Once Upon a Dream

Flesh peels from walls barely new. The table rots, broken in a pile resting on the ground. Only two walls are left standing, leaving this room exposed to nature’s cruelty. Multicolor vines, with flowers and leaves sprouting off, blanket most of the room’s floor. The walls have been untouched, save for a few inches across the bottom. Beneath this mass, the crackling, thirsty ground lies. It looks dense, but each step reveals its bounce that bends and springs under my feet like a child’s trampoline.

Slowly, what looks like lightning falls from the wispy, red sky. A man begins to run towards the falling lighting. He is wearing a pinstriped suit, or at least what was left of it. The legs and arms are torn off at his knees and elbows. There are holes throughout the material, and the once dark blue base color of the suit is now a dingy gray. With every leap, his too-big suit swishes and seems to tickle his freckled arms. He stops suddenly and with a swift jerk turns his head to look at me. He stares for a moment, narrowing his eyes to clarify his sight. He lifts a slender hand and motions me to follow.

Elegantly, he bounces in front of me. I try to follow his lead, but I’m not prepared. My knees give out after my first step, and I crumble into a ball, sinking lower and lower into the trampolineground.

“Get up before the ground turns into quick-sand.” His voice is deep and not what I expected. He speaks with a musician’s cadence. He puts out his hand. It is not the one from before. This hand is chubby with light skin stretched tightly over to encase its fat. I look at his hip to see the slender, wrinkled hand resting there. I grab the hand and push with mine into the velvet-textured ground.

I try to speak, but there is nothing. I yell. I scream. I yawp. No sound can escape from my constricted vocal chords. I want more than anything to ask the man where he is taking me.

“To school.” He is almost singing.

I run. I run far away from the man. Eventually I come upon a watering hole filled with orange sludge. Long-legged lions and trunked giraffes drink from the viscous pool.

I can sense presence behind me without looking. I turn. His maroon lips curl over crusted green teeth. His slender fingers wrap tightly around a pair of black and red plaid pajama pants. The chubby hand loosely grasps a second pair splattered with pictures from The Christmas Story.

“The plaid is too formal, no?” The first pair cascades to the ground.

I glance above the man’s boney shoulder and see miles of brown trampolineground and the blood red horizon. I think to myself, what now?

The red of the sky intensifies to an almost blinding neon color, and then, nothing. There is no noise and no light. I raise my hand but see nothing. Humid breath slaps my neck; the breath burns and stings, leaving condensation that runs quickly down my shoulder and into my palm.

“Splendid,” a voice cascades from the darkness, “the new student has arrived.”

Help Wanted

She hits the bed; her long, frizzy hair before her slender, lanky body. A brown swath of hair covers the top of the mattress. Almost no white is peeking through the thick mass. Bones jut left and right from her 82 pound body. Her muscles, the few she has, ache. Her abs, especially, throb in pain.

She brushes some hair out of her face revealing sunken avocado green eyes embedded in dark circles. Her skin is stretched tightly over protruding cheekbones. She slowly sits up and places her hands on her face, rubbing her tired eyes.

A small growl sounds from her concave stomach. In response, she slowly swings her vein-covered legs over the edge of the bed. Pushing herself up, she to walks to the kitchen and stares solemnly at the refrigerator. She wraps her skeletal fingers around the handle, pulls out a container of cookie dough, sits at the table, and eats her lunch. Shoveling spoonful after spoonful of glutinous, uncooked dough into her mouth until she finishes the quart.

She doesn’t wait long before running to the bathroom. After all, she needs to get rid of the food before she begins to digest. She doesn’t want any to become fat. After she’s done, she stands up and places each of her feet on her scale. 81.4, she thinks, perfect. She sits back down, too weak to stand.

Sitting on the cold tile floor next to the toilet, she counts the flowers she painted on the wall when she was 18. Shed always been good at art, it was her only talent. Everyone always asked her to paint for them, but she never did. She remembers standing on the stool, using the paints her mother had gotten her for her birthday. She remembers how she painted them 3 weeks before her mom left, 3 weeks before everything went wrong.

She gathers the strength to stand up and brush her yellow, decaying teeth. They embarrass her. For a split second she wonders, what am I doing to myself? But when she looks in the mirror she remembers.

~~~

Staring back at me in the mirror is the frizzy haired, avocado eyed, obese girl I always see. I examine myself, turning to the left, disgusted at my whale-like girth. Then to the right, noticing my saddlebags. I begin to feel the familiar queasy twinge in my stomach that I tend to get when I see myself. I walk away, too horrified to look any longer.

As I walk over to the table, I stop and look at the picture of my mom that I buried under papers next to my computer. It was before she was diagnosed, before she hated me, before she ran away. I remember when we were happy. When we all lived in the same house, my sister, my mother, and I. I remember when I first started binging, around the time she went crazy.

My knees begin to feel weak, as I remember my sister disappearing shortly after my mother did. Only a few months ago did she decide to regain contact. I had shoved these memories down for so long. I had filed them away in folders, piled in the backs of the file cabinets of my mind. But now they were all coming out.

I stare down at my calves. I could fit marbles in the pockets made by my cellulite. I begin to spiral again, back into thinking about my weight. Everything begins to fit itself back into the crevices of my mind, and I begin to forget. But I don’t want to forget. Quickly, I grab the picture and remember what caused it all, me.

I pick up the phone, and watch as my chubby fingers press the buttons. “No.” I saw out loud. I block my thoughts and the only noise I can hear is cacophonous ringing.

“Hello?” I hear her newly familiar voice echo softly.

“Abby?” I hesitate for a moment, “I need help.”

Break Me

and as your soft,

innocent feet step

over my aching body,

i can feel my heart break.

and as you rush back

to say you’re sorry,

to wipe away tears,

i feel daggers.

and then again you

brush through my

hair, as black as

your soul, to get me back.

and you bring me back

into your machine-like

grip, and I cant pull

away, and I believe.

and once again you

break me, but your

child-like self is not aware

of what you’re doing.

Falling

She opens her grey-blue eyes. They are the portal to her soul; you can see everything in them. They are like the ocean. A tranquil blue some days, a raging deep grey the next. Her name is Andy, and she is my sister.

Her red hair falls gently on her shoulders as she lets it down from the restricting pony tail she wears to dance. She pats it softly, unraveling the hairs and revealing blonde highlights.

“They’re too blonde!” she screamed after getting them dyed for the first time. Her voice wavered and tears welled in her eyes.

“It’s really not that bad, they look good!” my mom said, trying to console her.

She was bent over the table. Her head in her hands. Stroking her hair. I looked at my mother who motioned me to talk to her. I was never good at making people feel better. I can’t deal with crying.

I took a step, stop. Another step, stop. I looked at my mom and she motioned me to move closer, more forcefully this time. I took one more step, but didn’t want to get any further; I can’t remember what I was so scared of.

“Andy I really like them, they make your hair look really shiny.” It sounded like a compliment in my head, but out loud it sounded weird.

“Shut the hell up Mark, you don’t have any idea what you’re talking about!” She was right. I really had no idea what the problem was or what to say to make it better. Her hair looked fine to me, just a little lighter.

“I think it looks good, Harrison will really like it.” Man did that set her off. I think that’s what was really bothering her, but the thing is, her boyfriend loved her no matter what.

She looks at herself in the mirror. Her eyes, lips, ears, nose. Without moving her gaze, she picks up her powder. “Small circles, that’s the key” she would tell me, like I wanted to know. Two swipes of mascara, and a dab of blush and she was glowing.

“Come downstairs and put the boutonnière on Harrison, honey! We have to take the pictures!”

A few minutes later she comes down the stairs. Gliding. Her dress trailing gently behind her. The teal fabric made her light brown skin look even tanner than usual. She would always spend hours outside tanning, especially before prom.

“I’m ready.” She said softly. Her crimson red lips parted slightly as she spoke.

I looked over at Harrison. All he could do was smile. You could really tell how much he loved her.

“You look amazing.” He said to her. “Did you do your makeup?”

“Yeah I did.”

“Wow.” He kissed her gently so he wouldn’t mess up her pristine lips.

“Say cheese!” My mom said, as she captured their kiss.

Normally Andy would’ve been angry, but I think she was just too happy for it to bother her.

She comes downstairs and sits next to me at the table with her usual bowl of cereal, Cheerios with a splash of milk and half a banana. She stares at the wall. Her lips parted and her eyes opened. She turns to me, and looks at me for a minute, then looks away.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, why’d you look at me?”

“I don’t know, I just feel like I never see you anymore.”

“Oh really? Well you’ve been out a lot lately. Are you seeing Harrison today?”

“Yeah I’m leaving soon actually.”

We ended up talking for about an hour and a half. She asked me about girls and school, I asked her about Harrison and her job. I began to remember how well we got along. It had been a while since we really talked.

“Oh, I have to go, Harrison’s expecting me in 15 minutes. We’ll hang out later okay?”

“Sure.” I say and I smile at her as she walks out the door, trying to hide my sadness.

“I had the dream again.” Andy said one morning as she turned the corner into the kitchen. She had always had these two recurring dreams. She had them for years.

“What dream? The one where you’re being chased? Or the one where you’re falling?”

“The one where I’m falling. I don’t understand why I always have them.”

“Maybe its one of those subconscious things where your brain is trying to tell you something.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

She lies in the ICU of Mount Auburn Hospital. Her chest rises very slowly and the beep of the heart monitor is the only sound in the room. My mom and I sit on her right, with Harrison on her left, holding her hand and stroking her blonde highlighted hair.

His grey eyes fixated on her pale and bruised face. He leans down and kisses her soft pink lips, but she does not kiss back. He moves his lips to her ear as he whispers, “I will always love you, no matter what.”

Dancer and Gazelles

Paul Manship's "Dancer and Gazelles" is a sculpture that seems to, in my opinion, have captured grace. Many aspects of this piece make it graceful. The way the woman's skirt and shawl drop softly downward. Seeming to sway easily with her movements. Her pointed feet give a sense of majesty to her. She seems light on her feet, agile. I imagine her dancing through the forest. Weaving in and out of trees. Stroking them on her way by. Two deers trailing behind her. Drawn by her beauty. Her soft gray body a blur amongst the nature.

With every dancing step she takes through the trees, her skirt brushes against her legs. Its rigid pattern clashing with the smoothness of her skin. She turns to the deer and reaches out her hands, telling them to stop. They veer back and look at her with curiosity, wondering what she is trying to tell them.

Grace is something not easily achieved. One has to work at it. Be it in dance, or in art, it takes time and practice. I have noticed that in many museums, sculptures are usually very graceful. Ranging from naked women to fighting men. Even things that seem clumsy, look graceful in a sculpture. And things that are graceful by nature look even more graceful when depicted in a sculpture. So I wonder, how does this work? Is it the stillness? The utter sereneness of the sculpture? Or is it the colors? The subtle whites, browns, and grays? The shine? Is it being able to tell a story from the sculpture? What is it that makes sculptures seem so graceful?

In my opinion, the sculpture needs all of these elements to be truly graceful. Each element brings more grace to the object. However, the elements of grace change depending on what the object is. If it is, say, a painting, you might consider color. If it were a person, you might add personality. As you can see, there is no real definition of grace that is specific to one object. You have to find it for yourself.

Ben's Chili Bowl

Walking through, people stared. We were in their area. Walking straight to the back of their home. Not even asking permission. We'd heard so many things about her. "World famous." "Obama was here!" We didn't know what to expect.

Music was booming from her bowels. We could only hear it faintly from the back. Her heart was beating. Sending out waiters with food. Then back for more. Feeding and fueling her cells. Everyone was so antsy. The hustle and bustle made her nervous. But she kept on pumping.

I expected the food to be amazing. After all, it's world famous. Her and I must have had a bad first impression. She didn't seem to live up to her name. But after all, I wasn't that hungry.

Her body held all different kinds of people. African Americans, Caucasians, Hispanics, and many more. She is a diverse collection of people. A representation of D.C. itself. The smell of chili and fried food emitted from her kitchen as more and more food was being pumped out. I wanted to try the chili. We started fighting. Her saying I should try it, me not wanting to break my vegetarianism. Back and forth. Back and forth. Finally, I won.

She kept pumping out more meals. Circulating to all parts of her. As more people were coming in, she became more and more packed. Her heart beating faster and faster by the minute. To not get caught in a huge rush, we finished eating, got up, and left a big hole in her hungry stomach. She wants more. She always wants more. But don't worry, she will soon be filled with more hungry customers.

Auntie Em! Auntie Em!

Waking up to the sound of rain on a day you were supposed to spend outside is not a good feeling. I usually love the rain, but as it pit-patted on the wet pavement outside our room, my heart begin to sink. I woke up and looked at my roommate, Kelsey, and could tell she was thinking the same thing I was. What are we going to do now?

We ended up going to the Museum of American History, and were assigned to find something in the pop culture exhibit that brought back memories from our childhood. When he finished telling us our instructions, we all got up from our seats and walked our soggy bodies over to the exhibit.

Walking around the pop culture room, I wasn't really seeing anything that brought back memories. Or even, to tell you the truth, anything I recognized at all. On my search, I saw things like a dumbo statue (that I couldn't use because my mom would never let me see the movie because it was too sad), some man in what seemed to be in a tribal costume, and pokemon (which I never played with).

Finally, I turned a corner and saw a pair of shoes on a pedestal. But they weren't just any shoes, they were Dorothy's shoes. Shoes that every little girl wanted to be in. Shoes that glistened with my memories.

The first time I watched the Wizard of Oz, I was probably about 4 or 5. Of course, being a girl of that age, I loved it. Everything except the flying monkey scene. I even loved the wicked witch of the west. But most of all I loved the munchkins. I developed an almost spot-on impression of these little, big headed people. And my parents loved it and would have me do it for their family and friends. But naturally, as my voice changed, I lost my ability to make this shrill, munchkin-like voice that everyone loved so much.

As my voice changed, so did the ways girls idolized Dorothy. When I was 6 she was a popular barbie doll, and halloween costume. Some even had ruby slippers to match. Then, when I got to be about 10, Dorothy had almost completely gone away. Girls gave all their dolls and costumes to their younger sisters and neighbors and forgot about sweet Dorothy. She was replaced by pop artists like Brittany Speares and Avril Levine.

In the past 2 or 3 years, I have noticed a comeback in Dorothy's popularity in our generation, but in a very different way. Girls started dressing up as Dorothy for halloween again. But this time, the dresses were much shorter and had a lot less fabric to them. They were lower cut, and poor toto was forgotten, only to be replaced by trashy fishnet knee highs with red bows on top. Dorothy went from being a sweet little girl who got whisked away to another land, to being a trashy teenager dressed in clothing her father would definitely not approve of. When I saw those precious ruby slippers, my first thought wasn't of cute movie Dorothy, it was of skanky, troubled teenager Dorothy. Isn't memory an interesting, beautiful thing?