LITR 3731 Creative Writing UHCL sample student fiction submission 2003

LITR 3731: Creative Writing
Student Fiction Submission 2003

Giselle Hewitt

This began as a very short narrative I wrote a few years ago. The first paragraph, part of the second, and the last two paragraphs are from the original, but the whole middle is new. I haven’t made a whole lot of changes from the one sent out for draft exchanges, but I feel it is a lot more developed from the original. I have also included an additional fiction “The Difference is in the Packaging”. It was somewhat of an experiment, but I really enjoyed writing it.

Injected Memories

Leafy hands sprawl against the sky winking and waving, as if to say, “Hello, Ma’am. How are you today?” With my hands propped behind my head, I stretch out on the grassy hill, and I smile and nod to acknowledge their existence. The snarled oak above me is fully blooming this time of year, but when the wind blows, I catch a glimpse of her hidden shape and remember what she is really like.

I am not sure why I was in the attic, or what led to the event, but I knew it had happened. With his cold hand placed firmly on my back, he pushed me down the stairs. Today, I close my eyes and can still feel the impression of his hand and the tears that ran down my face. That day, I sat quietly working in my activity books during the long trip home. Picking up the green crayon, I said to myself, “Green. All the 3’s are green,” and meticulously colored in the lines like I was taught. When I would get home, I would run up the sloped driveway, and leap into my Mom’s arms. “How is my beautiful daughter,” she would ask, “Did you have a good visit?” And I would tell her how bad it was. “He is mean Mamma; he hurt me.” Showing her what he had done, I would place my hand on her back and push. She would grab and kiss my forehead, and tell me how much she loved me.

There was no kiss. Instead she handed me a piece of paper and a pen, and I knew what she wanted me to do. Spread out on the kitchen table I wrote, “Dear Mr. Judge, My Daddy is mean. He hurts me and my sisters. I don’t want to live with him. Please help me.” He stopped coming to visit after that, and I knew that we were alone. We stopped seeing the Doctor, and the big white van marked CPS with the nice lady never came again. But things got worse.

Sleeping tight like little pigs-in-the-blanket, four of us lay cramped with each other’s warmth, while the older three lay nestled in the other room. I remember dreaming, I was a Samurai warrior and fighting off the bad men. Someone must have snuck up behind me though because I was awoken by the feeling of cold metal clashing across my back. Rubbing my eyes, I looked up to see a set of glowing eyes over me. “Get up, we have work to do.” Following the eyes out of the room into the light of the hallway, I saw her and realized I was no longer dreaming. As I made my way into the living room, I saw my sisters there waiting for me to join them. She was pacing back and forth, with a clothing hangar in hand. “What’s going on?” I asked Mae. “She’s mad,” she said wide eyed. And I smiled wanting to laugh at her yellow mopped top hair.

Ami shot a glance to quiet us. Being one of the older ones, she knew she was responsible for checking our work. Before I could shift my eyes back towards Mamma, she leapt forward and grabbed her by the hair. I felt a shriek escape my lungs, as I watched Ami being dragged across the floor. But she gave me a look of reassurance as if she was ready for what we knew was coming next. “Dirty, filthy children,” she said as she wiped the T.V. console with her hand. Smearing the gray matter across Ami’s face, she looked at us with piercing pain. I wanted to cry, but I knew we weren’t supposed to.

“Who folded the towels last?” she asked. My mind raced to the day and with fear across my face tried to remember what I had forgotten to do. She dropped Ami to her feet and began walking towards the bathroom, and we knew to follow. Raging through shelves of linens and towels, she threw them all into piles. Mae and I, grabbing hold of a sheet, began to fold, “labels in, side to side, then top to bottom,” just as we were taught. We knew the sooner we got started, the sooner we could go back to bed. But she grabbed the sheet from our hands and tossed it at our feet again saying, “Not tonight.” Turning towards the bathroom door with a blank stare, she instructed, “Grab a pile.” Looking up at Ami’s gaping confusion, I knew this was something new.

Stepping out onto the back porch, we dropped the sheets and towels into a pile where Mamma pointed. Taking the cap off of the rusty, red can she held in her hand, she began to pour the contents onto our pile. She then struck a match and tossed it to her feet. Flames leapt up into the trees as the smell of smoke filled my lungs. Watching the orange haze dance in Mae’s eyes, as she struggled to pull her t-shirt past her underwear and her spotted knees, I remember wishing I had marshmallows. Looking as cold as the concrete underneath our feet Mamma turned and said, “Now go to bed.”

I remember laughing the first time I told this story to my friend. “Why are you laughing?” she asked with a look of revulsion. I wasn’t sure what to tell her, other than, that is what my sisters and I always did when we remembered the days like this. “That isn’t normal,” she said. She spoke of bedtime stories that always ended with a kiss, of Saturdays full of mid-morning cartoons and chocolate cereal right out of the box, of trips to the zoo, and picnics on the lawn. And I became angry. Falling to my knees, I shook my fist at the sky. My head, too heavy for my shoulders to bear, fell to sweaty palms as I struggled to stand. And I began to run.

Fuming at anyone resembling me, I packed one large, black bag filled with tightly rolled clothing and a few personals and took the first plane departing DFW airport gate B-1. Stepping out of the plane, cold, crushed icicles covered my boots, and I accepted that I was now living in Wisconsin. Knees tucked tightly, I curled up in bed. Donning three layers of clothing, including two pairs of thermal socks, thoughts dashed through my mind of those whom I wanted nothing to do with. I knew I had to resolve the past even though I wasn’t sure what I would find. I contacted my father via email and wrote, “Dear Dad, Just a short notice to let you know that I now reside in the state of Wisconsin. Lee.”

Over the next few weeks, we exchanged vague e-mails, chronicling the days’ activities, until one day he asked if he could have my phone number. For three days, I left this email on my desktop; I could not answer it, nor could I close it. Finally, taking a deep breath, I typed out the ten-digit number and pressed send. “Ring, ring, ring!” I looked at the phone and then at the clock on the wall. Only two hours ago I had sent that letter: it could not be him. Searching for breath, I reached my trembling hand towards the telephone. “Ring, ring, ring!” I jumped back startled from the second set of rings. I jolted and grabbed the phone off the receiver and said, “Hello.” The man at the other end replied, “Hello, Lee. This is Dad.” The rest of his words faded, and I could only hear the echoing of, “Dad.” This was my Dad.

Injected Memories

(Earlier Draft)

Leafy hands sprawl against the sky winking and waving, as if to say, “Hello, Ma’am. How are you today?” With my hands propped behind my head, I stretched out on the grassy hill, and I smile and nod to acknowledge their existence. The snarled thick oak above me is fully blooming this time of year, but when the wind blows, I catch a glimpse of her hidden shape and remember what she is really like.

At one time, we were Mom’s little army of seven, but slowly her army had shrunk in number. Her soldiers disappeared one by one, marching out our door and joining my father’s force. For the simple fact that he commanded the opposing force, he automatically shut himself out of my life. Swimming in a river of tears, I would try to hide my shame from her as her words would echo in my ears, “Take responsibility for your actions. If you were not such a bad little girl, they would still be here.” How far would a mother go to insure a child’s love? I could never believe that one could lie so much, even though throughout the years many had tried to tell me. How could my memories be wrong?

Fuming at anyone resembling me, I packed one large, black bag filled with tightly rolled clothing and a few personals and took the first plane departing DFW airport gate B-1. Stepping out of the plane, cold, crushed icicles covered my boots, and I accepted that I was now living in Wisconsin. Knees tucked tightly, I curled up in bed. Donning three layers of clothing, including two pair of thermal socks, thoughts dashed through my mind of those whom I wanted nothing to do with. I knew I had to resolve the past even though I wasn’t sure what I would find. I contacted my father via email and wrote, “Dear Dad, Just a short notice to let you know that I now reside in the state of Wisconsin. Lee.”

Over the next few weeks, we had exchanged vague e-mails, chronicling the days’ activities, until one day he asked if he could have my phone number. For three days, I left this email on my desktop; I could not answer it, nor could I close it. Finally, taking a deep breath, I typed out the ten-digit number and pressed send. “Ring, ring, ring!” I looked at the phone and then at the clock on the wall. Only two hours ago I had sent that letter: it could not be him. Searching for breath, I reached my trembling hand towards the telephone. “Ring, ring, ring!” I jumped back startled from the second set of rings. I jolted and grabbed the phone off the receiver and said, “Hello.” The man at the other end replied, “Hello, Lee. This is Dad.” The rest of his words faded, and I could only hear the echoing of, “Dad.” This was my Dad.

We talked for hours that first day and from that moment have grown. Standing up to go home, I take one last look at the old oak and smile. Dad and I go to this park often, and walk reminiscing about our new memories. I know that who he is, is not who I remember and neither is she. Sometimes we try to make a stand and find ourselves fighting a different fight. Children are innocent, and at times their innocence is manipulated. Who was right? Who was wrong? – Who cares?

Additional Fiction

The Difference is in the Packaging

When buying food always shop the generic aisle, the difference is in the packaging; never ask for anything; always finish your plate; this is how you wash potatoes, this is how you snap the beans, this is how you pick tomatoes – not to ripe and not too green; this is how you mop the floors; this is how you mow the yard and pull the weeds – always from the root; this is how you set the table with our salad fork closest to the plate; this is how you check for dust; this is how we work – never complaining because work builds character; and milk builds strong bones, so if you don’t drink it when it’s good, you will drink it when it’s sour; always take your school clothes off as soon as you get home; this is how we take out stains and this is how we avoid them; this is how we stand in line; this is how we wait; the world needs strong women, but little girls wear dresses and do not play football; this is how we use sex, but do not use it too much or they will think you are easy; this is how we become friends with boys; and this is how we become friends with other girls; this is how we kiss the little boys so people do not talk; this is what we tell people when they ask about our home; and this is how much you love me just in case they ask; this is the butterfly tape we use to keep your head together when it bleeds, because doctors cost too much; and this is how we cover our bruises; always say thank you; when CPS comes, make sure you smile and wear long sleeves or else you will be taken far away from me; this is how we write checks for cash to cover the ones we wrote yesterday; this is how we light a candle when the switches do not work, but don’t let the house burn down – I haven’t paid the insurance; always be kind to rich men and never fall in love with a poor man; always wash your face and hands – the difference is in the packaging; this is how we climb; this is how we get ahead.