Trying a little something new. Something I’ve wanted to do for a while. For the next few days, I will be posting the pieces I submitted for my Writing Minor Portfolio. They are all from classes I took Sophomore to Senior Year at Keene State College. Most of them are memoir in nature, but a few are slightly different. These are pieces I love, but know still need work. If you would like to know more of the stories behind the pieces, let me know and I will be happy to share! Also, any and all constructive feedback is always welcome – just because these were the final versions to be submitted doesn’t mean that they are perfect.
Oh, and also? These are mine. Do not steal them. Thanks.
A Dream Story, Written for Cooking, Eating and Dreaming, Written Junior Year.
I am running around the library, looking for words. All of the books have been sucked dry, leaving a trail of blank white pages. I had been working on my senior thesis for months, and as soon as I began writing the conclusion, language escaped me. I knew there were some books here that could help me get it back, but I couldn’t find them. I begin to frantically pull books off the shelves, searching for one that still has written language on the pages.
My heart skips with excitement when I spy a book open on the floor, ink on the pages. I race over to it, and pick it up. Immediately, I slam it shut in frustration. The printing is just an illustration, and there are no captions or story to go with it.
Standing in the middle of the stacks, I want to scream, but I can’t. I grasp my hair in frustrated fists and scrunch my face in agony. “Where did all the words go?” I whisper to the empty books. Even the labels are gone.
I see a figure pacing the stacks, like a panther prowling for a meal. I poke my head through the open space on the shelf. “Hey! You!” I hiss to the dark figure. They stop, but do not turn around. “Are you taking the words away?” Slowly, the figure turns around, an indigo mask covering their face, their hair covered by the hood of the black cape that was flowing down their back. An indigo-gloved finger rises up to the painted mouth. “Ssshhhh…” And with that, the dark figure turns and prowls away, their black cape flowing behind them.
I pull back into my aisle, and flop onto the floor, defeated. I close my eyes, and lie on my back, arms outstretched, breathing deeply in through my nose and out through my mouth, trying to ease my anxiety.
A loud “thump” brings me out of my self-pity, and I sit up. The masked figure is standing at the end of the aisle, a large book at their feet. They hold out a hand, a gesture of benevolence. In the blink of my eyes, the figure is gone.
I crawl on my hands and knees to the book, kneeling in front of it, as though beginning some sort of ritual sacrifice. I slowly open the cover, and see them: words. I don’t know if they are what I am looking for, but it is a start. I close my eyes and place my hands on the book. Suddenly, the words are in my head and the book is empty. Tears of gratitude fall down my face. I rise up and head to the back of the library, for along with words, the book instructed me on where to find the rest. I sucked the books dry, and returned to my computer, where I was able to turn the words into sentences, the sentences into paragraphs, and complete my senior thesis.