Creative writing is my favorite thing in the world and I need to write every day. Here are a couple super-short stories, poems, and thoughts.

Adulthood

I love you,
I hate you.
I don’t want to need you,
But I do.

I try not to get jealous
When someone else has more of you
Than I do.

Because so many people
Never had the chance to have you
At all.

There was a time
When I didn’t understand your value.
But now I dedicate my life,
Because I don’t know how to live without you.

I’ve lost you,
I’ve found you.
I’ve done well and I’ve earned you.
I’ve been careless and exhausted you.

You come,
You go.
You come,
You go.

Sometimes unexpectedly,
But also all the time.

Stupid money.

A love-lemniscate

a true story.

I am sitting on the subway at 1 AM. There are two older teenage boys sitting across from each other on the benches. They don’t know each other, but they start arguing. One of the boys stands up and says “I’m gonna kill you!”

The other boy then gets up and almost leaves the train. He paces anxiously, and exclaims in a mildly scared, yet jovial tone, “He’s threatening me!” before proceeding to sit in the empty spot next to me.

He starts talking to me, and looks at the guy sitting across from me.

“Is this your girlfriend?” he asks the stranger.

The guy and I smile and both shake our heads. “Nah. It’s just me,” I said. I close my eyes.

The boy then asks, “Are you married?” I open my eyes and shake my head.

He asks, “Do you have a boyfriend??”

“Nope, single,” I say. I want to be kind, but I don’t really want to particularly talk to this kid.

He looks up and down my body.

“You’re single... lookin’ like that?!”

I laugh because I was daydreaming about a guy that I (unfortunately) have a crush on, and it was just surprising and ridiculous. First of all, why can’t this kid be him instead? Secondly, this cute little boy thinks he has swag and is hitting on me? I’m so confused.

It amuses me, but I just close my eyes again, happy that he and the other boy aren’t arguing anymore. It seems like my presence changed the vibe in the train, so I’m not mad about it.

All the sudden, when the train stops again, the boy stands up and points to the boy he was arguing with before and asks, “What? You wanna go?!”

The other boy stands up and points to the platform. They leave the train like they’re going to fight.

I think, “Oh, shit.”

I see another man, who was sitting near them, look out the door. He has a better view than I do. He begins shaking his head and rolling his eyes. We then lock eyes, and he walks up to me.

“Those boys are so stupid.” His eyes are still on me.

“What’s going on? Are they fighting on the platform?” I inquire.

“No,” he says. “They’re friends. Before you got on the train they said that they were going to pull this stunt on the next hot girl they saw. That kid who sat next to you was hoping to leave the train with you so he could buy you a drink.” I’m shocked, trying to keep up.

“What? That’s so elaborate. No way.”

He replies, “I swear, I heard their conversation. But I guess since you had your eyes closed and didn’t seem interested, they left.”

“So, if I had agreed to this drink, I would have gotten off the train with this boy and the other guy would have gone home alone? That’s some serious wing-man shit” I reply.

“I know, right?” he says. “But those guys are like sixteen. Maybe it would work on a younger girl, but to try that on a mature woman is crazy.”

That’s for sure.

“Seriously. I’m 31. I was worried about the boy, but in a mom way. That was so weird,” I admit.

Then the guy asks, “So where do you live?”

“Prospect Park area,” I say, wondering if it’s normal to share information like that in the adult world.

“I’m 37. Want to grab a drink?”

And within all of this intertwined flattery pivoting us inside the box of animal instinct, there is something human that lingers—disappointment and longing for someone who doesn’t want me.

Why can’t this man be him instead? I think.

For those who think racism doesn’t exist

This morning I was on the D train on my way to work from Brooklyn to Manhattan. My stop is only one stop away, but a lot happened during this short transition.

I was standing across from a black woman. She looked like me–wearing professional clothing, looking bored going to work, and about my age.

On the other side, there was a mentally unstable man roaming the quiet car. He stopped in front of the woman, and subsequently began yelling racial slurs at her. She was wearing headphones, but he made sure to say the "n-word" loud enough so she could hear it, over and over and over again. She stood there, looking up at the ceiling, shaking her head. The man kept saying the word, more loudly, and aggressively. I'm not sure what my face looked like, but I felt angry. I must have looked angry because she locked eyes with me and shrugged.

The train was full, but no one said anything. I really wanted to say something, but I couldn’t figure out what. What do you say to a crazy person who is clearly out of their mind? What might he had done to me if I did say something?

I tried my best to just be present in the moment, listen, and not ignore what was going on, because I think that means something—having awareness and understanding.

There was another black woman on the train, sitting on the bench near us. As the man kept saying hurtful things to both of them, the women (who were strangers) looked at each other, smirked, and rolled their eyes, forcibly connecting emotionally over this vile experience.

Eventually the man shuffled away. The woman sitting on the bench looked at us and said,

"That was the first time anyone every said (n-word) to my face."

The woman standing across from me replied,

"I mean, what do you say to a person who is out of their mind?"

That was exactly my thought.

The woman on the bench continued,

"It happened to my grandfather many times in the past. He told me about the first time it happened and how he beat the guy up. And even with the guy bleeding, down on the ground, he still called him a (n-word). So no matter what you do, or say, it's not like it’s going to change their mind."

I was wholly present, listening to her story and making eye contact with her, but I did not say a word the entire trip. And then we hit Grand Street, and I got off the train.

I don’t know where they are, but I hope they’re days are going better than they were.

Cellos are Magical

It’s amazing how instruments like violins and cellos can affect our emotions. I’ve researched this before, because string instruments, especially those in the violin family, just hit me differently than any other instrument.

After reading some articles, I found that cellos, especially, ignite something heartbreakingly visceral and empathetic because it has a range and tone similar to the human voice. So when we listen to a cello, our bodies interpret it as a pure-sounding human voice with a wider, more impressive range. It’s like the less annoying Ariana Grande of instruments.

Women Are also magical

I am almost 31.

So far this year:

Men have made me laugh. A couple of them have taught me things. A few of them have listened to me and actually understood me. Some of them helped me see things in a different way. I’m sure given the chance, one or two of them would protect me.

But women. The women in my life have: made me feel loved, told me the truth while still being on my side, utilized my intelligence, helped me deal, inspired me to be stronger, better, tougher, more demanding, and more confident.

Women are magical and I’m happy to be one, despite the government, and everyone, being weirdly obsessed with our bodies.

Don’t Worry, I’ll Catch You

I moved to a new town in late middle school. I met a bunch of different people and had a handful of various friendships, if you can even call them that. But there was one friend I had, and we weren’t friends for very long. Nothing between us happened or anything, we just grew apart. But there is a memory I have of us that I can recall so much more easily than memories of last week, or even this year.

I spent the night over her house. We snuck out in the middle of the night and walked into the darkness of her sleepy development. I remember there weren’t enough street lamps. She said there was a swing-set nearby.

On the way there, she told me of her relationship with a guy. Her story was more advanced than what I had ever experienced, but none of it shocked me. Instead, I remember wondering about even more details but not wanting to pry.

When we reached the swing-set, we sat down. She pulled out her iPod/mp3 player and put one headphone in her ear and one in mine. She played a song and we started swinging in unison, to make sure the headphones wouldn’t fall out. It was nice to swing with her like that, knowing that we were both controlling our swings in order to stay together and that she was with me in that moment.

We both looked toward the stars. This was the benefit of living in a rural town.

“What song is this?” I asked. I liked it.

“I’ll Catch You. By the Get Up Kids,” she said.

“Never heard of the Get Up Kids,” I said.

I don’t remember much else about that night, or her. But I’ve been waiting for this memory to fade and I’m 30 and it’s still here.

And it has occurred to me recently—while taking a shower, or zoning out on the train, or even while sleeping, that the most memorable moments may just be by accident.

Time-warp at home

Last night I was in my parents' basement looking at some of my mom's old artwork from high school and college. She was a really good artist—particularly at drawing, stained glass, and clay/canvas sculpting. Basically anything other than watercolor. Her art was from the 60s and 70s and looked totally psychedelic, despite her disagreeing that the trends of the times subconsciously influenced her artistic visions. "I like surrealism," she said. "Dali is my favorite."

"Okay, I believe you," I said. "But it's still psychedelic."

"Why do you say that?" she asked.

"The colors and the patterns. There are so many. Basically, I can see people on drugs especially loving the intricacies of these." I said. She laughed.

"Maybe," she said.

While looking at her art, I was also going through paintings she owned that she had in storage, trying to haggle and compromise for which of them I could take back with me up to New York. Although she is protective of her art, she is also generous, so we settled on a textured reproduction of a Van Gogh painting and a painted landscape of a waterfall in Hawaii. She said she'd bring them up next time they visited.

While moving paintings out of the way on the table, I came across a glass case containing my grandfather's purple heart, along with a bunch of patches from the war. "What do all of these mean?" I asked.

"Hmm, I don't know. You'll have to ask Dad," my mom said.

I never met my grandfather—he died before I was born, and before my parents got married. My mom never met him either.

I found it to be timely, looking at that purple heart—remembering the stories my dad told of his father fighting in the Battle of the Bulge, getting injured, and eventually frostbitten, which led to circulatory problems, and eventually his death years later.

I stood there and wondered what he would think right now—the state of the country he fought for as an American against the Nazis who murdered his people and many others. He got to experience the victory of the downfall of the Nazis and the postwar economic boom. He had kids, who had kids that he'd never met, after succumbing to the stress that the war left on his body. And even though I'll never know what his voice sounded like, or what his mannerisms looked like, I can picture him looking somewhat like my dad with his feet on the ottoman, watching the current news on an old 1950s television, shaking his head and ashing his cigarette.

Doomsday (a poem)

She stares at the wall and

she curses it all when all is

said and done.

But at night she’s thrown,

by the brink of her bones

like glass into the silent sky.

So she’s suddenly lost in

nothing but rain

with a glimpse of Sanity Hill.

There’s nothing to lose, but

mirrors to gain

in pursuit of cloudless dreams.

And when she wakes

she frantically shakes but

always takes her time—

she sits and sifts

by burying her misfits

beneath the fluff of steel pillows.

She stares at her

chapbooks from Poe and Sylvia

plathed upon her cedar shelf.

She rolls her eyes at "the end of the world"

but remains afraid of herself.

The Story of Anna

She is hard on the inside. Her skeleton is made of some sort of aged metal that’s bendable, and not at all brittle. Surrounding her sturdy core is her skin--a feeble fabric. Her original apricot glow is stained with grime and her pink lips are blackened like coal. Her delicate hands are crusted with a mixture of German dirt and old blood, and the blush of her cheeks could only be seen closely under some divine light. Her hair is dark and matted, and her eyes remain open, as if she could bear to witness even more than she already has. She is mine. The doll is the size of my forearm, and as weightless as the blind memories she came to me with. I turn her over onto her belly and lift up her dress. I read the name again. Anna Schwarzman, age 8, 1941. I call the doll by her true name.

My grandmother found Anna before the Jews were liberated from Buchenwald, Germany on May 8, 1945. She was hidden away under a loose wooden plank beneath a cot in one of the barracks. Only little Anna was pint-sized enough to squeeze into such a space. The real Anna, I mean. Numbers were carved into the doll’s arm with some sort of rock. That little girl didn’t want to be alone.

I never really understood my family. My mother is in real estate, and my father was a lawyer before he died. I used to observe them like characters in a storybook. Everything seemed simple and their lives were filled with so much touching and love (or what looked like love). It used to amaze me as to how such things could fall into place so easily for some people. Now I know that they are just living the lives they planned for. My mother never had a problem with getting rid of old things, and sometimes I would hide my old Beanie Babies or books to keep her from giving them away. Still, she would find them. She would tell me that they were useless gifts that did nothing but distract me from the tasks I needed to focus on, and that other children, unloved children, needed them more than I. She blamed me for not preparing myself for a stable future. A happy future. I was old enough to realize why my grandmother and I got along so well, but I was too young to understand her struggle. She lived on the edge; she lived for adventure and was strong. She was different and unafraid. These qualities, braided with a mixture of some eerie luck, are how she survived the concentration camps. We had a special bond, almost as if we were two souls in the same person, separated and placed in different times.

During the process of trying to find myself as a young woman, I lost part of me when she died. It was something so subtle that I couldn’t tell which part of me it was that had gone missing. I remember holding her cold, wrinkled hand in mine and gazing into her lost eyes, the color of a faded sky. I remember the black numbers across her wrist had dissolved into her delicate veins, and when she caressed her thumb over my knuckles she told me that it was okay to say goodbye. She must’ve said those words more than once in her own lifetime. Her forehead creased as she searched for her own answers, but the cancer was no easy door for her to leave open. If only I could grow up to be as strong as her, it would be the most cherished gift. I wouldn’t let anyone take that gift away from me.

I live alone in an apartment on the corner above Acorn Ave, above “The Cutting Edge” hair salon. I am holding Anna and a glass of Merlot as I slowly rise from the couch made to seat three. I gaze into her eyes and I can feel my lips tighten as I make my way toward the kitchen, still staring deep into her. Her face is still perfectly symmetrical. Her almond-shaped eyes are almost as dark as mine. I place her on the counter and shuffle through bags of herbal teas, trying to find the one to fulfill my mood. This is hard to do, since most of the time I never really feel anything. I decide to close my eyes and choose. My index finger and thumb latch onto two at the same time. I pause before dropping one, and then my eyes open to expose the teabag separated from the rest. Vanilla Chai. My favorite. I feel lonely.

The particles of the tea bag float and dance inside the steaming mug. I replace the wine glass with the tea mug and cradle it with two cold hands. The scent is intoxicating on this winter night. I take sips until I can feel my mind awaken, plummeting into another deep thought. I used to stray from others while standing right in front of them. I did this by gazing past them, into a distant vision so I could question my intentions and my existence because I liked living inside my head. I live alone so I can escape whenever I choose, even though it does get overwhelming at times. That and well, because I don’t really have many friends. I place the mug onto the counter and pick Anna up again. I creep to my room and the floors creak the slower I move. My sheets are blue and my down comforter is brown, the backwards colors of the earth and sky. I kneel to crawl under my own bed, placing her beneath a loose wooden board. I’m not really sure why I do this. I think part of me wants to continue her cryptic story, and part of me doesn’t feel like dwelling anymore.

I sit on the bed and the sweetened steam from the mug dances from the kitchen to my nostrils. I breathe deep. How lucky it makes me feel to be here, to make my own decisions without being under anyone’s surveillance, or being anyone’s annoyance. Even though I lack more friends than most girls my age, I don’t mind it…right now. Right now it makes me feel fine.

I turn my neck toward the window. The moon is a perfect circle, blank like an ideal canvas, and so low I could make a picture out of the craters. I unfasten my covers, which are tightly pressed between the mattress and the bed and continue to gaze at the alabaster sphere beyond the glass. My eyelids become heavy and settle amongst my skin, harboring the darkness of my eyes. As I wait for the sun I feel vulnerable. I feel free.

I sit up, and the air chokes me. I can’t stop coughing. The room is black and I can smell a mixture of a gas stove and burning rubber. The moon is still large and low, so it has to be nighttime still. I fall out of bed and stumble to the light. I flick the switch and I can’t see anything, except thick, gray air and confusion consuming every limb of my body like ghosts. A fire alarm blares from another side of the apartment, and I immediately drop to my knees, remembering what I had been taught as a child. Underneath the crack of the door I notice an orange glow and immediately cover my mouth and nostrils with the end of my sweatshirt sleeve. I begin to determine whether or not I should open the door. I lay on the floor, hyperventilating. Could I trust a stranger to save me? I pull a towel up from between my chest and the rug and shove it in the crack, hoping the smoke would die down somehow. I can feel the pupils of my eyes begin to burn and the heat eating away at my lungs. I can’t even see the window anymore. The moon is gone and the smoke is growing like storm clouds. There is no time. If there is a flash fire behind that door, then I’m dead. I cry “my god” and steal the towel away. I cover the handle with it, turn the knob, and kick the door open. The kitchen is smokier than my room but I can’t feel the burning anymore. Then, I feel two big hands.

I wake up in the arms of a man, but I can’t see his face. I can feel his tired stride and the safety of his gentle grasp around my body. He is handing me to two younger men in white outside of a truck. As soon as I’m down I can feel cool moisture on my skin. They wipe the blackness away from my face with a soft towel--a celestial feeling. My hands are still black and hot, and I can see my tears before I feel them, drawing fragile, twisted lines across my spotted palms. I begin to notice others around me. The screaming voices fade in, and they look cold and dazed. Men are crying like boys, burying their faces to stray from shame. Women hold them against their chests like babies. A man is standing in the middle of the street, shirtless. His glassy eyes refuse to blink, because if they do a tear might fall. I hear my neighbor whimpering, covered in a blanket. She stands up from the curb and pushes the closest firefighter in sight out of exasperation. Her sobs resemble that of a mother separated from a child forever.

“Oliver! Please! Please help me, my Oliver!” She’s known that cat since she was eleven. It was the first thing she said to me when we had met. She was in her mid thirties, pretty, with red hair. She brought me a plate of potato salad with the cat cuddled around her left arm. She had a quiet Brooklyn accent. “Oh, this is my best buddy. He is my only love, my only life. Here ya go,” she handed me the potato salad. “I live alone and can’t really make anything else,” she explained. I thought she was odd, but for some reason I like her… I really do.

I bury my face into my knees and try not to think about all of my things burning and melting into nothing. Old pictures of friends and diaries, my DVD’s and down comforter, my books and pictures from when I traveled Europe last summer, letters from my father, his promises written on paper. I think about Emily’s cat, Oliver--his warm fur sheltering him from the red flames, hiding in some tight space, behind a cupboard or dresser, and crying for his Emily. With these emotions crashing into me like high tides, I need to convince myself that something crucial and good still exists, but everything is gone.

It is daylight now, and the residents seemed to have moved closer together within the past hour or so. The sky is quieter now. There is nothing in front of us except a blackened structure drenched by heavy gallons of water. We stand in front of it like a sacred statue. Many of us are not ready to let go. Nobody utters a sound, but somehow it helps alleviate the ache I feel. The ache we feel. I can see a couple in the distance, waiting anxiously for any kind of truth. A firefighter walks to the young woman. His lips move briefly, and she cradles her forehead before falling to the ground. The man next to her holds her as she, herself, melts away into the sidewalk. The fireman hesitates for a moment and then steps towards me in what looks like slow motion. He lifts his opaque mask. “I found this. It’s the only entity in the entire building that survived the flames.” He reaches into his uniform and retrieves a soft-looking object smaller than the size of his forearm. It’s Anna. “It…she… was hidden away where no one could hurt her.”

I hold out both of my hands, palms facing up. My wide eyes reach his as he places the doll into my grasp. He squeezes my shoulder and looks beyond my eyes. His forehead crinkles, and his eyebrows furrow. He takes a hard breath before striding forward, preparing himself to break some other kind of awful news.

The doll is a bit ashier and more torn than before. Her shoulder is partially detached, and cotton is peeking out like a white wound. I dig my index finger into the hole and feel the metal burn. It is as smooth and rusty as I’d pictured. Her eyes are lost like my grandmothers were in her last moments, but still strong and deep like mine. I realize now what my grandmother was trying to tell me through her dying gaze and I don’t feel so alone anymore. We have a piece of each other’s hearts that can never cripple or burn, and even after our last breaths we can still live on. We have our silent memories and our concrete memories. With time perishing all around us, I can forget the grief and pain of my past, and move on as she did years ago. Anna never looked so delicately tough, and she is a concrete memory of mine. She is my legacy. I clutch onto her tightly and I have nothing but to come to peace with this new, free, beautiful life.