Some Final Thoughts

1. This semester I have written several pieces titled: "I Am... Laura", "Marlboro Reds: A Story of a Lost Boy", "The Pond/Deep in the Woods", "Morning Light", "Amethyst Haze/Canyon Echo", "Changing Seasons", "Descending Sun", "Dream Threads", "Writers Dreaming", "The Anatomy of a Dream", "The Owl and the Crow", "Pillow Talk", "If I Were in Charge of the World", "My Take on Horoscope", "Static Waves", "6 Word Memoirs", "Big Electric Silver Clouds", "Soir Bleu", "Crimson", "Photo Hunt", "Flea Market Photos", "Unlikely Heroes", "Photograph 2014", "A Recipe for Family Gatherings", "Harris Burdick Story", and "Home is Wherever I'm With You". All of those writings were my own fictional or creative short stories. My favorite is probably the Marlboro Reds story. I love that the entire thing was inspired by an old cigarette butt that I found. I just wondered whom it might have belonged to and what their story was. That piece was a kind of warm up from not writing creatively in so long. 

2. I will never forget Glenda's story about the piece of gum that I read at the beginning of the semester. She had such a unique story and it really stood out to me. Another thing I will never forget about this class is the ongoing giraffe story that Riley, Ben, and Daniel created. Rico will always be infamous in my mind. M'Kenna has a cute blog and her personal posts are always so great to read. Taylor Denton and Katie Gann write beautiful stories. Their styles are so lovely and classic. Meghan Z's horror story really surprised me. She is so sweet as a person and that story was so wonderfully dark! Zachary B. has also really impressed me. He is an amazing writer who can cover a wide array of genres. 

3. I have a tumblr account that I am active on, and I found it fairly easy on there to copy and paste an html theme. Blogger has been a different story. I tried a bunch of different themes and I just didn't think they were very "me". I ended up using a simple purple theme and incorporating some personal aspects such as a music player with some of my favorite songs and a widget that shows my Instagram pictures. I was surprised to find that someone outside of class actually follows my blog, which is kind of cool that someone is actually interested in my writing. I got the name "Let's Tessellate" from a song by one of my favorite bands, Alt-J. I love the song because it has a hidden meaning just like all of their other songs. Also one of the lyrics is "triangles are my favorite shape", and I would have to agree. I'm not sure if I will post in the future. If I have time and don't forget, I might. One thing I know for sure is that I will continue to write on my own time.

4. I have always been a fan of journaling. I filled an entire journal with my thoughts in 7th and 8th grade. I like being able to have an outlet in which I can write my honest thoughts, because at the end of the day, we are the only ones who can truly understand ourselves. When I have the time, I journal. I usually journal in the summer when I've got a lot on my mine. I have kept all the journals I have written in for the past years. I'm glad I can add my creative writing journal to the collection. 

5. Indigo Night
Many an indigo night has been spent with you. The sound of your clear voice shoots into the night air, almost creating a space for you in the stars. You are one of them in my mind. You are the brightest; the True North. Although we are farther apart, turning to new galaxies to guide us home, we still sit beneath the indigo night. We tun, we breathe in the cool evening air, we cry, we pluck the stars from the constellations, we sit in silence, ignoring the light pollution laden by the home we love. We may be reborn, a black hole blasting into a billion balls of fiery matter, but we still find our place-side by side in the indigo sky we grew beneath. 

6. After the overwhelming thoughts of all he had been through in the past year, he slipped the cigarette box out of his pocket. He rolled it around in his palms, the quiet music from his car stereo distracting his thoughts. As he ripped away the plastic, exposing the cigarettes to the outside world, he stopped and grabbed the little black lighter from his glove box.  He placed one of the Marlboros upside down in the box for good luck, and took one out for himself. Raising the cigarette to his lips, he heard his mother’s words and turned them into his own silent prayer. “Please let me feel.”

7. I am currently trying to write a book because this class has inspired me so much. My inspiration comes in spurts, so it will take a long time, but I am really excited to see if I could maybe pursue writing someday. I am so glad I took this class. I remember at the beginning how we were so used to thesis and MLA and all of that. We were so confused when we were set loose to write whatever we wanted, no strings attached. That was one of the most liberating moments of my high school career. 

8. Everyone from this class comes from different walks of life, different grades, different hobbies. I think that one of my favorite parts of this class has been to see some new perspectives. Some of you guys are not people that I would instantly have in my friend groups, but reading your writing has given me a glimpse into your awesome thoughts and minds. I'm so lucky to have gotten to know you in the way that I have because not many people will. I encourage you to keep using your talents in your own ways, because every individual can bring something new to the table. 

Home is Wherever I'm With You

Dear Caleb,
We have listened to the song Home by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros so many times in my little CR-V. In the last few years, I'm sure I've included it in more than one mix CD. I know Home has turned into quite the white girl cliche these days, but it is a cliche that we can both relate to. We have shared so many big dreams in these few years of friendship. I know that your dream is do make music and share that music with the world. The world deserves to hear you, Cal. You have dreams that I would love nothing more than to see be fulfilled. We made our summer friendship bucket list not too long ago, and a lot of it is centered around the places we want to go. I can't wait to go to those places with you at some point.
What I love most about you is that you encourage me to dream hugely, and to not care about what is in my way. I admire the way that you persevere in your goals. That night we sat on the apartment stairs, I knew I wanted to go everywhere with you. If and when you tour, I want to go with you as your support and your little bit of home. When mix CDs of different songs turn into your own produced CDs, I want to be able to say that I was there through it all. I want you to remember your roots, and that is what the mug represents. Even though we can make our home anywhere, there will still be a little piece of us left in Springfield. I never want us to forget that.
Laura

Revision #3

Edward H. Clifford 

October 8th, 1928

Dear Diary,

My slow descent into madness has not been a quiet one. I feel myself growing more and more aggressive as each day passes. My hands shake, my brow sweats, and even daily phone calls from my sweet mother no longer help me. The voices in my mind overpower hers now. Sometimes a scream escapes that I cannot control. It is a scream of rage. I try to keep my grievances private, but occasionally my roommate will hear me through my locked door.  Ever since I was sent to Lawrenceville School for Boys in New Jersey, I have grown farther away from myself. The headmaster found me stomping through the halls at two in the morning last night after several noise complaints from my peers. I was babbling loudly about my desire to kill and that concerned the boys in my dorm building. Some days, I even scare myself, but other days are filled with the fulfillment of my utterly joyful and unquenchable desire for human flesh. I want to feel the warm ocean of blood rushing over me. I want to know what it feels like to wrap my slender, pale fingers around someones sturdy neck.  I am only 18, but I am above all of these low-life prep school boys. I am worth more than they will ever be. After all, my father is a billionaire. I hardly ever see him but he gives me beautiful clothes and the sharp ivory knife I always keep in my right hand pocket. I will inherit Clifford Industries and I will bathe in the blood of those who stand in my way. I must go now. My roommate is arriving and my little knife needs something to cut. 

E.H.C

Revision #2

• Talks too much or not enough
• I still count on my fingers.
• Seventeen years and still no relationship.
• I'll always cherish the quiet life.
• Music takes me to another world.
• Excessively talks about my best friend
• Don't make me just a sidekick.
• I thought 140 characters wasn't enough.
• I'm just a number to them.
• I regret living without any regrets. 
• I want to leave my house.
• But I am scared to leave.
• I have changed in many ways.
• Realist in a world of dreamers.
• Its very hard to make revisions.
• I am such an introverted extrovert.
• I must refuse to censor myself.
• I leave censoring to my family.

Revision # 1

The glow of the paper lanterns in the sweat stained tavern transported him to thoughts of home. He missed the scent of baking bread in the air, even the dirty streets, bustling with people of all shapes and sizes. No matter where he lived, he was reminded of Paris daily in his accent and in the letters that his mother sent him. His mind wandered to the pile of tattered, yellow notes scattered on the floor of his dingy city apartment. 
He lifted the bottle to his lips, hoping he could stop the bitter memories with the bitter taste of vodka. The first sip of alcohol penetrated his tongue, each drink slowly becoming easier than the last. He let the booze flood his brain as he had so many times before. His wandering mind took him back to his sober day, beginning with a pounding headache. He had a long afternoon at work, the greedy screams of young children still rang in his ears. 
With another drink, a sloppy smile crept upon his bright, painted lips. So often he forgot why he moved away from the home he loved. The children. They were the ones that brought him the most happiness. The art of clowning was a dying one, and America was the only place that seemed to have any traveling carnivals. Suddenly, the hearty laugh of a man with a graying beard sent him back into drunken reality. He felt so out of place in the company of men. Their voices were gruff and their jokes were inappropriate and rowdy. Pure disgust came over him. 
He knew he was alone in this world. The heart of a child beat inside of his costumed chest. Tomorrow he could live his dying dream again, his inevitably pounding headache going away with each child's joyful giggle. He let out an exasperated sigh and took another drink. He hated the smell of cigarettes. He hated the fowl language that escaped their mouths. His vision grew obscured as he shot up from the table, the subtle clink of silverware and porcelain shaking from the impact. None of the men questioned his sudden behavior. They hated the clown just as much as he did. They became silent and watched him as he stumbled out of the cafe, vodka on his breath.
The clown clumsily rushed home and looked in the mirror, swiping a sweaty, meaty hand across his painted face. The broken man was revealed behind the clown, as it was every evening. He would never come to terms with himself. He stared angrily at the sunken, aging face that peered back at him. It felt inhuman. His hand grazed across the postcard from Paris that had been tacked to his mirror years ago. He smiled, thinking of his young, limber body, riding his rusting bicycle through the square, he would set his straw hat on the cobblestones, performing tricks as he heard francs clinking into it. He felt a sudden pain in his head and was brought back to his dirty apartment, open pots of face paint all over his dresser. A yawn escaped his lips as he stretched his worn joints. He got up and sank into his spring mattress, a loud creak emerging from beneath him. He closed his tired eyes, dreaming of twinkling paper lanterns.

Harris Burdick Story

It was a perfect lift-off. From my frosted glass window I gazed out into the night. The subtle coating of snow on the firs blew off in a blinding blast. A tiny snowstorm began beneath the old Victorian. I watched the towering street lights as they turned into tiny glowing orbs below me, becoming twinkling fireflies. I stood up from my window perch, feeling the ground rumble beneath my woolen socks. I lost my balance, toppling to the ground in a heap of giggles and shock at what was happening around me. I shot up and ran to my bed, gripping the wire frame to maintain my balance. My town turned into a tiny speck below me as I floated above the earth like a king. Regaining my bearings, I ran back to my window, staring at the figures below that gazed at me in disbelief. I would surely be the talk of my town. I floated to the next town over, the Christmas lights flickering as if to welcome me and my flying house. 

My eyes shot open from my dream as my body inched toward the edge of my wire-framed bed. I was completely awake, not even groggy from my deep slumber. I ran downstairs and past the smell of sizzling bacon which I hardly ever resisted. I flung my red oak door open, a swift slap of cool air hitting my face and turning my cheeks red. My home was secure on its foundation, the neighbors were merrily walking their dog, their shoes tapping on the sidewalk. They smiled and waved at me. I shut the door with a quiet thud, sluggishly walking back upstairs to my bed. I laid down and closed my eyes, hoping for another perfect lift-off. 

A Recipe for my Family Gatherings

2 heaping cups of my grandmothers controlling tendencies
1 burnt pie crust because "she likes it that way"
1 grandpa and 2 uncles and maybe 1 cousin screaming at a football game on the TV that only gets 5 channels on a good day
5 offers to take some of grandmas hand-me-downs
1 reluctant "sure" because you can just give them to Goodwill
1 teaspoon of hopefulness that your favorite cousin from Arkansas might actually be there this year
3 cups of disappointment when she's "busy" even though you knew that would be the answer
1 text of "I don't blame you"
4 times you take your phone out
4 "put your phone away"s from your mom
2 plates of great food
2 plates of great dessert
1 "no thank you" when grandma offers her pie
3 secret glances between cousins because you all know you don't want to be there
2 nostalgic memories

Mix together in a jumbled, clumpy mess.
Realize there is nowhere else you would rather be.