Finding Something to Talk About

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I didn’t post the final version of “Childhood Photograph” because I’m still finding the story. The opening scene kept rewriting itself the way mysteries often do. Characters kept reintroducing themselves with new backstories and motives. Places like Lake Eola Park kept rearranging itself like replacing trees with bridges the more I stared at it.

This writing process depressed me as a college student. I wrote many research essays without a hitch. However, creative assignments like  writing collage essays about my self-identity confused me on which word to put down first. The blank canvas became a stage on which I couldn’t perform. Every time I opened my mouth the wrong words came out.

Untruths performed backflips in the shape of a familiar man. A brown man with curly black hair told everyone about the time he got lost in a New York City  gay club. The story sounded true enough that even he believed the part when his “hand moved up behind his (Snow Queen’s) neck”. He remembered certain events happening but the details faded long ago. I helped him get through the performance by making shadow puppets, distracting the audience, as he tried to recall the next scene.

The words came to him eventually and the show ended. I washed my hands backstage, trying to forgive myself, but the dirt never came off. I wanted to tell the truth but also a really fun story like other bloggers. Other bloggers talked about dating, current events, and coffee culture. I wanted to sound as interesting as those people and so chose certain memories to craft into an essay. However, my voice changed somewhere between senior year and graduation. I no longer wanted to talk about dating or about being an aspiring writer. I was already a writer. I was just trying to find something to talk about.

 

 

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Commitment Problems

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Good Morning,

Here I am again writing something before work. Except this time I only had half an hour to work on this piece. Ironically, this piece is about ignoring all of my other creations in favor of something new. Once again I found the picture form a random book. I think I’ll use it again as a prompt. Hope you enjoy these small exercises. Writing is a muscle that grows the more you use it. Maybe one day I’ll write something really awesome in only half-an-hour. Cheers.


As a writer, I have commitment issues with all of my creations. I ignore Essays, Poems, Short-sStories, etc. after creating them. They bang their fists against locked doors in a house with a million rooms. They want to run through hallways, screaming, letting me know they’re here. I just turn the radio up inside my laboratory downstairs.

Erratic beats fall out of speakers that hang from air vents. My fingers dance to the music, typing random words, with the hope that I’m creating something new. I hope my next creation will look thicker, taller, and more black than any of the others ones. I want something meaningful to live with me, here.

The house shakes despite the calm wind blowing from the Atlantic Ocean. I built this place as a sanctuary for my art. Walls cave in on certain rooms where Poems live. Red emotions pour out into the hallway. I don’t hear the slow rushing sound of beauty and keep working. A slow rhythm works itself into my body,

Where’s Charlie?

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Where’s Charlie?

Good morning,

I’m starting a new writing series for myself. Writing for me usually happens in the early morning, before work. I only have an hour to create something but the writer in me wants to share these rough drafts and short stories. So while the following story is incomplete, I did take immense joy and crafting it.

I found this photograph in a book found sitting in Stardust Cafe. It inspired me to write a short piece with the spirit of it in mind. The following is a short story about Cassidy and Michael, two teenagers, that are caught with their pants down, literally.

People always ask writers, “Where do you get your ideas from”. Writers never know where they get their ideas from. Stories happen the way some people fall in love and other people get into fights. The chemistry just feels right. So while I wanted to write a story about some lady dancing in the middle of a club, what I got instead, was a story about two teenager.

Inspiration is a good-bag full of unknown treasure. I hope you enjoy.

 


Michael and I stood in the center of our Penbrook High’s cafeteria with our shorts pulled down. A hundred other teenagers laughed and pointed at our muscular legs. We both ran track but couldn’t move out of fear of tripping over ourselves. Instead, Michael held my hand and waited for the laughter to die down.

Michael, a brown boy with two green eyes, made me feel more alive than any race or spelling-bee. Right then, with pants on the ground, my entire body felt warm like a fire rose from between the floor’s wood panels. Would he take me down to that special place in the basement where all boys and girls go to make out?

“We got to get out of here,” Michael said to me, interrupting my fantasy. The school’s dead, a tall thin woman in blue, waved her hands at the crowd surrounding us. In a matter of minutes, Michael and I found ourselves sitting in the Dean’s office, wrapped in blankets that smelled like my grandmother’s basement.

“What were you two thinking? Intimidating the other students like that. Don’t tell me you weren’t Cassidy Day.” the Dean said to me. I wanted to tell her that, yes, we pulled down our own pants but in the spirit of protest since the other kids kept making fun of Michael for wearing the same cut-off jeans to school everyday. The Dean shook her head and sighed.

“It was my fault,” Michael said. I opened my mouth to speak but Michael grabbed my hand again. Again I wanted to know if he felt the same as I did. Did he obsessively think about the time we TP’d Melissa French’s house last Halloween? He wanted to get back at her for making fun of my singing voice in Church Choir. I never had someone stand up like that for me before.

“Shut up, Michael,” I said and took my hand out from his. “I’m not letting you take the blame when I’m the one who thought it would be funny to pull down your pants. You see, I only did that because the other kids dared me too. Well once I saw how poor Michael was blushing I just couldn’t let him stand there by himself. Please, Dean, don’t punish the victim.” I said and took a deep breath. The Dean looked us both over with two gray eyes. My body shook from her cold hard look.

“Get out of here,” the Dean said and pointed to the door. “Be sure to give those blankets back to the Gym. They need them for the basketball game later. Boy can those kids sweat.”

***

Michael and I walked back to the gymnasium at the opposite end of the school. The hallways stood clear of any other students. I wondered how long everyone would talk about what happened in the cafeteria. How long would they keep making fun of Michael for wearing the exact same thing to school every day? Why did it matter to them? But more importantly, why did he mean so much to me? We only met last year in homeroom. He offered a pencil to me and then off we went to each other’s houses, parties, after-school activities, etc.

“What else do we need for the trip?” Michael said to me. His high-pitched voice echoed between the lockers and linoleum floor. He sounded like a bird that used to live outside my bedroom window.

“Nothing. We’re all set. We leave at two tomorrow. I’m so excited. Never seen the ocean before.” I said, still thinking about the bird that my dad shot, eventually, for waking him up in the morning.

“Are you sure you can sneak away for a couple of hours?” Michael said, folding over the towel in his hands. He looked worried despite my reassurances. Dad slept until noon most days, especially Saturdays, and wouldn’t wake so long as Michael did come into the house and start talking.

“Besides,” I said, “even he did wake up he wouldn’t check on me until like, that night.” We walked through the gymnasium doors and handed the towels back to Ron, the gym teacher.

“Heard about the thing today,” Ron said, squeezing his eyebrows together. He only ever squeezed his brows together when he disapproved of something like my high-jumps or Michael’s starting position in track. “Care to explain?”

I shook my head.

Boy Girl Attraction

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I am not old enough to cross the street by myself yet. My brother walks me to the community center along with three other boys. We carry bags of candy on this holiday when anyone can dress up like a girl and no one will think twice about the decision. No one will wonder if that person prefers girls or boys. Instead, everyone will just take a good look and laugh at the drag queen. Except me.

The boy in front of me looks like a real girl. Long greasy black locks of hair sweep past my face as he turns his head around. He talks to another boy. My brother arrives at a gate and opens it up for the rest of us. A crowd of teenagers surround the pool deck but I keep my eyes on the greasy black mop in front of me. I like the way they look. I like the way they seem so different from everyone else in their halloween costumes. I, myself, am dressed in nothing more than a black t-shirt and jeans.

Perhaps, we have something in common. I think as the other boys lay across an empty pair of lounge chairs. I take a seat next to the boy-that-looks-like-a-girl. His face glows white from all the makeup. Except, their lips that look as dark as the night air that surrounds us. My heart beats heavily against my chest.

I never knew what the word “attraction” meant up until this moment. Whenever my parents tease me about a “girlfriend” they entertain the idea of a girl falling in love with me. Or at least liking me. Whenever anyone else teases me about this they entertain the idea that girls like me at all. However, the girls in my class treat me like another girlfriend. During recess they permit me to talk about the boys on the playground. They allow me to give them advice about which boy would best suit them for a elementary school relationship; a kind of romance that two members of the opposite sex engage themselves in during  class projects, lunch table seating arrangements, and games at recess.

For example, when Travis and Samantha got together they chose each other for everything. During gym class he picked her first for his volleyball team before choosing me, his best friend. I wanted to hit him with a ball but he chose me next.

For example, Andres and Jennifer preferred to sit together at lunch. But the rules of the school were that only an even number of boys and girls could sit at the table. So if one of them came in late then another boy or girl would trade seats so that the two could sit together. I wanted to remain in my seat sometimes but removed myself out of civil manners.

For example, boys chased girls on the playground but I never wanted to chase girls so I found a hole to dig. I kept digging until the bell rang. I would much rather involve myself with dirt than hormones. Except for this Halloween, when I found myself asking this strange boy-that-looked-like-a-girl questions.

“Do you like to read?” I say to him. He turns his beautiful white face in my direction. He answers. I ask another question. He answers again. This exchange of words goes on and on until they leave. I cannot believe how lucky I am to feel normal for once. That I finally entered the game of sexuality.

“You know that’s a boy, right?” my brother asks. He is sitting with the other boys, laughing. I bite my lip. My hope is lost. My revelation is snuffed out with these words. I am still just alone.

“Yeah,” I say but my voice feels deflated. I no longer feel the longing to talk to the boy/girl or anyone else. I would much rather go dig a hole somewhere. I would much rather burry my loneliness than to sit around here looking foolish. Because everyone else saw it except for me.

Happy Halloween.

 

Safe Spaces and Dangerous Places

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At sixteen, I coward into over-sized sweatshirts during class so that no one could bother me. The soft cotton felt like a womb that isolated me from the rest of the world. A world in which two high schools took my attendance because one of them already knew my secret. In one of them I came out to a group of boys.

“Hey, kid. Are you gay?” one of them asked from the back of the room. Him and his friends all sat on the edge of their seats, waiting for my answer.

“Yes.” I said. The one kid laughed and turned around. My lips felt numb. I just told a total stranger my sexual preference and now that whole class knew. My stomach rumbled with nervous energy. A kind of energy that vibrated throughout my body for the next couple of months, as I skipped school and stayed in bed, shivering.

I needed to get away from everyone. My parents considered sending me to Harvey Milk High, a school in New York meant for LGBTQ teens. They considered this because back then any other institution seemed a threat to my mental health.

Day and night I imagined kids beating me up in the corner of a classroom. Any classroom that provided a safe space for their hatred. The locker room where no adult ever checked on students. The side of a trailer that the school never used after Hurricane Katrina blasted through the campus. The tennis court, band room,  or even the courtyard where one student got beaten up during lunch period. No on interfered until the hitter got in enough punches to give the victim several bruises to heal over the course of a few months.

I feared this even though I laid in bed a couple of miles away. So I never went back. Another school opened its doors to me. One with a whole body of students that never asked about my sexuality. A place where no one could suspect anything other because of my “shy” personality. I would just sit quietly until the last bell rang.

At sixteen this option might feel the most logical as fear installs itself into every body movement. It plans out everything from getting to school to eating lunch to someday starting a Gay Straight Alliance Club. A club where straight people could hug a gay person without any reprimanded by their friends. Friends that write “lesbian” on a teachers walls because she hosted the first club meeting. Friends that start rumors about two guys initiating intercourse on the stairwell between classes because they became the first gay couple at school.

I ran the club until my senior year and by then I made enough friends to no longer need a place to feel safe with people. I could wear a rainbow belt on campus without thinking about the violent repercussions it could potentially stir. Boys no longer seemed like a threat because a ton of them talked to me in class. We talked about poetry, guitars, and television shows. I made friends.

 

 

Take A Pike

In the early 2000’s a yellow-paged book came into my possession. “The Last Vampire” by Christopher Pike slipped itself over the backseat of a traveling bus. I retrieved the soft cover novel and started reading about a five-thousand year old vampire, called Sita. In a matter of days the story came to an end. I passed the book back over the seat and waited for the next one to come through. 51WS2P2XR2L

Jackie, my dealer, supplied the novels to several people in class. A small group that used the books as inspiration for their own novels. We traded composition books full of vampires that lived in Egypt during a time before pharaohs, similar to Sita’s background. She lived in India where an evil spirit inhabited her dead friend and started the vampire lineage.

My version mirrored this heritage as the protagonist summons a spirit to revive her dead friend. This started the lineage of vampires to encroach the human world but without the promise of eternal life. A vampire would live the expected lifespan of a human but with superhuman powers, like telekinesis. I gave these stories to friends that gave them back with confused looks.

“If they don’t live forever then how are they still alive?” they asked, flipping to the front page of  my story. I saw that it began in modern day times with the same character that lived a thousand years ago. Somehow this plot-hole never occurred to me. I needed to revise the story.

I changed my vampires to infinite creatures of the night in exchange for their telekinesis. This allowed my protagonist to flourish with also a goal in mind. She needed to keep her life eternal while recovering her superpowers. I found something new and interesting about the story that kept me writing and reading stories.

Christopher Pike continued to inspire me as his characters often dealt with deadly matters. In the “Chain Letter” series, a group of friends submitted themselves to a mysterious contract that forced them to commit embarrassing acts in exchange for the send’s silence. This deal stretched over the length of three novels. I finished the last one in my dad’s car while on the way to high school.51YXS2N1PSL

At this point all my friends found different clicks of people to engage with. I ventured into the art department where I found the terror of commitment. Turning in a disfigured still-life embarrassed me more than an incomplete one. I turned in sketches of men with only half a face or two-legged elephants. Although earning a passing-grade they left me feeling ashamed of my inability to complete things, similar to Pike’s characters.

The unknown meant the unwillingness to find out the mysteries ahead. I needed to charge ahead through the gray between contoured lines and blank paper. I needed to stop fear with perseverance. This allotted my imagination to find a balance between the real and the unreal as projects completed themselves. Because the thing about art is that it only exists as it is made.

I still struggle with the ability to sometimes follow a professor’s instructions to finish a story. Sometimes my projects amount to nothing except fine detail and little character growth. These things matter little and a lot. Art needs time to grow , and I’m willing to make more deals with myself and others, in order to see that happen. After all, writers need readers as much as I want the next vampire installment from Christopher Pike.

 

The Aftertaste of a Dream

 

Four years ago I got rejected from art school in New York City. The experience left me stranded in the middle of Florida with two best friends. We gathered our strength together in order to help one another. A flock of hands lifted one us out of a broken heart and into the art studio, where they learned to give into their emotions with by studying them. A flock of hands pulled one of us away from a small town, where everyone believed that a medical degree led to happiness, and into the vibrant city of Orlando. Each of them found a way to believe in themselves again while I wondered where to start.img-thing.jpeg

I switched majors, from art to writing, but still felt aimless. New York City no longer appealed to me since Orlando became my home. Its craft coffee shops, literary clubs, and hipster bars resonated with my need for culture. I no longer felt the craving to taste other cities, but I still craved a dream.

One of my friends went on to graduate and moved to a different state. The other one got married and continues to study art at the same university that I attend. We still help one another get through the hard times. Although, not all hard times call for the attendance of friends. For example, I felt the bitter taste of rejection the other night and thought of New York City. After several seconds it dissolved into something sweet. My teeth grinded against one another in anticipation for the next sample of rejection. I needed to taste something like it again. Maybe I’ll go to grad school. Maybe I’ll intern at a radio station. Either way I need a dream again.

Crossing Paths

I saw Phillip walking towards me from across the courtyard. He wore a grey shirt with matching slacks that made me envious. The clean-cut style never suited my scrappy nature. Frayed jean shorts and midriff shirts mesh well with the hipster places I like to visit off campus.

“I like your outfit,” I said to him. He thanked me before inquiring about my day. I told him about the hours spent prepping for a presentation. He told me about a job interview that would take place the following day. We continued this banter until the subject of love popped up.

“I met someone,” He said. cc9e8c9cc85ef28eb6d06bd717a43e2as

“On Grindr,” I said and nodded.

“No, in real life. Not everyone meets on Grindr,” He said and laughed. I felt a hard lump in my throat. Of course people met in real life because only shut-ins, like myself, rely on technology for romance. This might sound sarcastic but I assure you that my love life depended on both OkCupid and Grindr in the past.

In fact, my first boyfriend and I met in a chatroom. We exchanged flirty texts before exchanging emails. The fifty-miles between us seemed the length of a shoelace with modern technology. I spoke to him every day until the breakup happened. Then I switched to Facebook and found someone new to write to.

Fast forward to present day and I still rely on text-message-introductions with men. Meanwhile, Phillip told me about meeting this guy in a club via eye contact. The idea of two people meeting because of an energy exchange confused me.

“He saw me and we started talking,” Phillip said. The simplicity of this sentence made me feel envious. I swallowed the lump and curled my fists. We soon parted but I carried the feeling with me to work later that same day.

I served couples their food with a firm hand. Glass plates clacked against the tape tops. Silverware pelted against the wall above the dishwasher. The shift ended with me slamming chairs on top of one another outside the restaurant.

“Excuse me, is this place any good?” a square faced man said to me. He stood a foot away with another man behind him. I nodded and continued stacking.

“Do you think my friend’s cute?” He said. The other man laughed and walked closer. His bubble butt and thick arms interested me.

“Come on, he’s not gay.” the friend said. I rolled my eyes. This comment might flatter some macho-homosexuals but I’m fully aware of my flamboyancy. My graceful walk and soft voice come at the expense of being “outed” everywhere I go.

“Yes, I’m gay.” I said and stacked another chair on top. flirting.jpg

“Would you go on a date with my friend? He’s a great guy but he always goes out with assholes.” the square faced man said. I smiled and told them to come back next week.

“Is something wrong?” the friend said. I wanted to tell them that they both seemed drunk.  They kept touching my face and elbow. Only drunk or insecure men think I’m incredibly sexy. Of the which I prefer the insecure because then at least they’re being sincere.

“Oh my BMW just pulled up,” the square faced man said and climbed inside with his friend. They rolled down the window and asked me my name. I told them. They told me theirs.

The night ended like any other with me coming home alone. I logged onto Grindr looking for a conversation. Profile picture after profile picture zoomed by. No one said hello. If maybe I could learn how to play the game outside of this app then I would find someone. Someone a little drunk. Someone a little too touchy. Someone a little bit more than no one.

My Voice

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Essay and Photo by BoyKitsch

I’m trying to find my voice in the bright green trees of Florida. It loves to swing off  one branch and onto another during the day. The woods sigh with delight because no one ever pays attention to them. At least not the neighborhood people.

They sit beside television sets inside of their apartments. I look up into open windows and find blue faces. A cold sensation spirals up my spine. The image reminds me of the curly-haired-boy who once watched Netflix for four hours in my apartment. He felt happy.

A blue light disappears from one of the windows, so I turn back to the trees. My voice rustles the leaves as it climbs higher. The ascension seems easy but that’s because I’m standing outside of the action. I know that when my voice returns it will tell me all about the trouble it got into.

It will tell me about the thug squirrels that hid inside a tree hole. They threatened to kill it if my voice wouldn’t give them a song. My voice shivered beneath sharp claws before  spitting out a rhyme that lifted up greedy paws and escaping to the branches below.

“Sometimes danger happens but that’s how we learn about the world around us,” I will tell it. It’ll stomp and pout around the trees because I never taught my voice patience. When it stops I’ll say, “But most people would rather live through the danger than watch someone else live through it.” It won’t understand and go back into the trees while I listen to the distant laugh of an informercial somewhere above.

 

 

A Completed Story

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I started calling myself a writer this year. It happened after completing a short story. The two paragraphs explained how an alcoholic journalist could reconcile his addiction with art. Instead of drinking to forget about the past he painted it. This led him to a community where people use art to make political statements. In the end, he uses them to become mayor of a small town in Orlando.

This story made me feel good, like it healed a wound or cooled a burn inside. My fingers stopped twitching throughout the day. A story laid behind them now. They could carry on with their daily tasks while I thought up new ideas. A planet called California that harbored an evil stepmother. Mermaids that ate pizza. These things I looked forwards to the same way a runner looks forward to their next marathon. I am a writer.