School of Humanities MESSIAH COLLEGE Colleen Barno Still Having Something Beautiful
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2013 YOUNG WRITERS WORKSHOP Letters in Lines School of Humanities MESSIAH COLLEGE Colleen Barno Still Having Something Beautiful I sit, stationary, in a somewhat crowded hotel lobby, my black frame resplendent from a recent tune-up. People from all walks of life are bustling about, carrying out their daily business. The glimmering gold revolving door at the helm of the lobby spins around, sending a whirl of musky air my direction. Into the lobby walks a fallen angel. Her wavy blonde hair is soaking wet. Her untied beige trench coat is soaked through, along with the body-hugging white dress underneath. She is shaking ever so slightly from the rain’s coldness. Her mascara is dribbling down her round checks, making it look like she is shedding black tears. She glances around the lobby, as if she is looking for a familiar face; she does not find one. Somewhat dejected, she sinks into a marshmallow-like armchair directly across from me. It is then that she notices me. She stares, tilts her head, and then looks over her shoulder, checking for the lurking eyes of nosey employees. Not receiving any evil eyes, she walks across the lobby like a tightrope walker, her red pumps clacking against the polished floor. She carefully sits down on the shiny, solid black bench in front of me, angling her body ever so slightly she we can see key to eye. 1 Her fingers, their nails coated in a blood-red polish, graze my ivory keys as they were feathers, as she closes her smudged eyelids, savoring the moment. Her fingertips press my keys down faintly. She picks up her right hand, hovers it above the keys like an airplane flying over a runway just before landing, sets it down, and begins to play a series of notes. Each note is distinct and somewhat staccato. The pads of her calloused fingertips press down with the innocence of a child. Every note, every melody, every composition she had ever played or sight-read before she skipped the light fantastic out of her fishbowl of a hometown to chase her dreams flooded back, to the point where they were constantly flowing, like Niagara Falls. Black tears plop onto my keys for her head is slightly bowed down toward them; the tears are those of a girl who longs to return home; therefore, I edge her along. Her left hand makes its way onto my keys, in a way similar to a rabbit hopping back into its underground hole; it belongs there. The music flows out from me like maple syrup. Her fingers move across the keys like a racehorse taking off from the Kentucky Derby starting gates. She is in her own little world – safe, secure, and most of all, loved. For in the music, she is whole. 2 Rachel Bernatowicz The Letters In the last twelve months, Doctor Thompson had written forty-seven letters, all of which had a common recipient and all of which were never going to be sent. In fact, he wasn’t even sure if they would ever see the light of day. And he was convinced that, after history forgot his experiments and inventions, it would still have the letters. They, rather than anything he was particularly proud of, would be his legacy. The recipient (or rather, designated recipient) of the letters was Doctor Thompson’s daughter, Mallory. To say she had anger issues was putting it lightly. And to say she had a serious grudge against her father was even more of an understatement. But to the doctor’s credit, the first ten or so years of her life were relatively normal. She had grown up to be a quiet, intelligent, and polite little girl. It was just the latest incident that had put her over the edge. Doctor Thompson thought back to a year prior, when the whole mess had started. Since age ten, Mallory had become more and more outspoken, railing against the rules her father had set for her with harsh actions and harsh words. 3 In other words, a typical rebellious teenager. “Why not, “I’ll help you through this”, or “It’ll be okay, we’ll get through together”?” There was one time in particular, when after a significantly violent outburst Doctor Thompson had been forced to confine her in a “Of course, Mallory, I mean all those things. But with your room not unlike a jail cell. condition-“ He remembered walking down the hall, standing in the doorway “Excuse me?” Mallory interrupted, now standing up. Her eyes of the room. Mallory was sitting on the corner of her bed, with her were narrowed and her lips pursed. “What do you mean, arms crossed and strands of light brown hair falling over one eye. condition? Am I some sort of diseased pet or something to you?” “Why did you put me here?” Mallory asked, voice flat and dry. “As I was trying to explain before,” Doctor Thompson said, struggling to remain calm, “Your condition makes you a danger to “I had no choice, my daughter. You were getting too out-of- others. It is unsafe for you to live outside of this room.” control.” Her father answered. “Get. OUT.” Mallory said. Mallory pushed her hair out of her eyes and blinked at him. “But I’m not-“ “How can you say that?” she asked. “You should have tried to help me, not keep me locked in here like a prisoner.” “I don’t care. GET. OUT.” Then she continued. He left. “That’s all you know how to do, isn’t it? Keep things confined, The next day, he went to check on her again. occasionally monitoring them? Testing them? I know you, Father. She was no longer there. You’re a scientist. In your eyes, I am nothing but your failed experiment. Your…shame.” There was, however, a note left on her bed: Doctor Thompson was utterly dumbfounded. Gone somewhere. “I- I don’t know what to say, Mallory.” He finally stammered out. Don’t come find me. 4 -M The remaining six had no greeting at all. He had no defense for those. A year after that event, Doctor Thompson was still thinking about it, letting her last words to him roll around in his mind. The ultimate question, however, still remained: Why did he write them? And what was their purpose? But instead of wandering around, saying the things he had wished he’d said to her out loud (this would make him seem mad) He suspected that he would never quite find out. he instead chose to write them to her in the letters. He quietly gathered the letters, tied them up, and put them back He then got up from his desk, reached into a place only he knew in his secret place. of, and retrieved those letters. They were remarkably heavy, both Then he sat back down at his desk, got out a new piece of paper because there were so many of them and because they carried and a pencil, and began to write letter number forty-eight. such emotion. He untied the ribbon that surrounded the letters and spread them out on the desk, letting them overlap each other until there was no desk space left visible. Doctor Thompson had never considered what he had written on the letters before (they were usually products of blind impulse), but now he looked over them and realized a number of things. Twenty of the letters began with “Dear Mallory.” On those days, he was feeling sentimental. Thirteen began with, “My Daughter”. On those days, he was feeling especially sentimental. Eight began with simply, “Mallory”. On those days, he was feeling either exceptionally tired or emotionally detached from her. 5 Cameron Danesh Selected Works Nature’s Spirit Sprouting from the pores of dense, dark dirt, trampled daily but never failing to grow, flexible, still sturdy enough to cushion the heavy footsteps of those who are unaware of the life that pervades beneath them. Shifting from yellow to emerald in spring, plagued by pestilence, drought, flood, darkness, this blanket prevails, defining its prowess. 6 Master yelled but I acted indifferently With resounding voice, thinking that all would be okay. Each strand stands strong. There was wailing in the backseat as raindrops cascaded from the baby’s face, as I was banished, the street lights raining on my soul, Yesterday all I knew was darkness. A cake was presented, Now in solitude gleaming with little stars, I travel alone, only to be extinguished scavenging, begging by the breath of a little one. for my next meal. They were jubilant, What has become of the home? all with mile wide grins, The family I once had? laughing while I trotted Howling, wondering, across the room to my bowl. Wondering what went wrong. It began a normal car ride, quickly developing into rage. 7 Support My mind flickers, switching from task to task, Her passions of the arts, hers agrees, stained glass, music, books, with encouragement, fading, with the reassuring voice due to me, in part, you can. her life devoted to mine. Dedicated to my safety, Drifting Away my success once I leave The water darted between the banks, cascading over waterfalls, crashing through rocks, the movement never ceasing. her open arms, Every once in a while the channel would widen, revealing its the train seeming to pull magnificent beauty as it sparkled under the sun and moon alike. In these calm areas, settlements sprang up. Through the years, too early into our station, these villages grew to towns and then cities.