers. She kissed thin logs and created holes, which she pressed and sweet voices sang out of those mysterious tubes. Harmonious whispers blew between her bright yellow hairs, making existing redness even hotter than before. Winding folds of maroon petals took part in surrounding her with euphonic bliss. Golden walls trapped pounding notes in her heart, and Gentleman came and picked her up. They tiptoed with melody fastened to their legs, his masculine limbs serving to brace Lady and soothingly, they waltzed through their painted clouds of romance, with fairies swirling watercolors to their gowns ranging from a lovely scarlet to daydreamed blues.

Sources of Music

Stars burst inside a scarlet womb. Scheherazade weaves a circus of passion, jealousy, betrayal, death, love. A bridge to magic lands, where birds ferry us across the earth; where angels pluck violins, weave stories, cradle menorahs; where ladies lounge against swans by the lake; where lions buck, goats prance, snakes slither. Planting seeds in our ears. Chords of hope flower in the concrete jungle, by the fountains, on the sidewalks, on the streets, in the subways, in the buses, in cramped apartments, stacked one on top of another, climbing higher and higher, our heads cloudy, our eyes blind, and then we are refreshed, mothered by the melody of marigold trees.
 
Chocolate Ants
by Apolonia Aquirre, mentee

Our meeting was considered forbidden. I'd left long before and may have had some regrets. “We should have done this, we should have done that. We should have kissed!" All my regrets diminished when I saw him again, that one bright summer morning on June 19, 2005, outside with the droning buzz of insects in the long afternoon.

My arms were wet with sweat. I waited by the entrance way of my father's apartment. I continued to wait for his call. I waited so long I became delirious, bathed in humidity and noticing the line of ants coming my way to take me to their queen. Finally the phone rang and in one fell swoop I murdered a colony. In excitement, I yelled at him for the delay.

The phone melted in my hands. He spoke of meeting me yet he hadn't known where I was. An hour of confusion had ended and I waited for his infamous white car. I noticed so many others had the same car.

From afar I knew it was him as he drove up swiftly and parked. My heart raced frantically. I didn't know what to say. He stepped out of the car in a way that was mesmerizing and graceful, and came by me with a smile and two cherry cokes. I twiddled my fingers, studied his face, and leaped out to hug him. He smiled, lit a cigarette, and poked me with his index finger to get my attention and express his funny weird reaction. We didn't have time for tears. We just hopped into the car and drove for eternity.

We drove to an old cemetery that he lived close to. He spoke of how cemeteries struck his morbid fancy as we made a left turn into the path of the dead. He told me his grandmother was buried there. I emphasized with an aww and a scratch of my nose. I was slightly aware and completely captivated, intoxicated, and caught off guard by his boyish beauty. His name? Lovely, Nuzz, Sweetie, Darling,…. but most appropriate....Steven.

We made it to his house. Steven entered and I followed shyly and politely within the cluttered living room. He pardoned the mess once again. I didn’t mind much. I was there to see him, even if it meant sinking and nearly dying in a pile of boxes. I chuckled and remained at my place when Steven disappeared into the dim hallway. He reminded me of the lack of electricity as his voice echoed calling me over. I walked toward the dim hall and into his room where it was dark and warm. Small light escaped from the make shift curtains near his bed. Steven searched for a lighter in his pockets and ran off once again, returning with an armful of scented candles. Their fragrance was like a dream, red roses, and Steven lit them in stern yet blissful visage. As usual, in methane addicted nature, he lit another cigarette and placed his back painfully onto the side of the bed. He puffed smoke and looked to me still at the doorway, gave me a memorable smirk, and asked if I’ll stay there forever, offering a seat next to him.

I sat on my knees smoothing out my black pants and mesh top. Steven stared to the blinking red candles placed neatly in front of him. I sensed I wasn’t the only one nervous. Anxiety overtook my body and the cherry cokes caused my stomach to violently stir. We talked and couldn’t take in the fact we where finally together again. It called for a celebration, a ganja celebration. To his delight the air later smelt of burnt leaves. It upset my stomach after a few puffs, but the scent was delicious. Tired, I laid my head on his shoulder and he placed his onto mine. I visualized and saw us together from a distance. We were beautiful, happy and reunited. Euphoria dulled our senses which made it feel eternal.

We became playful. I showed him my naval piercing and he laughed and asked to touch it. I agreed. Amazed, he continued to examine my naval. Steven adored my piercing and politely flipped the bottom of my top to its rightful place. I sat once again on the bed. My back began to hurt. Steven suggested we both lay on the bed. I followed suit, and laid in his arms, safe from evil.

To look at Steven was heavenly in the literal sense. He wore the face of the Virgin Mary and held a gaze almost feminine and boyish. He was a pale boy, flushed, and rosy warm in his lightly freckled cheeks. His eyes were red, puffy, and lazy, but what made them dazzling was the flood of emerald, bits of orange, and swirls of gray. His hair draped brown, was soft, and long to his shoulders. It grew longer since the last time I saw him. The change in appearance wasn’t dramatic, but he became ever more attractive. I couldn’t help but to look away and glimpse a few times like a loopy horny school girl. I looked away again. “So smart” he says. We wasted the afternoon in each others embrace merely talking, being naughty, and rebellious.

Soon I became aware of my need to leave. He groaned a little, glimpsing his watch as he arose from the bed. I stayed for a while in his bed where his pillow felt most enjoyable. It was then that it happened. He bent over, looked me in the eye, and kissed my lips. It was a release that held for eternity. I was in bliss.

We departed from the room. The candles were carelessly left and still lit. We met outside where the sunlight burned my eyes. I remembered the air most definitely, pregnant with the summery fragrance of green and moisture. I sat sadly and bothered in his inferno of a car. Being only a block away from my father’s, I asked to stay a little longer with Steven.

We drove to a nearby park that had been going under construction. A little confused and a lot more dazed I thought to myself as we sat together at the park bench and table. I insanely took pictures to capture the moments, the moments we danced and hopped around like children calling the squirrels our way to play. We spoke until the late twilight of the evening sky, and walked back to the same entrance way where I initially waited. We sat under the sidewalk stage light of an insect’s demise. I shared my sketchbook with him and shared conversation of home, mother, myself, and the usual. I felt like I was losing my mind from the stress, only with him I found myself laughing at it all. Steven quickly in an abrupt fashion grasped my pinkie finger. I looked to him in inquiry. It was sweet of him. He was just a little boy refusing to sleep, not unless his mother’s pinkie was in his hand. Steven shared something personal and unknown to me from yesteryear until now. His mystery and shape would later reveal itself…