memorize.

I have stopped for just this moment. To remember, because my memory tends to fail me (as you know). I keep words as a record of sorts, a record of memories. I have not cried until now, until now when I have gone back to the beginning and re-read our conversations, my mind against your heart. You were always trying to teach me, to show me how to follow my heart. I can't say for sure that that lesson has run its course...

Can you remember the beginning of us? The words exchanged, the kisses stolen and given so freely, the caresses felt each second. We had discovered one another so quickly, so effortlessly. I never thought it would be me, falling in love with you, in such a short amount of time. I do remember that burning look in your eyes when I told you, you could be anyone. We had stood in the parking lot, as I tried to avoid eye contact with you. Tried to shrug you off, as if you were insignificant, as if you weren't the only person I wanted to be with in that moment, and in that moment, forever. And as we spent countless nights together, I slowly realized how wrong I was...you were more than anyone I had ever known.

I can't deal with the blame. This blame that I have placed on myself. That the deadened place we had ended up, was because of me. Ultimately because I had no control over myself, over the words I spat at you, over the way I purposely made you feel (or not feel). I feel even more lost and unsure of myself than I did when we began. You are still you, but I am not who I used to be, or who I imagined I would be.

I had said that you could be the worst, or the best thing that's happened to me. But those extremes are nonexistent now. I feel neither one nor the other. And it's because I have locked myself inside of myself, vowing to never let you back in. I shielded myself from your harsh words and steel gaze, crawling further away from you. And at the end, I had nothing left that was exposed, I had become caged. I forgot what it is to feel, and I still do not know.

Perhaps one day, we can sit and talk, reminiscing on beginnings and endings. I won't make you repeat yourself.

remember--

he could have been anyone.
he almost was-- anyone. he never made promises. i never wanted them.
i want to write about him, without thinking about him.
possibilities?

spiraling.

I don't really know what it is I need, actually. But I still always find that I'm convincing myself of all of these things. i need some time alone to figure thngs out, this is the only way it's going to happen. without him. without us. he isn't right for me. i'm not right for him. he needs someone better, someone smarter, someone prettier. i have to experience life on my own, no ropes, no commitment.

And I find those strings of words flowing through my brain, out of my mouth, in between clouds of smoke. And she looks at me, nodding in agreement, understanding that this could be truth tumbling out from between my lips. But is it really?

He drove away from me that night and I had felt nothing. I did not feel abandoned, nor alone, nor sad. I had just been. I had small expectations for my emotions this time around. I laid in bed, closed my eyes, and sleep came easily. The dreams had not started yet.

I was selfish in telling him that I hated dreaming about him. I hate it because it leaves him fresh in my mind when I wake up, he's the first realization in my morning haze. Dreams have always held meaning for me, even if indecipherable. I had to tell him to reassure myself that it was...just a dream.

meant to write.

9.07.09
I don't deserve to write to you. When I can't even talk to you when it matters most, when I force you to repeat the same questions over and over in the dark.
I begin to see flashes of images rather than think about how I should respond to you.
I see the manifestation of us as our primal selves, ripping and tearing at one another, layers of skin and hair sloughing off, but never shedding any blood. We strip ourselves bare and build each other back up again.
I feel even more guarded than when we began.
I stopped writing because my written words are meaningless. How can I script promises without following through with them?
I make it hard on purpose.
But, I am trying to ignore the fact that I have traveled a full 360 degrees and I am back to where I began: defiant, ignorant, stubborn, selfish, righteous, naive, undeserving.

I hold myself back in fear of...

harlot.

I didn’t plan for it to be this way. the screaming. the way her arms were flailing and her lips were sputtering out frantic insults and accusations. Her index finger slicing through the air.
The way his eyes dropped down, low to the ground, his eyelashes veiling the guilt circling his pupils.
He was always apologizing. To me, to her, to himself.
But to no one at all really.

I was feeling slightly woozy from the ambien I took earlier. I wanted to lie down on his plush bed and rock myself to sleep. There was no hope of that with all her profanities bouncing off the plaster.

He stood there in the middle of the living room, avoiding eye contact with either of us. She was inching closer and closer to him, her words a muddled combination of anger, guilt, and shame. Her face was red, burning, her eyes two glowing embers, and I thought, Lilith resurrected from dirt and filth come to take revenge on mankind.

Her serpent tongue lashing out, I can’t believe you could do this to me. I invested so much of my time into you. And for what? To find you cheating on me with some slut?

He manages to look up at her, his lips a thin white line.

I didn’t care too much about the slut remark. It just reminded me of the games we played in bed- me and him curled around each other, our hands searching and guiding, caressing and pinching, my nails digging deeper into the flesh on his back until fistfuls of my hair are wrapped around his fingers and he’s whispering wickedness into my ears, you’re my slut, aren’t you? Do you like being my slut?
I almost smiled at the thought of us naked and drenched in sweat and sex before I caught myself, remembering where I was at the moment, remembering who was standing there with her wide eyes and snapping jaw.

To:

do you know, it doesn't change- the way I feel about you, at the end of the day.
because I know all I want, is what you got.
[susie suh; all i want]

piano is soothing.

even strangers pray for me.

his fingers move in slow, steady motions;
delicately caressing the ruby chain, a sterling silver crucifix glinting off the end of it.
i become mesmerized by repetitive movement, bodies swaying together with the rumbling of the F train.
but i am focused on him--his hands, his lips, his closed eyes.
i know that he is praying, but to any pair of roaming eyes,
he would appear to be asleep.

another morning.
red and black checkered hunchbacked grandmother, burning red lipstick.
she chooses the seat next to me in a half empty train.
her gnarled, yet nimble fingers unfasten her backpack.
i watch her from the corner of my eye.
you could say it's a hobby, people watching.
she unzips a small black change purse inside of her backpack.
her fingers unravel light pink rosary beads, a small sterling silver rounded crucifix revealed.
she locks it in her tiny fist.
the holy trinity across her chest.
eyes slightly closed.
red lipsticked lips in silent motion.
who is she speaking to? for? about?

Thank you, Professor Ramjerdi

Mink-

Wow. This is publishable work. First step to success as a professional writer is to get published in leading lit. mags. I know some, but am not up-to-date on these as haven't sent out work for a long time, since I've been doing novels. Short story contests are also good things to enter. What are your academic/professional plans? Let's talk before semester ends and stay in touch. I'd like to be of any help I can. The lesbian content goes really well with what you've said you're doing in this story--> unraveling Korean girl expectations.
P.S. This scene is up there with father section of first story. Maybe you're writing a novel and that story and this one are parts of it. I think you should write this novel. I think it could succeed with a great publisher. Anyway, you are doing some great writing and should continue.

-Prof. Ramjerdi

breaking through slowly.

Mink,
all i can say is ¡WOW! Now i get the expression on your face when i asked you last class how the story came out, an inscrutable expression until i read this. I love it when writers flip from one extreme to another-- always a sign that creativity is hot and style is taking leaps forward. Your writing, aside from the father piece has been restrained, emotions and style muted, the tension throbbing beneath the surface, sometimes too much beneath so the reader can't experience. Now the tension has fully erupted onto the page. Technical pyromania. You show the firepower of your writing here and I'm impressed. Of course, I'm biased. I love this kind of writing.
- Prof. Ramjerdi

salvation.

ii. Martyr Me

“Agnes, the bones. I saw his bones. Black, charred, sucked dry. Agnes, you have to get away from here.”
Angelica’s blood red eyes are rolling wildly from side to side. My fingers leave pale yellow indentations on her forehead, her cheeks, her chin as I try to hold her still so Dr. Constance can administer the anesthesia. Angelica has never taken well to the electro shock treatments, but without them she is barely human.
Another orderly rushes in and helps me grab hold of Angelica. I watch as Dr. Constance inserts the syringe and Angelica’s body goes limp.
“Rest now Angel. You’ll be alright when you wake,” I whisper as I gently stroke her tousled blond hair.
The brightly lit corridors of the hospital daunt me with their infinite silence. I hear soft moans emanating from Angelica’s room and unlock her door.
“My skin…can you see my skin Peter? It feels…I feel fire. It’s going to swallow me whole. Peter, I need some water…”
Angelica’s pleas rise in a steady crescendo of fear and desperation.
“It’s Nurse Agnes. Do you want a glass of water Angel?”
“Agnes…Agnes, it’s my skin. The outer layer. Can you see how red it is? Agnes, tell me you can see my flesh boiling.”
“Darling, your skin is fine. You’re not on fire. Let me open the window. It’s warm in here.”
I release the catch on the window, exposing the steel black bars. Before I can turn around, Angelica has my ponytail in her tightly closed fist, tugging me back toward the door. I lose my balance and fall awkwardly, the base of my skull slamming into the tiled floor.
“Angel! What the hell are you doing?” I manage to yelp.
She’s on top of me, hands placed firmly on my shoulders, pinning me down, her face inches from mine. Her breathing is shallow, exhaling and inhaling short spurts of air, her dark eyes locked onto mine.
“Helena, listen to me—the demons are inside the building. I heard them chanting through the pipes. They’re coming for our souls. Helena, we need to leave now before they find us.”
“Angelica, you have to get off of me. Angelica, it’s me, your nurse. Please Angel, let me up, you’re hurting me,” I plead with her, hoping to snap her out of this manic state.
I look up as the door swings open and Joshua is standing there, his eyes darting from Angelica mounted on top of me to the expression of terror on my face.
“Angelica! Get off of Nurse Agnes,” Joshua yells.
Angelica blinks twice, her stare vacant, her breathing somewhat normal again.
“Agnes, goodness why am I on top of you? What happened?”
Angelica releases her grip and stands up. She puts her hand out, offering to help me off the floor. She kneels down next to her bed, hands clasped together and closes her eyes.
“I believe in God the Father Almighty, maker of heaven and earth, and in Jesus Christ, His only Son our Lord…”
I leave Joshua to tend to Angelica, as I make a quiet exit, Apostles’ Creed ringing in my ears.


iii. Demonic Disguises

“Angelica, stop fucking praying. No one is listening to your crazy psycho babble bullshit. THE ALMIGHTY GOD IN HEAVEN ISN’T LISTENING. Don’t you understand that by now?”
I jab my finger at the bone colored crucifix on the wall, “Jesus didn’t die for your sins. Yours are beyond forgiveness Angelica. You’re doomed to hell.”
She stops muttering her ridiculous incantations long enough to look at me and reply, “The Lord is in all of us Joshua. Even you darling.”
“Oh, really? Did Mary Magdalene tell you that in your sleep? That I’m your savior in disguise. Too fucking bad. I’m not your heaven sent angel. I torched my wings last week.”
Angelica gets off the floor and turns to me, “Joshua, take me outside. Can we go for a walk now?”
The grounds of the mental institution are spacious and ironically beautiful for such a depressing place. We move amongst the neatly trimmed garden filled with richly colored flowers of all types—lilies, petunias, and crape myrtles. My senses are hypnotized by the mixture of floral fragrances.
Angelica has her arm linked through mine, her hand shoved into my right pocket. She seems calm for the moment—normal. I know why she allows me to spit obscenities at her and denounce her faith. And I know that she will always ask me to keep visiting her. It is how she reminds herself of her impurities; I am her executioner, her punisher.
She reaches up and methodically fingers the small circular imprints around my neck.
“Joshua, these marks have not disappeared yet. The incident was so long ago it seems. Perhaps they have become permanent.”
“Angelica, you tried to strangle me with your fucking rosary beads. I think one of them actually punctured my goddamn skin. I don’t think the scars are going to go away anytime soon.”
“Oh, Joshua, I’m sorry. I thought the demons had infested your soul…I thought they were going to take you away from me. I had a nightmare that Porphyry was chasing me with burning scripture, threatening to gouge my eyes out. And when I woke, I thought that Lucifer was in our bed trying to drag you down into the depths so I grabbed my rosary beads and wrapped them around his neck, hoping to deter him somehow…but it was really you, Joshua. I thought you were the devil.”
Angelica’s nightmares and visions still make me uneasy. But I know that I can do nothing to assuage them. If there is a God, then maybe she was meant to have these spiritual episodes.
“I’m not the devil. You’re not a saint. Or a martyr. You’re a psychotic woman in desperate need of medication and electroshock therapy. Face it Angelica, your illness has destroyed your sanity.”
Angelica drops to her knees, meeting the hard concrete and she erupts into heart racking sobs.
“Joshua, why do you torment me? What have I done to receive such brutal punishment?”
Her back is hunched over and her hands are covering her face, her body shaking uncontrollably. I look down at her frail figure. I listen to her strained cries.
And I say to her, “Don’t you remember? You murdered our only son.”

saviors.

I…I am not crazy. This is what they tell me. Deep puddles in their eyes and golden flakes of skin chipping off of their finely constructed statues. But… I am crazy. I don’t know what kind of crazy. This is what I tell myself. Because to you I am just another her, just another she, another it. And… and their eyes, they get so big and wide, wounded lambs sacrificial offerings to God. But their fucking eyes and darting tongues. They hold me, pet me, stroke me. Whispers, frantic hushed sentences.
I… I swear I am not crazy. And this is what I tell myself before I am thrown into salty waves, gulping sodium and seaweed, praying for a lifeboat and rescue team … (I am not crazy)…. Until I scream BE MY SALVATION.
Infinite corridors, the red walls hug my skin, seep through my pores, ignite my blood. I feel the flames dancing on my ribcage but I do not falter.
A book falls through the ceiling and lands at my naked feet. I pick it up and stare at the words, etched in gold letters on the cover: HOLY BIBLE. The page I open to Luke Chapter 13, verse 12… woman you are released from your infirmity… ink begins to drip off the page. The pages explode with searing orange flames… an inferno trapped within scripture.
Incoherent screams rip from my vocal chords. Blood tears pour steadily down my cheeks and I am beating the crimson walls wildly wishing to break through the cement.
Voices taunting me, “no one can save you.”

My heart, the size of my fist.
Encased in strings, as he delicately strums a melodic progression of chords: F Major 7.
His clear blue eyes, all I see are his clear blue eyes.
And he strums, A Minor.
All I feel are his silky curls intertwining with my fingers.
The stubble on his chin kisses the cracked surface of my parched lips.
And he strums, G.
The smooth contours of his muscles tense under the pressure of my curious hands.
He plays bitter sweet melodies on my soul strings,
And he strums, D Minor.
Our bodies are mere instruments, performing symphonies only audible to our ears,
Serenading the darkness hidden within.

The last chord resonates within me as cold metal awakens my senses. I am bound to this table of nightmares. Nurse Agnes hovers over me, shadows daunting me from the white plastered walls. I am not here.
“Angelica, hold still. We’re not going to hurt you.”
The starched uniform whispers poison into my ears.
Please go away.

multiple person perspective (literally)

Plot (created by me)

A teenage girl has locked herself in the bathroom to hide from the intruder that has entered her house. She has no means of communication and no visible weapons that she can use to protect herself. The intruder is ransacking the house and is unaware that someone is in the house with him.



Intruder (written by John)

After taking the family’s valuables, I fixed myself a snack. I ate potato chips, left over steak, and kimchee. There was no rice in the rice cooker. I washed it down with Soju. That was a kick ass snack. I’m gonna take a leak before I make my escape. I can’t help it. I begin to break down and cry. My conscience is getting to me. I’m unemployed, broke and living in a tent. I use to work at the fuckin’ factory. I gave them forty years of my life. As I try to push the bathroom door I hear a whimper.

“Is any body there?” I shouted.

There was no reply. I knocked again and shouted louder.

“I won’t hurt you. Please open up.





Teenage girl (written by Libertie)

Holy shit, holy shit….Think, quick, what am I gonna do? Where is my fucking cell phone? Did I tell mom I love her?

Oh my God, he’s coming! I’m gonna die…what if he rapes me?

He tries to open the door and I try not to make a sound.

“Is any body there?” he shouted.

I stayed silent. He tried the door again and shouted again

“Open up. I won’t hurt you”

I didn’t know what to do. I was trembling.

“ I am very flexible and have taken many self defense classes. Either you get out of here now or I am gonna open up a serious can of whoop ass on you” I shouted

“Sweetheart, I am not here to hurt you. Just come on out and lets talk” he said.

“Listen guy, Im no fucking idiot. You came here to rob my house and now want me to believe you’re not gonna hurt me.”



Intruder (written by Prof. Ramjerdi)

“Officer . . . what did you say your name was?”

“Officer Kimchee.”

“Kimchee? Really?”

“Really.”

“That’s so ironic. . . ”

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law . . . “

“. . . because it’s all because of the kimchee that this happened. . .”

“Roger, do you want to take this asshole’s statement or should I?”

“I’ll stay with the EMT guys.”

“ . . . ‘KIMCHEE KIMCHHEE KIMCHEE,' she kept screaming at me . . .my wife. I couldn’t take it anymore.
no job no kimchee she was going to leave me take the kids go back to Seoul a Korean with no kimchee is water buffalo with no balls I was desperate I didn’t know the girl was here I just wanted the kimchee the fridge was packed with it I knew it would be the guy’s a kimchee dealer Mama Lee’s Kimchi the hottest in the city I ate 5 jars I was starved I filled my backpack with 55 jars and then I had to take a dump because that’s the way it is with kimchee I tried to open the bathroom door that’s when she came at me the shower curtain rod who would think a little girl could be a samurai I had to defend my self Yes I confess I threw the bottles at her one after the other smashing against the bathroom walls shattering splashing kimchee all over walls mirror tiles skin she screamed her skin sizzling to raw bone bone powder and knobs Mama Lee’s Kimchee it’s the best."

short.

2. Father, in fear of.

Sometimes my father and I sit in silence. From across the kitchen table, I steal glances at him, waiting for him to speak. But all I see is his facial expression- one I have come to recognize over the years. He is sitting sideways in his chair, with his chin cupped in his left hand, his dark eyes staring straight ahead of him. I know he is in some distant land, maybe the open countryside or up on the tallest mountain in Korea, perhaps dreaming of an easier life. I remain quiet and wait for my father to come back to me. He stirs slightly and I watch him as his fingers trace letters onto the wooden table top. I have watched him do this ever since I was a little girl. But I have never been able to read his invisible ink. And I have never asked, in fear of interrupting his train of thought. He looks up at me with a puzzled expression, probably because he forgot I was sitting there at all and says, “Bring me our atlas.” I retrieve our world book and set it down in front of him. He puts on his bifocals and rifles through the gold lined pages until he stops at a map of Africa. He turns the book sideways so I can look on with him. With his index finger poised over Ghana, he says to me, “I remember the red fire ants in Africa. If you walked on top of their ant hills, thousands would file out and chase you.” I raise my eyebrows in skepticism and reply, “Is that why you have all those little scars on your legs daddy?” His booming laughter causes the crystal chandelier to rattle and he says, “No babo*. But I once saw someone covered head to toe with those fire ants. One minute later, there was nothing left of him.” Like most of my father’s stories, I take this one about the flesh devouring ants with a grain of salt. To present day I am still unsure of what my father was doing in Africa for over a year. But I do not ask him, in fear of discovering something I do not want to know.
The only times I remember my father intervening in my life were the times when I had fucked up. When I was 13, I got caught forging my seventh grade report card. The scene replays in vivid detail:
I am reading a book in my room when I hear my mother calling my name, “ANNA!” We were taught to always answer “Yes!” and never “What?” I walk into the living room where both of my parents sit side by side puffing on long white cigarettes. I understand there is tension in the room and stand awkwardly in front of them, avoiding eye contact. I hear my father speak first, in a low grumbling tone, “Face the wall, kneel down, arms straight above your head.” I follow his instructions without hesitation, but I feel the tears building up in my chest. I hear my father get up and leave the room. I count each time I inhale and exhale to prevent the salt water from tumbling out. I get to 20 breaths when my father returns and tells me to stand up and lift my pants above my knees. I stand there facing the white plaster, my calves bare. “Why did you try to cheat me?” My father yells. I provide only silence. Without warning, I am shattered upon the first lash- leather whipping raw skin. I stagger forward an inch and my father tugs me backwards by the ends of my hair. I give in and allow two tears to escape. “I didn’t raise you so you could lie to me!” I feel the second explosion of searing pain starting in my calves and spreading to every nerve ending in my body. I do not stumble this time. My arms are still above my head but I do not register the numbness because of the stinging burn pulsating through me. My father is silent during the next three lashes. He stops and growls at me, “Get back on your knees and keep your arms up. You will not move until you see my face in front of you.”
My father is telling me to kneel here until I begin to hallucinate. I sit on my feet for three hours until I am given permissions to stand. I know I am not able to stand immediately and so I lean back on my hands and massage feeling back into my purple feet. That was the first and last time my father whipped me. I never asked him why he had to whip me with his leather belt, in fear of another whipping.

experimental writing.

Exercise #1 (attention to detail).

I stand here before the mirror. It is a 3 feet wide full length mirror from ceiling to floor. I stand here to inspect the destruction I have caused. My straight black hair is a stringy tangled mass with stray wisps sticking out at wild angles. My eyes are encased in deep, dark circles, my stubby eyelashes are inefficient in keeping the dirt out. There are permanent wrinkles on my forehead stretching from my left temple to the right. My nose is proportionate to the rest of my features, but it is still imperfect. My lips, neither plump nor stick thin, are turned down at the corners and cracked from the harsh winds. My gray pull over hoodie is ripped in several places and the zipper is no longer fulfilling its purpose. My dark blue jeans are caked with mud and torn at the knees. I am not wearing socks. I stand here wondering if perhaps I should capture this moment on film. This moment of inner chaos, clearly visible on the exterior. I stand here wondering why he had abandoned me on the side of the road 7 miles from my house. I stand here trying to remember all the hateful things he had spat at me. But I cannot identify exactly what it is I am feeling at this exact moment. Self pity? Contempt? Hopeless? I shun my feelings and return to destruction.

Form #1 (subtitles).
3 AM Ice Cream.
We sit apart from one another. I am staring down into my small bowl of vanilla ice cream, spoon poised above it. At 3 A.M., the diner is still buzzing with late night caffeine addicts. I can feel Andrew's eyes roving my face, perhaps searching for some sort of recognition- that I am here with him, and that I know he is expecting an apology. But I refuse to look up at him. The tiny dark specks in my ice cream are much more appealing to me. I feel stubborn and defiant. I dream that I am somewhere else where I do not have to deal with consequences. I am always dreaming of that place. This is why Andrew is always shaking me back to reality. This is why I will always fall short of his expectations.

The First Time.
This memory will never fade into the dark recesses of my mind. It will always remain where I have kept it. I met Andrew for the first time in late December. The snow had turned to ice and covered every inch of every sidewalk. I remember how I couldn't stop the rattling in my bones. I felt the cold invading every crevice of my body. I had avoided eye contact with him for as long as possible. I was paranoid that he could hear the frantic beating of my heart, but he simply asked me if I was hungry. We sat down to dinner, across from each other, and I was forced to look at him. I was indifferent to his appearance. I dreaded the rehearsed small talk that had to take place before the real conversation would begin. I watched Andrew's facial expressions- the way his eyebrows came together when explaining the details of his work, the way his lips slid to the side of his face when he was thinking about something, the way his tone of voice changed when he became serious. To my surprise, I found myself intrigued rather than bored by this stranger.

Throwing Up.
I am in my bathroom. I prepare myself by changing into a dirty t-shirt and tying my hair back. I don't feel nauseous, just overstuffed. The not-yet digested pasta from 20 minutes ago is already beginning to weigh me down. Throwing it back up was the only way I'd be able to sleep tonight. I kneel down on the marble floor, position myself over the porcelain bowl, and plunge my right forefinger into the back of my throat making sure to hit the uvula. I feel the food begin to rise but my stomach needs another push. My eyes begin to water and I take a small breath. I withdraw my finger and in mid-gag, take another plunge. I repeat this at least four times before I feel that most of the food I ate earlier is now in the toilet bowl, waiting to be flushed. The stench fills my nostrils as I stand up and turn the faucet on. I am calm.


His words and his actions have been carved into me, I cannot deny him nor forget him. Everything I write will always somehow be related to him, if not entirely revolving around him. It will all be fiction, but it will all be truth. He is a paradox.