Flea Market Photo

Character Profiles:

Marjorie J. Hanes
Born: July 23, 1844
Hometown: Bracey, VA.
Occupation: Halfway house operator and reformer for troubled young women.
Hobbies: Reading, writing, political studies, feminism.
Fears/Worries: Conservative Politics
Goals: Women's Suffrage

Ethel M. Rutherford
Born: January 13, 1878
Hometown: Richmond, VA.
Occupation: Student
Hobbies: Cooking, sewing, beauty, singing, drawing.
Fears/Worries: Being compared to her sister, food, not being able to find a husband.

Marie N. Rutherford
Born: March 4, 1880
Hometown: Richmond, VA.
Occupation: Student
Hobbies: Dancing, Smoking, Drinking, Promiscuity.
Fears/Worries: That she won't be able to return to Richmond.

The room was quiet other than the sound of forks scraping against plates. Only two, however, when there were three present.
"Why don't you eat, girl?" Asked the mistress. Ethel snapped out of her daydreams and stammered an apology. Her younger sister snickered. "Do not laugh at your sister." Scolded the mistress as she cut another piece of her meal. "I'll ask again, but not more, Ethel. Why don't you eat? You prepared this meal and you did so well. You should taste your work."
The older sister swallowed and looked down at her stomach. A slight roll sat in her line of vision. Rude thoughts filled her mind. "I eat enough, mistress." She finally answered.
"My sister is dull," Marie, the younger sister, added with another giggle. "She wants to be beautiful and slender like me. I get all the boys back in Richmond and they call her a piglet." She stuck her nose up and honked for emphasis. She was the only one laughing, but by the volume of it you'd think the joke was hilarious. Ethel's eyes were brimming with tears now.
Mistress Marjorie's eyes narrowed. She wiped the corner of her lips with a napkin. "Ah, yes. Your parents told me about your promiscuity. That's why they sent you girls to be reformed by me. To become real, husband attracting women." She glanced between the girls. "While your sister may be lacking the confidence to shine on the outside, she has the skill to be a home maker." Marie's eyes widened and her giggling stopped as the mistress went on, "She can cook a full meal, sew a hem, clean a home... You can do none of that, Marie. You only know how to spread your legs. You'll never find a man like that. Only other women's husbands." The younger sister's face turned a deep red. She stood from the table and stormed upstairs angrily. The mistress only smiled as Ethel looked to her.
"Mistress... That was quite rude..." She said, bewildered.
"Ah, yes it was my dear. However she has tasted her own sourness now." Mistress Marjorie patted Ethel's hand before continuing to cut at her meal. "You both have many things to learn, and this summer is going to be a long journey for us all."

Photo Treasure Hunt

Something Beautiful: This arrangement of flowers on a windowsill in the library. It looked 

pretty sweet with the light shining in on it like this. #MorningGlory. 

Something Square: The tile flooring on the second story landing of the lunchroom stairs, aka, a
 total cop out because we were running out of time. Ft. Echo's feet. #WhatASquare. 

Something that could catch the attention of a child: The Dr. Seuss illustrated classic, and another total cop out, El Grinch. #AntiChristmas#XMAS?

Something that looks like a face (that isn't one): A (cop out) light socket. #pokerface

Something Round: My friend Zoee holding a fake grape we found in the art closet.
#LooksLikeRiffRaff

Someone I Aspire to be More Like: Once again, my friend Zoee, because her art style is very cohesive and admirable. As the kids say, #Goals

A Unique Angle: Zoee climbing down from shelves in a closet full of mannequins. #UniqueToSayTheLeast

A Book: My pal Zoee holding open a book about planets to a really rad page about gaseous giants. (Thanks again for help with half these pictures Zoee) #BigRedPal

Something that Frustrates Me: Self Explanatory. #IHateSweat

Something that causes Nostalgia: The curvy, wrapped wire of a landline telephone will never fail to remind me of my childhood. I can still envision my mother absentmindedly twirling the tight curls loose between her fingers as she chattered into the receiver.  #HoldONImONThePhone

Someone Who has Taught me Something: Mrs. Peck has never failed to be understanding, inspiring, and motivational in my experience with her. #SheWillHateThisPictureThough

Someone Who Makes Me Smile: My best friend, Ashlee Atnip, never fails to be there to listen to my troubles even when they start to sound like a broken record. They're a true pal, and an incredibly talented writer. They help me grow. #RideOrDie

Something Handwritten: A portion from one of Hannah Duckworth's painting's found in the portfolio room. #ArtIsCool

Something That will Always Remind me of Going to Kickapoo: This was the least offensive representation of our school mascot I could find during the treasure hunt, and that should say something. People should not be mascots. There are reasons that I've never been to a football game during my four years at Kickapoo. As a Native American I honestly feel unsafe, misrepresented, ignored, and beyond ready to graduate so I can finally be out of this appropriating environment. #NoRelief

Something From Nature: A tree in the front parking lot captured from the library window. #Sanctuary

Hopper Inspired

(A/N Free verse poem based on a painting by Edward Hopper.  Themes/TW: Substance abuse, alcoholism, pedophilia, child abuse, clowns, false accusations. Word Count: 140.)

McGoo

He bit the filter off the cigarette,

and smoked the cancer stick raw,

The way his face twitched,

Under layers of cracking paint,

Made it look like he was chewing the rolled tobacco.

The clown was not always this way.

He loved making them smile,

He never knew loneliness,

He had purpose.

Once upon a time,

McGoo was a loved, party clown,

He wore a fluffy wig and a big red nose,

His smile never needed painting on.

The clown's happy fantasy ended,

When rumors of him hurting the children spread,

The police visited Mcgoo,

Even when proved innocent, 

No one would hire him again.

Now everyday, the clown sits in the bar,

Smoking and drinking whiskey until the red is washed from his lips,

Until there's a stagger in his step.

His mind numb and tired.

His blood warmed.

Window Poem

(Inspired by the painting Marshall's House By Edward Hopper. Written using a sensory based verse template.)

Forests and hills roll on for miles,
To the left, my neighbor's car rolls down our shared gravel road,
He's off to work.
We wave, Goodbye!

The bird's nest on the windowsill is empty,
The chicks learned how to fly during the night.
I sigh, Goodbye!

Sometimes the grass looks like cat fur,
Soft, blowing in the breeze,
The glass is cold from the frost outside.
I pull a blanket more tightly around my shoulders.
I wonder,
What lies beyond these grassy hills?
Will I ever be the one to say, Goodbye! 
?

Art Walk Free Write

(A/N Pictures are not the prints described below, but evoke similar feelings)

Print One:
Upon first glance, you notice a foggy horizon dotted with lime colored bushes, that splits a beige and blue sky from a flat golden field. Sporadically planted saplings grow in the foreground with dark leaves.
Upon second glance, you notice the nodes of orange spread throughout the shadows of the foreground trees. You feel at peace, even though you know you should not be here.

Foggy horizon,
On a clear blue and beige sky,
split by golden fields.

Print Two:
There is a kaleidoscopic range of colors dripped and merged together. In some areas, the colors do not compliment each other and as a result look muddy to the eyes. This makes the painting feel like fall foliage at a glance. The colors have a milky mask that resembles flowers.

Kaleidoscopic,
Muddy autumn foliage,
Milky masked flowers.

Dali Narratives

Parched Reflection

The savanna was vast,

Stretching from one end of the earth to the other,

All life resided on its life-bearing borders,

Where the trees grew tall and the morning mists lingered thick.

On the east end of the savanna lived a tribe of grey people,

Whose living was so luxurious that their numbers grew crowded,

They sought to expand their village into the sands.

One by one they loaded their belongings onto their elephants,

Whose legs had grown tall to reach the leaves of the mighty border trees,

And atop of spindly, thin legs, they marched into the dunes.

And though they walked for days,

Nothing seemed to change,

The trees eventually faded from their vision,

But the dunes seemed patterned, repeated,

Mocking their journey.

Grey infants sobbed as the sun pinkened their skin,

But they trusted their Chieftain,

Who promised solace in the center of the sands,

So they continued to march,

 Even after their flasks dried to bone.

Crusted eyes widened at the blurry shapes on the horizon,

Chapped, grey lips called the good news to the others,

"Home, we've made it home!"

Their pace quickened, 

But as the shapes grew nearer confusion set in,

They met in the center of the sands,

Where it was said an Oasis was suppose to live,

But instead of water they found an equally parched reflection,

Another chieftain atop a long legged elephant,

Leading his people,

Whose skin was tinged blue instead of grey,

And who had marched from the West instead of the East.

Parched Reflection Cont.

The muttering soon began,

Thousands of doubtful voices, low but clear,

Asking where the water was,

Smiting the chieftains,

For dooming them in the savanna sun.

A mighty shriek pulled them from their judgement,

And just beyond a dune to their right,

Twitched a giant, charred tree trunk,

In the shape of a man's face.

Its roots jerked erratically, 

Thirst driving the demon's will,

When it shrieked again, 

It revealed its horrors,

identical, but smaller screaming faces,

Buried in the eye sockets and mouth of the first.

The peoples' shock was broken, 

By the small pattering of rain,

Hitting their shoulders,

As water soothed their cracking skin, 

They could no longer fear in that moment.

Until the screams grew louder,

The roots shot out and in an unholy show,

They drank every rain drop before they could hit the ground,

Or the people.

The people hid from the screaming demon for several days,

They could not go back now,

Without water they would surely die.

One day, the rain clouds were darker than most others,

Lightning struck the trunk,

Making it shriek, and further charring its bark,

But for a moment, the trunk did not drink the rain.

The chieftains worked together on a plan,

And together on a very dry day,

They chucked a torch into the eye of the demon.

The flames burned,

The shrieks bellowed louder than ever,

But eventually, the demon succumbed.

The screams stopped for good.

Rain followed the next morning,

Dark clouds brought enough to pool in different low points of the dunes, 

The ponds created the Oasis that was meant to live there,

And the tribes lived in harmony.

Artist Bio: Salvador Dali

Salvador Domingo Felipe Jacinto Dalí i Domènech Marqués de Dalí de Pubol, known famously as Salvador Dali, was born May 11, 1904  in Figueres, Catalonia, Spain. He had a long, experimental art career that earned him many fans, critics, and fame before his death on January 23, 1989. 

In his early life, Salvador shared a close bond with his art-supportive mother, Felipa Domenech Ferres. His father worked as a lawyer to support Salvador's mother and sister, Anna Marie. It is a common belief that Salvador was named after a deceased older brother, and that the artist believed himself to be a reincarnation of his sibling. 

Salvador's life was flipped upside down when his mother died of breast cancer. He was only sixteen at the time. During the next four years, and now lacking his mother's support, Salvador would be forced to interact more with his father. There was such high tensions between the two men that when Salvador finally moved out of his father's home, and into the dorms at Real Academia de Bellas Artes, he set up an art gallery devoted to socially stabbing his father. One of the most noted pieces from this display was a painting of the Sacred Heart of Jesus with the words "Sometimes, I spit on my mother's portrait for fun." carved into the frame. 

It is also known that this was about the time Salvador started branching out socially. During most of his stay at the university, he roomed with another aspiring artist that Salvador was quite fond of. That artist's name was Pablo Picasso. Together the two artists pioneered the painting technique called Cubism and shared surrealist ideas and approaches to their artwork. Salvador's art took off once he'd left the art academy. This is due to the fact that it was shortly after his leaving that he met his future wife, and muse, Gala. 

The face of War

Elephants

Blog Reader Comments

Comments left for Mallory:

1. Hey, Mallory! I completely relate to needing a comfortable place to read. Nothing beats a good spot that you can just lounge back and free yourself from distractions. 
2. I liked your indepth outlook on jewelry and the different significance that can be paired with what I would normally view as a simple accessory. I can feel a lot of passion in your writing. Keep it up!
3. In just a few short lines you managed to tell a story with strong emotion. Hemingway would be proud! Keep it up.
4. I thought that it was a brave approach for you to use both the beginning and ending lines in the same story. I can tell that it took a lot of creativity to get from point A to Z in such a short story. Job well done!
5. I love how positive your quotes are. They seem to capture the "silver lining" some of us forget to look for in bad situations. I also think that your blog customization is adorable. The multi color font choice looks great on your blog. Keep it up!

Comments left for Kat:

1. I feel so much sympathy for these six words. It's unbelievable. I also love how open ended it is. There's no direct guidance, so it's free for the audience to interpret and link to their own tragedy. 
2. I'm a big fan of macabre writing. A quick scroll through my blog reveals that instantly. I can tell you definitely got into this piece. I'm impressed by the descriptions, the formatting, and definitely the length of this story. I'd love to read more from you in this style!
3. I like the mixture of positive and realist quotes in this post! It definitely reveals a lot about your outlook on life. Keep up the good work!
4. The flow of this poem reminds me a lot of some of my black out poetry and recent posts. I've been focusing a lot on mental illness in my writing, so the rantish, repetitive wording of this piece is definitely appealing to me. Keep it up!
5. I agree with your thinking on answer #12. I also think that describing a reader as someone with a more polished vocabulary is clever. I wish I'd thought of that! 

6 word Memoir

Blackout

Lapse in Faith

(A/N This is a self interpretative piece I pulled from a torn book page. A few common themes identified within it are: corruption, religion, cult worship, and doubt.)

"Ready for bed,

Repeat what she had said,

Devoted to the old religion,

The headstrong nature,

Stubbornness, resentful, and ill tales there would be.

Three of the four were too young,

Two of the boys were more likely to run,

Lord Strange, Mary, the king, the cadre of five older boys,

She tried to be comfortable,

She wondered."

Lost?

(A/N This short poem is inspired by memory loss and the tragic feelings that can accompany it.)

"His brain,

Backing into the night,

Shriveled,

You worry,

Memory so bad.

Lost?

Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad."

Famous Lines: Make Them Yours

“If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.” 
That's what I spit at the therapist when she tried to pull some answers out of me. Shrinks all wanted the same thing - they wanted you to spill your guts - to be vulnerable. All so that they could hook onto your insecurities, make you trust them when they tell you that you need to swallow a happy pill everyday. They don't really care about fixing you. They need you to stay just broken enough to be grateful for the temporary relief they provide. Every anxiety attack for you is a pay bonus for them. 
I'd managed to stay apathetic during my treatment. I never gave them the hooks to disembowel me. Even when they stuck me and dripped acid into my veins I never shed a tear. I remember the day their masks started to melt. Latex, or maybe silicon, dripping off their heads like steaming tar. Their wigs fried to a crisp under the fluorescent lights of my hospital suite. Their real faces were revealed to me; ugly, furrowed, wrinkly, saggy - monstrous - with teeth like bulldogs (I'm still not sure how they hid them under the dentures). 
I hadn't seen a human face in months. That is, until you came to visit today. These demons are cruel. They cut my arms while I'm sleeping. You have to get me out of here. You have to-
...Wait.
No, something isn't right about this. They never let me say this much. They always knock me out before I can. Why can I talk to you? Who are you? Something isn't right about you.
...Your face.
...Your face is melting. 

(A/N Using the lines we selected from the last post to start and end, we now have been prompted to write our own creative short stories in Creative Writing. This first short story is about a man being treated in a mental institution. At the expedition, the reader naturally roots for the narrator as he seems collected, rebellious, and relatable. However, as the story goes on and the narrator begins to trail off into creepy detail of his hallucinations, the reader is forced to the realization that the narrator is in treatment for good reason.)

I woke up that morning at 7 o'clock.
I drug myself out of my bed, and stretched my arms high above my head, before arriving at myself in the bathroom mirror to tackle my morning routine. 
I made a cup of coffee in my Keurig, and added way too much sugar and cream to it. 
I microwaved a egg and cheese biscuit - leftover from the morning before.
While I ate, I watched the morning cartoons. I swear they get keep getting worse.
My cat, Prisky, greeted me with a needy meow. She stretched the sleep out of her spine while I filled her food bowl. 
We finished our breakfasts together, before I tied my hair back and washed my coffee cup.
I scooped Prisky's litterbox before I pulled on my tennis shoes.
My day really began when I locked the door to my apartment. 
I headed down the many flights of stairs, and finally arrived onto the busy streets of Chitown.
I unchained my bike, and rode it to the university.
Illustration class had a plus size nude model that day.
Lunch was bland. I only had $10 in my wallet, so I went to a sandwich shop and got a six inch. I wish they'd put more cheese on those things.
After lunch I needed to go to work, so I caught a bus to the other side of town. 
People weren't especially nice that night. I didn't make many tips at the restaurant. 
I dropped a tray of glasses. 
I cut my hand cleaning up the mess. 
I finally clocked off at 11:30 - an hour and a half later than I was scheduled.
My feet ached as I walked to the subway.
I caught a train back to the University, and retrieved my bike to finish my journey home.
However, I stopped at the corner store for a bag of powdered donuts and a cheap bottle of wine.
I made sure the cashier double bagged it so it wouldn't fall during the ride.
The flights of stairs back up to my apartment felt like a 90 degree hike. 
Frisky greeted me when I finally forced myself through the door. She was just waking up from her nap.
Cats have such hard lives.
I took off my shoes, and sat on my couch. I watched MTV while I ate my donuts and sipped my wine straight from the bottle.
Exhaustion pulled me in and out of consciousness for some time.
I finally forced myself up, knowing I had things to get done.
Dizziness caused by the wine convinced me that taking a shower the next morning would be better.
I stumbled out of the apartment, and climbed one more flight of stairs. 
The landlord always left the door to the roof open, and I often found myself admiring the skyline from it.
It was the happy place that my mind wandered to when work got too busy.
The sky was introduced to my eyes, and I couldn't help but compare it to a Van Gogh painting. 
Maybe it was my drunkenness that made the stars spin like that.
I sighed contently and took one more sip.
"I closed my eyes, head drooping, like a person drunk for so long she no longer realizes she's drunk, and then, drunk, awoke to the world which lay before me."

(A/N I wanted to connect this second story more to myself. I didn't want it to seem as serious as some of my other pieces. The story follows the events of the narrator's day. I can never remember my own days, so I thought it would be fun to try and recollect a fictional person's day in a convincing manner.)

Famous First and Last Lines

(A/N We selected random, famous first and last lines of novels in my Creative Writing class. We then had to research their origin, some about the author of the novel, and then write a short explanation of the plot and why or why not we'd be interested in reading the novel.)

Famous First Line:

“If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.”
-JD Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye

JD Salinger was born January 1, 1919 in Manhattan. He lived a reclusive lifestyle, produced his first work in 1965 and gave his last public interview in 1980.

The story is recounted by Holden Caulfield and the events of his trip to New York following his expulsion from school and a fight with his roommate. He interacts with many interesting characters, from nuns to ladies of the night, as he deals with his own internal struggles of growing up and mourning. 

Based on the synopsis of this book, I would be very interested in reading it. It has a lot of dark, yet realistic themes, that intrigue me. 

Famous Last Line:
"I closed my eyes, head drooping, like a person drunk for so long she no longer realizes she's drunk, and then, drunk, awoke to the world which lay before me."
-Kathy Acker, Don Quixote, which was a dream

American novelist Kathy Acker was born in New York City in 1947. She identified herself as a playwright, experimental novelist, punk poet, and a sex-positive feminist writer. She gave credit to the influences of French critical theory, philosophy, and pornography. She died in Tijuana, Mexico in 1997.

A twist on the folklore classic, whereas Don Quixote is portrayed as a woman on the quest to be knighted all the while fighting the enchanters of Modern America. 

I'd be interested in reading this book, because the edgy personality of the author really draws me in. I'm interested to see what she had to say. 

Quotes

“If there's a bright center to the universe, you're on the planet that it's farthest from.” - Luke Skywalker in Star Wars A New Hope.

"Everything works in Circles" - Darby Crash in What We Do is Secret

Writers as Readers Response

When you read, what do you need to be comfortable (environment, snacks, lighting)?

When I read I like to be relaxed. Relaxed to me means to be lounged out on my bed or a couch, in loose fitting clothes, with my Spotify playing at a low volume in the background noise. I like having a drink to sip on and a snack. I also love to read in the evening more than any other time of day, because that is the time that I feel I can relax with the least guilt on my productivity. 

What genres (types of writing) interest you? What specifically about this genre interests you? 

Historical fiction, fantasy/nonfiction, and sci-fi has always interested me in literature genres. Historical fiction draws me in, because I love the feeling of being transported to another time. Fantasy has a similar impact on me, as it not only can change the time, but also the rules of the universe we live in. I think there is a true art in being able to bend the rules of reality in a way that still makes sense to an audience. 

Who was your first reading teacher? Why do you remember her/him?  Was it a “teacher” or someone else (a family member?) who “taught” you?

I don't recall a specific person necessarily teaching me how to read, but if I were to credit anyone I think it would have to be my older brother. I would sit in his room when we were kids, watching him play video games, and usually he'd put on funny voices to narrate the texts as they popped up on the screen. However, sometimes he just wouldn't be in the mood to put on the act, and he'd zoom through the dialogue without so much as muttering it out loud. Not always being able to follow the story frustrated me so much that I think it forced me to begin decoding the meaning of the words, and before I knew it I was able to understand what street signs said and of course the stories that books held in those tiny, inked letters. 

When you write, do you continually envision the “reader” of your piece?  Who do you think would be interested in reading your work?  Does having a reader in mind affect how you choose your words, themes, ideas?  What’s different if you just write for yourself knowing no one else will ever read what you come up with?

I think it is incredibly important to envision the reader while writing. Doing so helps you decide exactly what you need to say and with how much detail. You never want to drown someone in descriptions of something that they can already clearly envision on their own. Likewise, it is never a great hook to mention something that has never been discussed, and not offer an explanation for it (Imagine if you were to tell an inside joke to a stranger).

Do you think that someone who reads a lot might become a stronger writer?  Do you think we pick up vocabulary, sentence structures, themes, etc. from the books we read that come out directly or indirectly in our own writing?

I believe that writing can certainly help a writer grow. Much like a scholar who absorbs information from textbooks, authors can broaden their vocabulary and grammatical structure by studying the styles of other writers. We should not be ashamed of being influenced. Inspired by is not the same as plagiarized. Just make sure that while you're writing, your ideas are unique enough for you to sleep well at night if you were to publish them with your name on the cover.