Becoming
by Jessica Bullock
I’ve spent many hours on the idea of “becoming.” So long, in fact, that I got the word permanently written on my skin. I think that the word is all encompassing of the true human experience. If we aren’t constantly becoming a newer better version of ourselves is there any point? Since I was young, my way of becoming a better me was writing and rewriting. I have written about the things I couldn’t say the feelings and emotions that were just too big to be spoken aloud. I’ve also written about the things that I couldn’t stop talking about. In both cases I realized that by writing and revising I was becoming a better writer, and since I was often writing about my own life, my revisions helped me to become a better me, as well. I hope that one day I’m able to look back at all that I’ve written down and see that I’m no longer those versions of myself I hope that I’m able to see how much I’ve changed and grown, because I’ve made my thoughts tangible. Most importantly, as hard as it may be, I hope that this personal growth continues forever. I never want to look around and say that I’m right where I’m supposed to be, and that is good enough. I want to always be able to say that I still have so much work to do, so many more mistakes to revise, and many more versions of myself to become.
Acknowledgements
I’d like to thank every teacher from grade school through college who saw my potential and pushed me to always keep learning; My friends, who never let me take life too seriously along the way; And most importantly, my parents, who always believed in me, especially when I didn’t believe in myself. They have always been my greatest coaches and loudest cheerleaders.
The Head
Writings based on facts and opinions, backed by outside sources, are where I got my start with writing. I remember learning to write an essay in the third grade. It was a tedious process, that took me years to master. I don’t always feel like I have it mastered, but I have come a long way As a student, the dreaded “essay” is inevitable throughout your schooling. I somewhere along the way though, learned to enjoy them forming an opinion, and then finding sources to back it up all became a part of the fun for me. “The Head” like the name suggests is all pieces that stem from facts and opinions, that I have then backed with research. These writings show the academic lens from which I view the world.
The Ethicality of Zoos This is an op-ed that I wrote on a topic that I have remained passionate about. I believe zoos can be nuanced, and that often can be overlooked.
Literacy Interview Paper This paper required that I interview others on the topic of literacy, and then compare the different perspectives with my own.
The Transformation of The Word “Fancy” Throughout Centuries This topic was more laid back than many academic papers I have written, in which I was able to choose any word, and talk about the history of it. I chose the word “fancy.”
Technical Writing Memorandum This was written for my Technical Writing course. This assignment required that I review the ethics of a given scenario, and then write memorandum stating whether it was ethical or not, as if I was a part of the company. The scenario was that a large chain store was not paying their employees overtime, by making them contract workers after they had reached forty hours. The stipulation was that this is the reason that they were able to hire so many employees and keep their prices down
The Ethicality of Zoos
I, in the past, vowed to never visit a zoo, as I believed that wild animals, such as those found there, are meant for just that the wild. No man-made enclosure could ever live up to the standards of an animal’s natural habitat. It wasn’t until I decided to write a speech about it for a college course, that my mind changed. I went into the drafting process of the speech knowing exactly what my stance was. The only hurdle was finding sources that supported that opinion. To my surprise, while searching for an article that matched my opinion, still firm in my stance, I read opinions that differed from mine and found their reasoning to be sound. My mind has changed since then.
The ethicality of zoos in America is a widely debated topic with swayed opinions. Though it has been a cherished pastime, dating back to even 2500 BC, the treatment of the animals that inhabit them have not always been the main concern. It is a more recent development that zoos have widely focused on conservation and education. Before then, they were in the entertainment industry, and served as a means of profit from those that owned them. Though their MO has changed significantly, mostly across the board, it is important to take a further look into a zoo’s values individually before deciding their ethicality.
I began to take conservation and education into account, rather than writing zoos off all together. Conservation is defined by National Geographic as “the care and protection of nature so that they can persist for future generations.” Many of the animals in captivity are there because they would not make it in the wild, whether that be because they are endangered, were injured, or anything in between. It would be cruel to release them into their natural habitat for the sake of “bettering” their life. A lot of the animals housed in zoos do not have the skills nor the capability to compete on the same level as their healthy counterparts and their life would be shortened because of it.
Coupled with conservation, education is a key factor in a zoo’s ethicality. While there are many ways to educate society on wild animals and how to cohabitate with them to ensure their safety in their natural habitat, zoos are a great tool or this, if already being used for conservation purposes. Many people do not have the means to go on an African safari, per se, but might be able to go to a zoo more easily Through this they can see the animal in a habitat that resembles their own. They can identify with these animals and learn more about what they would need to survive in the wild. With this education, humans might be able to better understand wild animals and be less likely to cause harm to them or their homes in the future.
The best way to decide on what zoo to contribute to, whether by visiting, or donating, is to read their mission statement. Most
reputable ones will mention conservation as a part of their personal mission. Another way to tell is to see if they have ever hosted a fundraiser, offered public engagement opportunities, or asked for an “Adopt an Animal” type of donation, according to Wild Welfare, an organization dedicated to enriching the lives of captive animals. These are great signs that these zoo’s purpose and intention is the welfare of the animal, and not to make profit.
It is important to patronize these zoos too, not just passively support them The money they raise from visitors and fundraisers is used to better the lives of the animals that have to be housed there. They can’t go without it and have no other home.
Zoos can certainly be ethical if done correctly, and with the right intentions Supporting those that do, is crucial for the animals that live there. Not only that, but often they are necessary in tending to animals that might not otherwise make it in the wild, so that its species can continue for many years. Patronage and donations are where everyone can get involved in ensuring the longevity of these animals, only after personally researching and deciding that the zoo is dedicated to the same thing. Through this, you might gain a new perspective on animals that can only be read about or seen on the television This knowledge might aid in rebuilding and maintain natural habitats, so that less and less animals must be captive, but can enjoy a fruitful life in the place that they are meant to be. So, visit a zoo this weekend. At the very least you can go home knowing that you supported an animal in need, in the hopes that future generations might be able to see those species flourish naturally.
National Geographic Society (2019, June 5) Conservation https://www nationalgeographic org/encyclopedia/conservation/
The Conservation Mission of Zoos. (2020, December 8). Wild Welfare.
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Literacy
Interview Paper
On the topic of literacy, I began to realize that throughout its history it has come in many different forms and has adapted from person to person as technology has shifted. This got me thinking about how big of a role literacy has played in my own life from the time I was too young to remember most of the world around me. I also recognize that it has probably played a part in many others lives too Because of this, I set out to interview two of my family members, one of which being my mother, who is thirty-two years older than me, and grew up in a world that looked much different than my own, and my cousin, who is four years younger than me, who I suspect has had similar experiences to mine involving literacy, because of the fact that we grew up in a similar time, in close geographic proximity.
My mother, when asked about literacy, tells of a literacy that only involves a pen and paper, mostly She grew up in an era before digital writing and eBooks. When I asked her where she learned to read and write she said that “school mostly with some reinforcement from her parents” was where she had the bulk of her learning. This reinforcement, she said was also aided by her “Aunt Flora, who was a schoolteacher.” She specifically remembered “Dick and Jane books as well as Little Golden Books being read” to her as a child. These books were paper back Because of this, she said she found a love of reading and writing, and “did her own creative writing as a child and into adulthood.” When I asked her what technologies were available, and most useful to her in her reading and writing, she said that “pen and paper” were the tools she used. This is a contrast between my younger cousin’s and my own experience. In her adulthood, she continued her love of writing especially and went on to write professionally throughout her career beginning with writing up documents for the Tennessee Valley Authority for 15 years, and then later writing for the local newspaper, which is distributed to over “ten thousand people.” She even went on to write and publish her own book. She says that her literacy skills are important to her because they have given her the ability to “express [herself].” She believes that “literacy is one of the most important skills to have because if you can read and write you have knowledge, and knowledge is power.”
My younger cousin, Paul’s, experience was a bit different to that of my mother’s in many ways. While he also learned to read and write “at school and at home” with his parents and teachers both being the driving forces, he said that over the summers his parents would offer him “one hundred dollars if he read one hundred books.” Growing up, he said he “had a kindle and a leapfrog” which is where he did most of his reading “aside from his Bible.” When I asked him what he thought the value of literacy was, he said that “it’s important to have original sources and written down first-hand accounts of religious and political texts” so that those ideas can be known by others in the
future. Because of this, it made sense to me when he said his favorite things to read growing up were “historical texts” even including “historical fiction.” He views the value of literacy in a faith-based way. He said that “literacy has given [him] a chance to spread the gospel to all parts of the world” and cites the United States Constitution as being one of the more valuable works, telling citizens of their “unalienable rights.”
For me, I learned to read and write before I was old enough to attend school My literacy journey seemingly started much earlier than it actually did, when I would memorize pages of children’s books based on the pictures on each page. Once I truly learned to read and write, though, I never stopped. I remember at my grandparent’s house, there was a big hardcover book that included every Dick and Jane story inside. Every time I was over there, I would start where I had left off until I had read all two hundred pages I was so proud of myself From there, I started school, and my literacy skills were sculpted more formally. When I was young, there were computers, but digital forms of reading were not popular, and so I also learned to read with a pen and a paper, just as my mother did. This shifted, though, as I hit middle school. We, school-wide, were given iPads and from then, my reading became a mix of two different medias. As I have gotten older, I have used my writing skills more than my reading skills. I have written creatively since I was about 12 years old and continued that into adulthood. It wasn’t until about a year ago that I rediscovered my love for reading the same love that I had as a kid, reading whole chapter books in a day, just to start a new book the next day. It is because of my love for reading and writing that I hope to write professionally someday and have even chosen a degree path that will ensure that. I think that literacy can or does hold value in everyone’s life in the way that it has made the transfer of knowledge across generations, and across different types of people more accessible, allowing for each group (age, race, class, etc.) to grow and learn as the amount of literature available increases.
I grew up in a time technologically where I was on the cusp of a growing industry. Because of this, my literacy experiences began very similar to my mother’s, but eventually transitioned into something that more closely resembled my younger cousin’s experiences.I think people my age, including myself, have been more easily adaptable to the digitalization of literature, but still were able to have an appreciation for paper books, and traditional writing with a pen. Like my mother, I believe that literacy is an important tool for the gaining of knowledge, but I also believe that my cousin is right, in the sense that literacy is huge for the telling of history. We all, despite the age differences learned literacy skills at home and at school, equally. I think that this is common, as this is where people usually spend most of their time in their younger years
Though literacy and the learning of it has had major changes throughout its history, and especially throughout the technological age, something I have gathered through the interviewing process is that the value that it holds has remained the same throughout. Many
parents in a lot of places around the world see the value of literacy and pass those skills onto their own children, even before they reach school age. These skills are furthered at school, whether on paper, or on digital media, and what someone does with these skills from there is up to them.
The Transformation Of The Word “Fancy” Throughout Centuries
As I’ve gotten older, I began watching British television, where I never had before It was probably my first time seeing how their culture and even language differs from that in America. Often in the shows they use the word “fancy” to mean something very different from the way modern day Americans might; and that was to say that one likes another in a romantic way. This was almost a shock to me, as I had never heard it used to mean anything even close to that. I had always known the word to mean virtually only one thing, and that was elaborate in chic and typically beautiful way This brought me to wonder what other ways the word “fancy” has been used over time across the English language.
The word “fancy” dates back all the way to the 1500’s. It began as a verb meaning “to be pleased with or to like” (Oxford English Dictionary). This very closely resembles the way it is used by British English speakers, still today It seems to remain a verb throughout its transformations, with only the definition changing. Aside from its original, it has also been used to mean “to imagine [something] to be [so and so], “to breed”, and “to exemplify,” (Oxford English Dictionary) just to name a few. The few exceptions to fancy taking form as a verb are when, around the beginning of the 1800s it was used to mean “an exclamation of surprise,” (Oxford English Dictionary) and lastly, the way it is typically used today Modernly, in America, the word fancy is usually thought of as a noun meaning elaborate in design.
Though only six, out of seventeen definitions for fancy are obsolete in English today, the word has seen a huge decline, beginning in the 1890’s and is at an all time low currently. It is, on average, only seen one and a half times for every million written words (Oxford English Dictionary). Though it has taken on many definitions throughout the years, I have only seen it used in a couple different ways modernly. I believe this to have something to do with its decline. In its earlier stages, it took on many definitions and could be used, and written, in a variety of ways. Now, though, it is less versatile and not quite as useful. Though it still plays a vital part in English today, it can be avoided, therefore, it is not seen as often as it once was.
I was surprised by the fact that it has had seventeen different definitions over centuries, though I have only known it to mean one thing for most of my life. Some of the definitions resembled each other, and seemed to be closely related, but others seemed to be far from what I would expect. I was initially interested in the word after realizing it had two different uses, but especially after knowing that it had much more than that. It was also one of the first words that made me intrigued in the way the English language differs between countries. It can be easy to forget that English originated in, well, England and that though we share the language, it can vary greatly.
Though “fancy” has transformed and been a crucial word in the English language for many years it has slowly appeared less and less in writing and speaking alike. Originating in the 1500s it has taken on many different meanings, some of which are even obsolete today. It is a word that is commonly known, but not always in the many ways that it can be used or has been used in the past, rather only a few. It is a word that is intriguing for the ways that it can vary vastly across English speaking countries Though it is on the decline, it is still a useful word today for many English speakers, as it had been for hundreds of years.
Works Cited
“fancy, v., sense II.8.a”. Oxford English Dictionary, Oxford University Press, April 2023, https://doi.org/10.1093/OED/6356325581
“fancy, v., sense I.1.b”. Oxford English Dictionary, Oxford University Press, April 2023, https://doi org/10 1093/OED/9080287540
“fancy, v., sense III.9”. Oxford English Dictionary, Oxford University Press, April 2023, https://doi.org/10.1093/OED/1311737527
“'to fancy out' in fancy, v., sense I.1.f”. Oxford English Dictionary, Oxford University Press, April 2023, https://doi.org/10.1093/OED/1040396204
Simpson, John A. Oxford English Dictionary. Clarendon Press, 1993.
Memorandum
To: Dr. Winner
From: Jessica Bullock
Subject: The Ethicality of Fal-Apart’s Pay Practices
Date: October 4, 2024
Fal-Apart’s pay practices, specifically where it pertains to overtime employees, is something that brings up an issue of ethics. Looking at this situation in terms of Manuel G. Velasquez’s four moral standards is where we can determine if these practices are ethical or not.
In regard to utility, while the employees who work overtime do not at face value benefit from this, their employment might be because of these practices. With that being said, if they could not be employed by Fal-Apart they would not be paid at all. Additionally, those that shop at Fal-Apart are able to benefit from the lower prices that can only be afforded by Fal-Apart because of such practices. Because of this, the net benefits are greater than the net detriment. Where rights are considered, employees by Alabama state law have the right to get paid at least one and a half times the normal rate for any hours exceeding forty per week. Because of this fact, terminating employment and rehiring to avoid this pay does violate the employee’s rights, unless consent was given by the employee at the time of hiring. The shopper does not necessarily have a right to low or below market prices.
In consideration to justice, it seems that the benefits and burdens are distributed equally. This policy does not single out any one overtime employee, but rather is used across the board. The benefits are also distributed equally, with low prices being offered to all shoppers, and employment being offered to more people.
Lastly, in terms of care, Fal-Apart would have a “closer” relationship, and therefore a greater responsibility to its employees. Though its customers are a vital part of its success as a company, its employees, once hired, are representative of the company. Because of this, they are ultimately a part of the company until they are no longer employed. In this way, Fal-Apart’s pay practices are not right where care is considered.
Ultimately, the practices used by Fal-Apart in which they do not pay their employees the legal overtime pay is not ethical, though it allows shoppers to have lower prices, and allows Fal-Apart to give jobs to more of the community than would be possible otherwise. A more
ethical solution might be to allow employees that are not already receiving full time or overtime to take on the excess hours. If there are no employees that fall under this category, Fal-Apart could consider hiring seasonal employees that are only employed during the times that these extra hours are available This way, they would not be offering overtime to any employee, and they would not have to incur the additional costs that come with that. This would also allow the customers to continue to receive the low prices that they expect when shopping at Fal-Apart. Additionally, it would increase employment during certain seasons, allowing others who are looking for a job to have one for some time.
The Heart
Having the liberty to write on topics that stem from ideas and feelings is where I fell in love with writing. Though I had been writing academically for some time in grade school before I discovered that I enjoyed writing for myself. From then I wrote and wrote. No matter how big or small the experience might have been, when inspiration struck, I took pen to paper It is through writing in this capacity that I knew I wanted to write forever. “The Heart” is just that pieces from the heart, sometimes with no rhyme or reason, including poetry, narrative essays, and conversation-based essays.
Lessons of Loss This is a Narrative Essay about a very hard day for me. While its subject matter is heavy, this is probably the piece I am most proud of. This was one of the first times I allowed myself to write on the subject fully and publicly. While this was one of the harder essays I have written, I am so glad that I did.
Fear Not (fiction short story) A fiction short story was a bit out of my comfort zone, so when my Creative Writing instructor created this assignment, I was a bit unsure. While it might not be my best piece of writing, I believe it deserves a spot in my portfolio because it allowed me to step into genres that I was not as comfortable with.
Stage Fright This piece is a creative nonfiction piece about a time that I felt too visible. Creative non-fiction, at the time that I wrote this, was also a new and unfamiliar area for me. Like my fiction short story, though, it gained a spot in the portfolio because it was another time that I was able to break out of my comfort zone.
Burning Holes Through My Skin This poem is in the form of a “duplex,” which originated from Jericho Brown as a spin on the sonnet. When learning about this poetic form in my Creative Writing class, I thought that it was beautiful. Like a sonnet, it utilizes 14 lines, but every other line is a repetition of the line before it. This use of repetition tasks the writer with creating different meaning using the same words When asked to create one myself, this is what I came up with.
We Go Way Back I wrote this sonnet through my Creative Writing class, as well. Sonnets were not something I was very comfortable with counting syllables and making sure the rhyme scheme turned out made the flow of poetry a bit harder, so I was proud when it was finished It is a personification on grief, with a bit of a twist. Sonnets are typically love poems, and this is no exception.
Lessons of Loss
I rode the bus home from school beside my best friend, with a pen in hand planning out my eleventh birthday party. I wrote everything down to the minute, from when we would eat cake, to when we would begin arts and crafts. I was detail oriented, even at a young age. I liked to know what would happen next Little did I know that there would be no way for me to predict what would happen to me on this day.
The bus stopped in front of my yard, as I finished gathering my things, and settling out the details of what would definitely be the greatest birthday yet. I waved goodbye to my friend, and climbed down the stairs onto the street, and around to my front lawn. That is when I saw the cars that lined my driveway. Usually, my dad was the only one home, to greet me after school
I pranced up the stairs of my home, excited to see the company that awaited me I swung open the front door, my backpack swallowing my small frame, to a crowd of people throughout my house. My frail grandmother, sat adjacent to my mom, who usually was at work when I arrived. A few more distant family members lined the walls, and filled the seats, as well as family friends.
“Wow, what a crowd!” I exclaimed. Nervous laughter filled the room, as I scanned my house for my dad, who should be asking me how school was by now.
“Jess, come sit down, I have to tell you something.” My attention made its way back to my mom. She didn’t tell me she took the day off, nor did she seem all that excited that she was home early.
I set my backpack down at the door, and walked past everyone towards my mother. I wonder what surprise she might have for me. She loved coming home with surprises for me, though probably not as much as I loved it. I sat next to her, just as she had asked, and she held my hands in hers. Bright eyed I looked up at her.
“Baby, your dad was in a terrible accident this afternoon, he’s not okay ”
Not okay? So we have to go to the hospital? This doesn’t make any sense.
Then it hit me. The ramifications of what “not okay” meant, hit me like a truck. My stomach flipped, like a child on the monkey bars. The scene finally made sense, all of these people here, crowding the
house, their concern closing in on me. Suffocating. As if there isn’t nearly enough oxygen in the room to feed everyone’s grief.
Thoughts clouded my mind as tears welled in my eyes I grasped on to my mom like my life depended on it, and maybe it did in that moment; my heartbeat steadily thumping underneath the hardwood floor, like this day in my life was written by Edgar Allen Poe, himself. I know my mom wouldn’t lie to me, and if she was this would go down as the cruelest prank in history. I was hardly old enough to grasp the concept of life, much less death and its permanence. So, I went through the emotions like a performer on stage. Each moment passing through my brain like a slideshow of pictures of a life that isn’t mine The rest of the afternoon is a blur in my mind Everyone made their way to me A montage of “I’m sorrys” and “I love yous ” None of which were from the one I needed the most, my dad. I would never hear “I love you” from him again.
I eventually asked my mom if I would be going back to school the next day. She said “no” with such a gentleness, as if a weight could be lifted from my shoulders A part of me wanted the answer to be yes, though. I desperately wanted to return to my normal life, one with two parents, and school, and homework. I loved school. It was where I felt happiest most days, second only to home. But home was not the same anymore. Maybe if I could just go to school, I could rewind this day. Maybe, I thought, if I went right back to school, I could perpetually live in the moments before this became a part of my story. But alas, I would not be going to school the next day, and life would never the same again.
I now know that I needed comforting in that moment, and naturally would continue needing it periodically for the rest of my life It wasn’t until the coming father- daughter dances, and later proms and high school graduations that I would see exactly how sticky and uncomfortable death actually is, like wet jeans. It clings to you forever, through all the milestones and memories. I have shaken hands with all five stages of grief. Slowly, I found out how to tread through them, as if the air is honey and there were cinder blocks attached to my feet. I learned much more that day than many people learn in a lifetime. A kind of learning that I did not enjoy as much. The kind of school that a bus can’t take you to; one that doesn’t get dismissed by a bell; one you are in forever, whether you want to be or not I felt my perspective shift, if not immediately, very soon after. The bad things, like having to go to bed early, or not being able to make it to that birthday party, were not nearly as earth shattering as they had once seemed. It’s a perspective that I wish everyone had, but hope no one must earn, not in the way that I earned it.
I now live my life differently. I know how to cross the street, without my dad’s big hands holding mine, and how to make memories, even happy ones, that don’t include him I say “I love you” every time I leave the house, even through gritted teeth. I hold the one’s I love
tighter, as if tomorrow isn’t guaranteed, because sometimes it isn’t. When another man, my stepfather, entered my life I learned how to reopen my heart, though I fought tooth and nail. Through him I realized so much about loving through loss. How a heart can love infinitely that giving love to someone new does not lessen the love for those that came before.
I now give myself wholeheartedly to the ones that matter to me, like today might be their last, because sometimes it is. I grew up instantly the day my dad died. A kind of aging not measured in numbers; one I didn’t know existed until it happened. The birthday parties weren’t as important from this moment on I didn’t need them to be timed to the minute, the number of candles on the cake wasn’t something that mattered to me as much. So long as I was surrounded by people who loved me, I was happy. This is a lesson I wouldn’t give up for anything in the world.
Fear Not (fiction short story)
When I wake up, I’m in my childhood bedroom. I rub the sleep from my eyes and breathe in the smell of home. The house is quiet except for a small whimper outside of my door my dog, Grey. She and I have always been inseparable, and I know she must have heard me stirring. I stretch away the tightness in my body from sleep before walking to the door and opening it.
“Hey, girl!” I say in a voice I’ve pretty much only reserved for her.
I wait for her tail to wag but it doesn’t. Instead, her eyes shift. She stares through me and grits her teeth. I hear a low rumble escape her mouth before I even know what’s happening. She lunges at me with fury. Her teeth make contact with my arm, and she digs in. I let out a scream as I fall towards the ground, dragging her with me. She will not let up.
“Get off! Get off! Get off!” I scream, but she doesn’t. I break out into a sweat and tears fall down my cheeks. I don’t even have time to think about how out of character this is for her. When I open my eyes, she’s gone. Only my racing heartbeat reminds me that she was there. I pull myself from the ground and race down the stairs, looking around corners to make sure she is not there.
When I enter the kitchen, my mom is there making breakfast, and humming.
“Mom, what has gotten into Grey? She’s acting crazy.” I ask, with a relief in my voice that she is there.
She ignores me She continues to flip her pancakes, and her humming gets increasingly loud.
“Mom?”
Her eyes don’t move from the stove. She continues her monotone tune. A shocked look appears on my face. I search the room for any sign of what might be going on, but all seems in place.
“Hello? Mom! Are you listening to me?”
She takes her eyes off of her pancakes and her humming abruptly stops.
“That’s not true. I want you to stop making things up, Allie.”
The sound of my name briefly stops me in my tracks It is my name I know that. But it feels foreign in this moment. I shake it off and begin to open my mouth to protest, but she begins to scream a blood curdling scream. I freeze in fear. The smell of burning food begins to fill the room but my mom still stares at me. I see Grey as well, approaching behind her, giving me the same look, growling. Their harmonization sends a chill down my spine I run towards the door, with my mom still screaming, and Grey’s growl still echoing through the kitchen.
When I reach the living room, only feet from the door, bugs pour in. Big bugs, with wings that make terrible buzzing sounds. One hits me in the face before I even know that they’re there. Then, there are hundreds or more, circling me, buzzing and smacking into me. I trip over my own two feet, as I frantically swat the area around my head They’re in my hair, and under my shirt, and on my neck.
I’m stomping, and swatting and doing an elaborate dance of panic to get them away, but they persist. The swarm is so large at this point that I’m not sure which way is up, and which is down. I crawl towards where I think the door might be. Reaching around blindly, I finally find the knob, and clumsily roll down the stairs It knocks the wind out of me, but finally there is nothing but silence. All I hear now is a faint cry that is coming from… me? When I open my eyes, I’m still slapping at my arms and legs, but there aren’t any bugs anymore. I look around, knowing that a swarm that big couldn’t be far, but there are none to be found.
I stand up quickly, looking back at the house, my safe place, but the thought of going back in makes my heart pound. I decide against it. I follow down the driveway, instead. I see a nice-looking couple, at the sidewalk, where my driveway meets the road. They are looking at the shrubbery, hands intertwined. “Excuse me!” I say, trying to not scare them with my own panic. “I think I need some help! I just woke up, and something is going on in my house, and I’m not sure what to do, or who to call but…” They turn
around, slowly, with a small grin on each of their faces, and the same stare that my mom and dog had.
I pretend not to notice, as I continue, but my breath catches a little, when I start to speak.
“D-Do you have a-a phone I could maybe use?”
Their grin changes. The corners of their mouth turn up, until I can see their teeth, and gums. Then, they break into the biggest laugh I’ve ever heard. So big that I can see the backs of their throat. They start pointing and laughing. I look behind me to see if I might see what’s so funny, but nothing’s there.
It’s me they’re laughing at. It must be me.
My turning around only furthers the humor, and they laugh harder
“Please I really need help. Something’s not right. And bugs--- there’s also bugs. PLEASE!” I frantically plea my case, but to no avail. Another couple joins them. They come seemingly out of nowhere. And then a woman in a pink floral coat. And a man in a blue trench coat. And another couple. People keep pouring in, the subject of their popup comedy show me I fall to my knees, begging them to listen to me, but their laughter just grows louder, and louder. So loud in fact, that I have to cover my ears, just to think, but all I can manage to get out is “please” over and over. I close my eyes tightly and shout
the word through the crowd so loudly my throat stings, but the laughter grows and grows.
“Simulation over.” A monotone robotic voice speaks.
“Please… please… please”
“How’d you like your worst fears this time? Get up, inmate!” a booming voice speaks.
I feel the cold of concrete on my back, and my knees are tucked into my chest.
“Please!” I scream, now.
“Don’t make me tell you again, Inmate! Get your ass up!”
I open my eyes and look around the room. I’m no longer on the street. There are no people laughing at me. My mom and Grey aren’t there. It’s just me, a concrete room, cell bars, a metal bed, and Officer I squint my eyes to make out his tag Thomas.
“What is happening to me? Where am I?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, Inmate. It’s time for yard. Get up! And if you ever get smart with me again, know that I won’t hesitate to hit you with the sim. Understand?”
“Honestly, not really ” I say, as I lift myself from the floor
“That’s it.” He says as he pulls out a small handheld harpoon. He pulls the trigger, and a needle flies, through the air, into my neck. I can feel its venom make its way through my veins, before my legs give out from under me. I wince under the sting of it all.
When I wake up, I’m in my childhood bedroom.
Stage Fright
I played the tenor saxophone in my high school’s band. I started in middle school, where everyone was a beginner, and mistakes were to be expected. Through the years, I practiced, learned more and more, and got much better. By the time I reached high school, though, I realized that there were three different kinds of people those who were naturally musically inclined, those that were intelligent enough to learn an instrument despite not having a musical inclination, and those that were neither. I fell into the second category, while many of my friends fell into the first That was okay with me for the most part, although the distinction to me was prominent I had to work a bit harder when music theory kicked in. Harmonies and intonation were not something I knew intuitively, but rather something that I was taught how to recognize. Those that had that sixth sense seemed to excel with much more ease than myself. Regardless, I joined the jazz band my senior year, and even got a solo part. I played that eightmeasure run until I was sick of hearing it. I felt like I had it mastered. Then it was time to perform it on stage Looking back, the stakes were relatively low a small auditorium filled with my bandmates’ parents and siblings. All were friendly faces. When my part came up, I could feel a surge of electricity run through me, and the butterflies in my stomach were enough to make me want to vomit. I tried to do just as I had practiced, but I could feel the eyes searing straight through me. I butchered my very first note. My cheeks became fiery hot, as I corrected and continued. I think the rest of the solo went very well, although I’m not positive. Muscle memory took over, as that squeaky note ran through my head again and again. I couldn’t have gotten off that stage faster. It’s funny what a bit of pressure can do. It can make you forget things that you certainly know. It can also make you feel like you are on an island, all alone, with a giant spotlight shining down on you The fact that these mistakes never seemed to happen to my musically inclined friends only made matters worse. I felt lesser than, and a bit defeated. They all reassured me that it wasn’t a big deal, but I knew that they didn’t completely understand how difficult it was to have to work much harder, but to still not be as advanced. I gave up the saxophone a few months later While I don’t think that was the best move, looking back, I felt as though I might never be able to be on the same level as my peers, and that I would always struggle to perform. I’ve since had to break the habit of quitting when things get hard, but I certainly don’t miss being on a stage.
Burning Holes Through My Skin
I couldn’t talk about you
There’s pity in their eyes
I despise their eyes
Looking at me like I’m broken
I think I might be broken
Under the weight of your absence
Deep under my own weight since Writing feels lighter
Because I write I feel lighter
At home with a pen and ink
I found a home in the pen and ink It needs no explanation
They want an explanation
But I couldn’t talk about you
We Go Way Back
My grief began loud, like a wailing child
Demanding my attention, big and large
Like myself, she was anything but mild
I fought against her waves, but she pushed like a barge
Soon, like siblings, we learned to get along
Though she never was my favorite friend
It seemed together she and I belonged
Her loyalty has struck me, stay she tends
She is quiet now, like an autumn breeze
Only stopping by to say “hi,” and leave
Merely once every changing of the trees
Initially, it was a welcome deprive
I still miss her some, though she had to go
She was a child with me, she watched me grow