Resignation of an Angel

We're working on short stories in Creative Writing. My obsession of late (I go through periods of obsession. For a while it was dragons. Then birds.) is angels, so, naturally, I wrote about angels. 'Course, it didn't start out that way. Initially I thought I was going to write a story about Chinese dragons. Funny how that happens.

But I was lacking in ideas (usually I have a brainful of them), so I decided to go through some old art. Here's what I found:

Angel Pox (Eva). 8.5x11". Graphite on paper. (c) Alexa Ke 2011

Perfect, I thought. Just the right amount of angst to make a good story. So multiple drafts and edits later, here's the story of Eva, a very disgruntled angel.

(As always, this is a working copy, so if you have any edits to make or questions please make them known. :) )

Resignation of an Angel             

            “Today’s my last day!”

            Lucy, absorbed in her work, didn’t hear the announcement until a hand on her shoulder shook her out of her concentration. “Huh?” she said, bewildered, as though she had just been roused from sleep.

            “I said, it’s my last day,” Éva repeated, exasperated. Her robes swished and her wings rustled dryly as she sat across from Lucy. “I finally got the guts to leave. Put in my resignation two weeks ago.”

            “I thought you said you would give it another couple of years,” Lucy said, surprised.

            “I can’t wait that long. This work is driving me up the wall! There’s nothing to do but sort files and run the shredder!”

            Lucy hmmmed. “Well it’s not a prestigious job or anything, but Record work has its perks.”

            “Like what?” snorted Éva.

            Lucy didn’t have anything to say to that, so she hmmmed again. “Have you found a new job yet?”

            Éva’s voice frowned. “I looked around for a while, but with the labor surplus there just aren’t any good jobs anymore. In fact, the only place that’s hiring is Admissions, but they’re even worse than Records! Dealing with all the newly fledged… no. Not for me.”

            “Well, I suppose you could always go into Christmas or Easter Celebration if all else fails,” Lucy said ironically.

            “Yeah. Right. Because you can totally imagine me being a Christmas angel.” The idea was amusing. A chronically apathetic cherub escorting the King of Kings would provide an interesting contrast to the celebrations. “Besides. Joy Larker is head of Celebrations, and that woman is so sweet it gives me a toothache. I’d be out of there before I even got past the doors.”

            Lucy sighed and shuffled some papers. “Well you’ve got to do something, Éva. Maybe you should just stick around here until you’ve got something lined up, otherwise you’ll get Guardianship.” She shuddered. Éva agreed.

            They were silent for a long time; the only sound was the rustling of papers and feathers, clacking typewriters and filing cabinets slamming shut.

            “By the way, your halo’s crooked,” Éva said with a quiet cough to break the silence.

            Lucy blushed. “This darn thing! It won’t stay on straight no matter what I do! And it’s so hard to put on in the dark.” She reached up and adjusted the radiance that floated behind and about her head, but it still tilted off to one side.

            “How do you saints keep those things on, anyway?” Éva asked, trying to carry on the conversation. “My stupid angel’s ring is hard enough to keep straight as it is.”

            Lucy shrugged and the conversation died once again.

            “I just think… There’s got to be something else out there for me,” Éva finally said.

            “Everyone’s got their calling, Éva,” Lucy agreed. “You’ll find yours.”

            Éva’s voice was dark, confused. “No, that’s not what I mean. I mean… maybe I’m not meant to be an angel. I just… I’ve changed. There’s nothing left here for me but menial chores and—mediocrity.”

            Lucy’s voice was thin. “What—what are you saying?” She choked, swallowed. “What do you—”

            Éva touched a finger to the Lucy’s lips and leaned close to her ear. “I’ve decided to go away,” she whispered, her voice tremulous, wary.

            “Yes, you said that before—”

            “No. Away from Heaven.”

            Lucy jumped out of her chair and slapped Éva’s hand away from her, scattering paperwork everywhere. “You’re doing what?” she cried.

            The clattering of the typewriters petered out. One last filing cabinet quietly rolled closed. Papers fluttered to the floor. All were listening intently to the scene.

            Éva muttered something. When asked to repeat herself she was no louder, her voice low.

            “Éva.” Lucy’s voice shook like leaves. “What did you say?”

            Éva was silent except for her quiet breathing, which steadily grew louder until she broke out, “You know what? I’m sick of this! Keeping my feelings secret, living a lie. It’s my last day! I can say whatever I want!” She whipped around and faced the crowd of listening angels. “I hate it here! I hate it! I hate this job, I hate this life, and I hate all you! And especially you,” she spat at a shocked Lucy. “I just hate!”

            She brushed away into an office and slammed the door. Just as suddenly the click-clack of the typewriters struck up again, as though Éva’s tirade had been nothing more than a noisy rest between movements of a symphony.

            Lucy stood with her mouth numbly hanging open. Blindly she gathered the scattered files together and set the mess on her desk, then steeled herself and followed Éva.

            Éva kicked a desk, fuming. Through the dark of the room, Lucy reached out for Éva and put a hesitant hand between her friend’s wings, but flinched away. Éva’s skin was ice cold.

            “Éva, are you well? You’re freezing!”

            Éva laughed through her anger. “You really are blind, aren’t you?” Her voice was poison. “I’m just as well as I’ve always been, Lucy. Nothing’s changed. I’ve just finally got the guts to admit it.”

            Lucy grasped for the chair next to her, sat and clasped her hands in her lap. “You aren’t happy here,” she sighed.

            “I never have been,” Éva replied. “Not from my day of fledging. Not ever.”

            Lucy’s was confused. “But that can’t be. A Merciful God would not suffer you to be somewhere you can’t be happy. It’s one of the fundamental laws of Heaven. He should have found you a job you like—”

            “There isn’t a job I like, Lucy,” Éva muttered. “Employment has stuck me in every opening they could find. I even served a Guardianship for a few years. My boy died in a car accident while I wasn’t watching so Employment pawned me off to someplace I couldn’t screw up. Records was my last chance and now I’ve blown it.

            She paused. When she spoke again her voice was distant. “On my day of fledging, while I waited outside the Gates, I looked out to the side, down that little corridor between Heaven and Hell. It looks like it goes on forever, but it has to end somewhere. It has to, doesn’t it?”

            Suddenly Lucy understood: the depression, the chilled skin, the unhealthy rasping Éva’s feathers made as they rubbed against each other. “You—have the Pox, don’t you.”

            Éva hesitated before solemnly answering, “Sinner’s Pox? Yeah.”

            Lucy sucked in her breath, biting back a cry. “But—for how long?”

            “Since day one. My wings came like that, with little black specks all over them. They weren’t noticeable at first, but as time went on the spots got bigger and darker. I didn’t know what to do about it so I just hid it.”

            “How?”

            “I bleach my feathers.”

Lucy flinched, imagining the pain.

“It hurts, yeah. Every movement sets my skin on fire, and I can’t fly anymore, but I have to… I have to do it. In my weaker moments the stains show through, and when that happens I have to pluck myself. Or if I wait long enough the feathers just fall out by themselves. They die once they’re completely black.”

            “Éva—” Lucy choked. “Why didn’t you tell me? I could have helped you.”

            Éva’s voice was as black as the feathers that stained her back. “There is no helping me,” she said. “There is no hope for a sinner in Heaven.”

            “Why you? You never did anything that bad, did you? Why do you deserve this?” Lucy didn’t understand, couldn’t understand.

            Éva swallowed back the lump in her throat. “When the Admissions officer was weighing my good deeds against my bad, the scales wouldn’t settle between Heaven or Hell. I was nervous and I didn’t want to go to Hell, so I—I begged him to let me in. I promised him I’d be the perfect angel, I’d follow all the rules and make up for my sins. The lines were getting longer and I wasn’t taking no for an answer, so he admitted me, but—I met God on my way in. I couldn’t fool him; He could see every sin like sores on my skin. As punishment for cheating my way in, He gave me this curse to remind me of what got me here, and—I just can’t take it anymore. The pressure. The guilt.”

            “So… you’re leaving?”

            “Yes.”

            Lucy frowned. “But—where will you go?”

            Éva was indifferent. “I don’t know. All I really know is that this Heaven isn’t meant for me. I could go to Hell, or Home, maybe.” Her voice became distant again. “Or maybe… maybe I’ll just toe the line and see where I get. Walk along that corridor for a while, see where it leads. It has to end somewhere. Maybe—I’ll find my Heaven out there, somewhere beyond this, this—black-and-white, Heaven-and-Hell world.”

            She stood, sniffed, brushed off her robes, brushed past a silent Lucy. Hand on the doorknob, Éva turned back to her stunned friend. “I don’t hate you, Lucy. I just… I have to move on, and—saying I hate you makes it easier to leave.” The door creaked open. “I hope the best for you.” Then she was gone.

            “And for you the same,” Lucy whispered, then broke into tearless sobs. Lucy, patron saint of the blind, had no eyes with which to cry.

            A myriad of black-spotted feathers fluttered through the air behind the retreating Éva, who held her head high past the legions of staring eyes. Out the doors, down the steps of the Records Hall, through the gold-paved street; not an eye turned away from the Fallen angel who smiled with freedom.

            Shouldering her way past the bewildered Gatekeepers, Éva hesitated at the Golden Gates. Her once-white wings had been reduced to ashy feathered stubs protruding from her shoulder blades, marking her as a Sinner. But she did not care.

            Slowly she turned to face the awe-struck crowd of angels, a twisted smile gracing her features. Thoughtfully she reached up, grabbed her halo, and shattered it against the pavement.

            With arms held wide open she faced the Gates to embrace Fate, Oblivion, whatever awaited her. They swung open, unleashing a blinding light. Joyfully, Éva stepped through.

            The Gates slammed shut, the light blinked out. Dark fell back to the streets once again like curtains drawn. A single black feather floated to the ground where Éva had stood, spotted with steadily growing white streaks.

EDIT (12/13/11): Updated to a more final draft.

Math on the Brain is Never a Shame

In Other News: I'm getting published! My 900-word life story is being published this month in an anthology of local life stories! Eeeeee!!!

In Other Other News: I love children... Two little 3-year-old twins are staying over with my family tonight because they're in the foster care program, and foster parents can't leave their kids with just anyone when they go on vacation. I miss having little kids around the house... :)

In Other Still Unrelated News: What is this? A somewhat-consistent posting schedule? Since I have creative writing every other school day, you can probably count on hearing from my every time I have that class. Woo hoo!

Today's creative writing class was, as always, a joy! I taught the lesson today along with one of the newer students. We decided to talk about metaphors. We brought a bunch of different items like a plastic snake, a bottle of shampoo, gloves, a hacky sack, and other such oddities, and had the class think of them in a metaphorical sense. Most of us drifted more toward personification, but that's okay. I got to share my favorite poem, so I didn't really mind what happened after that. What can I say? I love to share.

The object I used as a metaphor was a paper airplane, and my previous class was math, which obviously influenced the wordplay.

A Play on Geometry Lessons

I am a plane
No shape nor dimension defines me
Lines pierce me and fiercely I try to resist all the wearing and tearing
You hold me and fold me

and now

I'm a plane
No shape nor dimension defies me
You can throw me or bow me decrease all my edges but as my wing fledges
I soar

Flat no more

Writing Exercise: Creative Vomit and Beautiful Words

EAL always does these little teaching moment things, which I think are super cool. Well, I decided to give it a try myself. The following is my greatest weapon against writer's block (aside from mowing the lawn).


Creative Vomit: The Ultimate Inspiration Tool

Today in creative writing we did one of my favorite exercises: stream of consciousness writing (or as I like to call it, creative vomit). For those who are not familiar with the term, stream of consciousness writing is a tool  to extract ideas from your brain. I think it is one of the purest forms of ideas and inspiration: raw and unedited, like the "unrated" versions of R-rated movies, only generally less crude (really, it's one of the stupidest marketing ploys I've ever seen, but, then again, I don't watch R-rated movies).

How To Do It

1. Find a quiet place.
2. Get a whole lot of paper or use a computer. You're going to be writing a ton, and you don't want to run out of paper halfway through a thought.
3. Choose a topic to start yourself off (for example, one of my streams started at autumn and ended at accidental homosexuality (It's not what you think! It's not! I'll put up the paper when I find it)).
4. Write. Write every little thought that passes through your head, no matter how weird, dumb, abstract, stupid, etc. etc. you may think they are.
        4.1. Set a timer. Don't lift your pen or stop typing until it goes
               off. Start small: 5, 10, 15 minutes is a good start. Once
               you figure out how it works, you can work up to longer
               periods of time.
        4.2. DON'T worry about grammar or punctuation or spelling.
               You can edit after the timer goes off.
        4.3. DON'T edit before you record your thoughts and
               don't edit until you're done. You waste time and ideas
               by doing that.
        4.4. DON'T look back at what you've written.
        4.5. DO go off-topic. If you stray back to your original topic,
               you're forcing yourself. Don't. Let your mind wander.
               Most of your good ideas will come about 3-5 minutes into
               writing as long as you let them.

Most people's streams look like a massive wall of text, but mine end up looking more like poetry. Every person vomits differently, so don't worry about making it fancy.

An Example of Stream of Consciousness Writing

My thoughts were pretty fleeting and I had to leave halfway through to go see my stupid school counselor (gr) to talk about a class that I don't want to take but my parents insist I do so I can get this stupid scholarship. (Try saying that sentence in one breath). Well, not stupid. I'm just bitter because the counselor wasn't even paying attention (she was unpacking a printer, I think), and I was on a roll in my writing! Don't you just hate when that happens?

Notice how sometimes my thoughts are coherent and sometimes not. Like I said: my thoughts were fleeting. Also, don't feel obligated to read the whole thing, as I have more to say at the end and it's pretty long and incoherent.

Did I mention it's incoherent?

and sometimes maybe then such so someday but not just today you joy yes because then tomorrow indeed inword if please

if i calm my mind i have nothing to say, no words tho think or thoughts to speak, not anything will come on the words or the p[age with be blank as my mind that’s not thinking, not a thing to be said, not a thing to be said, no thoughts to band e thinking or thinkings to think, void of void nothing there, no time to spare i must fill up the spaces with thinkings and places to roam far from home and certainly i am quite alone but it’s not something i mind, no, not at all do i mind being one of a kind, im just as good as i can be here yes

the birds did not cry out today
as though they had no thing to say
and the sun stayed low in the sky without a reason to pass through the highway is this the end?

sylvia plath i am not alone am i?

and tomorrow i have work to do
and
is my favorite word without end to the sentence and phrase and and and and and and

chillllllls
up my spine
can’t be min
but they are

how to write a sonnet what shall i do
i haven’t the foggiest,
no, i have no clue,
no, i haven’t the fogiest
can rhyme yes?

appease my diseased mind
no food can quench this hunger, no water slake my thrist, but first i must find these reasons that i’m not good enough in the first place
and if i were younger, maybe,
taller, thinner, stronger, quieter, healthier, prettier, doubtless,
doubtless i would love me
too

quiet as two am
sun syrup
my favorite thingsssssss

if i imagine then i am a celebrity in my own mind
mustn’t get caught up with myself

qwertyuiop is a word indeed

ther’s a certain slant of light i’ve been told that slants a certain way. certainly.

i am alpha so i think. i sure am glad i’m an alpha. white is such a pretty color.

listen to the camera flashes. I amd famous aren’t i?

alevoli

i could have olive oil if i wanted. olive oil and rosemary

what does the heart race?

my heart beats with a clockworktick

words want to be marriedtogether always indeed

inword and indeed

idon’t like hymns but i do love poetry
i love music but not singing
no

p l e a s e
and then
because

i am sick i am tired
yeah
carry me

poetry is not paragraphs but lines of literature

what is an illiteration?

i need to i need to i need to

oh what a thrill my thumb instead of an onion!
and my mind isn’t right

look at me look at me
repetitoin is so utterly important
why aren’t the important words repeated?

supercomma to the recue!

internet poets are doing it
wrong
like me.

i want someone to love meeeeeee like i do
please

just as things were geting good look who showed up to wrruin it all\

look at all that empty space on the page
it must be lonely
like me

fill me darling
with something
like sweet
or cool
fill me chilll me like your icebox, glacier cyhunks and bread hunks
hunkny
huny.

gills were made for breathing

poets should not take anatomy. you don’t speak with your esophagus, nor do men have breasts.

water breathing under it please surface little fish for you are dorowning.
no im’ not
i have gills and frills for swimming
do not save drowning fish from drowning
mister chinese man
writeen by a chinese woman

iiiiiiiiiii
staring eyes
on faceless ps and qs
are what exactly

look at creative vomit it still looks just like poetry
coming out of me
that kame out of my brain
my pretty little head
i can’t rhyme with dead or dying anymore
hackneyed, gross, cliched cliches

out of sight out of mind so they say
who they are?

and polluted

pinkies will be gone soon as well as feet and appendixes and tears

o brave new world with no people in it.
ione word is all it takes.

The Diamond in the Midst: Drawing Inspiration from Your Own Thoughts

So there's 30 minutes of stream of consciousness. The next important thing is to use it.

When you've finished writing for your 10-15 minutes, read over everything you've just written. If you typed up your stream, print it out. If you wrote on paper, obviously that doesn't apply.

Take a highlighter and find one, two, three lines that you absolutely love or can expand. I put the lines I liked (they're at the beginning of my stream) in bold. Pull them out and write again, but this time you are allowed to take your time and follow the rules of grammar and spelling (you're welcome).

The first line of my stream turned into this (also, no, the internet didn't mess it up. I formatted it that way on purpose):

The Most Beautiful Words

                                                p l e a s e
because then you AND i__________
someday AND

just m a y b e
because       then >/if/< we
AND \                    / indeed
        > tomorrow<

maybe then                                 such
s   o         |such|
maybe ////not////          TODAY

but then                            yes
            t  o  m  o  r  r  o  w AND sometimes
us

So there you have it: stream of consciousness, essentially. If you try it out, I would love to see your creative vomit (in part) and what you make of it! Email it, post it on your blog, whatever.

I Have a Confession to Make (Don't Worry, It's Not a Bad One).

I Write Poetry, Not Prose

I write poetry, not prose.
These days people think only “emos” write poems
About the sadness in their hearts and their slit wrists.
Well, I don’t wear dark makeup or black clothes,
I just write poetry,
Not prose.

I used to think that novel-writing was the thing for me,
But as the years passed I found solace in the arms of poetry.
I’ll leave trilogies and chapters to the Talbots, Monsons, and Angerhofers,
Whose names will invariably been seen on the first of 400 pages,
Spelled out in gold letters and given national acclaim.
But for me, I’d rather make audiences weep as I perform on the stage,
Spewing forth sad-girl-poetry and other things written in my fits of rage.

You ought to see the surprise when I perform with wild eyes,
Spewing lines about insanity, death, murder, and lies.
Most don’t expect such a sweet exterior to have such “rotten” insides.
I haven’t been locked up in the basement all my life,
And sometimes I, at the beginning of it, feel I’ve lived more than those at the end.
Through the words I’ve penned I’ve learned far more than most,
Because I write poetry,
Not prose.

Of course, this is not a full-truth. I wrote this as a shout-out to one of my friends from my creative writing class, who usually writes prose but is also a brilliant poet. His poem was titled "I Write Prose, Not Poetry."

Sorry for the less-than-wordy explanation. I'm a little frazzled, but I wanted to post something today. I had to watch my cousins, and they're kinda high-maintenance.

But I have a question to ask of you, my readers. What do you write? I was reminded by my English teacher that all writing is creative; even writing a car owner's manual is creative. So where do you fall? Are you a poet, a novel-writer, a blogger, an essayer, or a manual-writer?

The Archives: Stuff about Blood.

Once, I got a bloody nose in gym because someone hit me in the face with a volleyball. Then I ran to the bathroom and got a tissue. The next morning, I got a bloody nose again and was stuck in the bathroom at school for around an hour because it wouldn't stop bleeding. It was gross. The end.

True story.

This true story then elicited a poetic and prose-etic response, which the lovely Myself has requested I post. Well, I can't say "no" to something like that, can I? So first, here's some thinking, and then the poem, which is, appropriately, called "Bloody Nose," because I can't come up with anything better.

I think maybe people don't like the sight of blood because it's out-of-place. Blood belongs inside your body, and its presence anywhere else suggests that something has gone wrong, that you or someone else has been injured. It's something everyone has, and it's nothing to be afraid of. It's not gross or frightening; it just is.

If my writing style seems startlingly different, it would be because this was written in September of last year. I've revamped my style a lot since then.

A slap to the face,

And suddenly that which was mine comes forth,

A crimson tide,

A stain upon my flawless face;

A testament to my mortality

Falls like tears,

Like rain dripping on the ground,

My feet,

My clothes,

Marred by my imperfection.

Official Posting Schedule and a Poem That Is Apparently Worth Publishing

Because of some stuff and various other reasons, I will make blog posts on Tuesdays and Thursdays, except when I don't.

Aren't you glad to have something consistent in your life, except when I'm not consistent?

I know I am.

EDIT as of Saturday, 28 May, 2011: I'll probably post on Saturdays as well. Yay! :D

Today's poem is an interesting piece to be certain. An assignment in creative writing was to hold hands with a person we didn't know very well from the class and stare into their eyes for five minutes. We weren't to speak, look away, or let go of each other until the five minutes were up. Then we had to write a poem or prose piece about our experience.

I chose to "commune" with Ashley, a quiet girl (but an excellent writer). It felt odd at first, but eventually it became more comfortable and I was able to just think: what is she thinking about? What lies behind her eyes? And what is she seeing in me?

I sent in the resulting poem to a poetry contest a few months ago, and it is being published in a who's who sort of book. I'm not about to shell out $26 for a book with my name in it. The whole reason I entered was to get extra credit, anyways. But I'm in the running to win an actual prize, so I'm not complaining.

This is "Hazel."

Is it all right if we share?
Let’s take turns and chip away at the Walls we’ve built
Until we have nothing but ourselves,
But everything at once.

I never asked for anything before, so
Do you mind if I ask,
Where is your direction?

(Are you wandering like I do? Are you lost as I am?)

Let us be lost together
So someone can hold me through coming Disaster.

You’ve shown me flecks of gold, copper, bronze,
Rich soil rings around my reflection.
Let’s plant a garden in your eyes
And dandelions to choke out the Worry seeds.

Did you see my Ocean?

(It laps against my shivering soul)

Did you see the Embers?

(I Burned my heart for the sake of winter heat)

Did you see the Gardens rent with longing?
(Once there were forests filled with flames)

Please, come be lost with me. I feel so c o l d.

Publication Celebration! Part One of Three

To celebrate the fact that the Lit Mag is done, I'm posting the three things that I have published in the former. First one is called "The Sea of Ashes," and if you can determine what it means, let me know. xD I still haven't figured it out.

The Sea of Ashes

There was once an ocean here in this standing place. I remember its waves which nibbled at my toes, telling stories of distant shores and fantastic other lands; its fresh-scent foam, the breeze laced with brine. We went swimming in the water and found shells in the sand, dancing across oiled feathers and blackened baby bones.

Oceans don’t drift away; they burn. They rage. This ocean blazed many months ago. This beach turned to glass, twisted and transparent, rising and falling like soft-lifting silk. The waves tore over each other, spiraling pinwheels of light as far as the eye could see. The earth echoes an anthem of burning; do you hear it?

Now the salt has been replaced with ash. It feels like a funeral, a great cremation of the entire earth’s teardrops. Listen quietly: you can hear a hymn whispered in the white. Embers lead a procession, and the birds speak a eulogy, but there are no tears. They, too, are ashes.

I can’t tell you what color your eyes are now, or what the sky looks like. Grey isn’t a color. But here is something I do know: you can see the earth’s heart today, under our feet. It is red, an anger, and it pulses and dances as though it is alive. If you look just right, you can see through the world, through the center to the other side. It is a great glass globe, an ornament on a cosmic Christmas tree.

Can you smell the smoke? On a certain day, you can still feel it on your tongue, but it might be the people, too. It didn’t take long for them to come creeping from their holes, the people. The fish-corpses hadn’t even finished rotting before the concrete went down. People couldn’t wait that long. They needed something familiar, something to hold them close and comfort them. All they had was cold, dead asphalt.

The moon is pulling strong today. It longs for something to hold, just as it once plucked at the waters like symphony strings. All it has left to cling to are the people, the fish-corpses and concrete. I hope someday it will pull me away with it, and I shall dance in moon ash to feel at home. Perhaps the stars will have stories to tell, of distant worlds and fantastic places.

Perhaps the moon was an ocean, many millions before, and the smoke caused the earth to weep an ocean. Perhaps the sun, too, and the stars are oceans, and soon we will spin in an eternity of glittering glass spheres, chiming in perfect harmony as we dance around each other and spread ocean ashes like snow, until the dark universe is coated white.