Lovely Penguin

by marie gordon

There are these tiny moments when I seem to inherit, through some strange mental process, a blip of nostalgia. It can never be inherently serious nostalgia. Inevitably, these little mental clippings come from some imaginary storehouse of the lowest-common denominator of memories in my brain. Usually they stay locked up. They remain in their closet, or wherever it is they go, until an all too inconvenient moment for me. They are comedy and they are tragedy. My only source of sanity and insanity.
I have a short series of these anti-climactic stories. They are entirely unrelated.
Story 1- Carnegie Mellon
Senior year of high school. I received my acceptance letter from Duke in December. It is March now.
I sat behind Matt in calculus class watching him pull out his deck of cards from his backpack while sharing with me the list of schools who recently sent him rejection letters. At the time, I was praying for Matt on a regular basis, hopefully to fight the mechanical cruelty of the college selection process which had been crushing Matt’s hopes and dreams for the past two weeks of our lives.
Matt was a genius. Still is. I was always jealous of his innate ability to score above a 1500 on the SAT on his first try without studying rigorously. His piano skills far exceeded mine. His grades spoke for themselves, as did his numerous AP exam scores.
But somehow, someway, while I coveted my one-and-only acceptance letter from the one-and-only school I applied to, Matt’s list of rejection letters were piling up as was my heartfelt sympathy. Matt and I went way back. Middle school buds, the whole bit.
There I was playing war with Matt, feeling guilty for the acceptance letter which I kept tucked away in my backpack in case of any sudden travesties which might obliterate my self-esteem. Matt was down on his luck. It had gotten to the point where he required multiple daily hugs. As we reveled over Matt’s troubles, a sudden climate change must have occurred without our noticing. I looked around and realized the entire rest of the room was silent except for us.
We shoved the cards to the side of my desk and grabbed our notebooks. Playtime was over, apparently—or just taking a short hiatus. I grabbed my snack from my bookbag to entertain myself while listening to the lecture,
As I shoveled Captain Crunch into my mouth, Matt surreptitiously whispered something in my direction. What?? I asked. I couldn’t hear him at all when he whispered. As the words rolled out of Matt’s mouth, I felt a crunchberry lodging itself into my lung. “I got into Carnegie Mellon.” I wanted to scream. Carnegie Mellon Compsci is the best compsci school in the world. But I couldn’t. I had a fuckin crunchberry lodged in my lungs and I was doubled-over, hee-hawing like a donkey. Fuck. I gasped. And Matt hit my back with his fist. The crunchberry dislodged and I gasped for air before I screamed to everyone that Matt got into Carnegie Mellon Compsci. The class clapped, as is customary for the dorky and semi-mechanically-intellectual crowd in AP classes, to congratulate one-another on their accomplishments.
I tasted the crunchberry for the rest of the hour every time I breathed in deep. I still had crunchberry dust in my lungs. But that was ok. It reminded me of the moment when Matt found out he got off the dreaded waitlist and got in.
Matt is at Carnegie Mellon now and I am at Duke. Needless to stay, as always, neither of us have a life.

Technorati Tags: triology, part1, story, short, writing, modern, anticlimactic, prose, fiction, nonfiction, stories

I wrote this story a few years ago. Although it’s sad, it tells a story about growing up and accepting that some tragedies, or pre-moral evils, occur without explanation. Growing up, for me, wasn’t always about finding answers, but accepting that reality doesn’t always happen for the best, or teach a special lesson. Reality just is. For some reality is there to face and for others it is there to fear.

*This is my account of a real occurrence. The actuality of my experience is totally subjective, thus I consider it a fiction-type account of a non-fiction story. It is not a factual report by any means.

Having said all that, I hope you like it By the way, Merry Christmas a little late.

by marie gordon
I know this—they never had the chance, Amy and Carrie—I stand in the park next to the yellow roses, having my senior portrait taken and I remember their faces. Were they more graceful, I always thought Amy was. Were they more enthusiastic, I always thought Carrie was. For them, this day doesn’t exist, not in life. For me it does, and why do I take it for granted?
I’ve passed by their site, a thousand times—it’s the spot that marks a moment that should’ve changed my life. I was pulled over for speeding, almost twenty miles per hour over the limit. Did it affect me? I remember my best friend calling to tell me she couldn’t make it to my fourteenth birthday party; I forgot Erin’s birthday, missed her party, and called to apologize. Did I learn?
In the wooden pew, looking measly and casual before the alter, I pray for them.
Does God help them if I’m wearing blue jeans? What did I wear to Amy’s wake? Remembering youth, feeling as if I owned the world, obstinate and content, I see a spot where it all shatters—I see the clear glass scattered across the black pavement, I see the medics running with the their bags, I see the tree scarred on one side, and I see them. Were they alive? Was Amy breathing as they tore her clothes off on the ground and lifted her and rolled her to the helicopter? Was Carrie aware of what happened and could she see in her final moments? Did they see me, turning away in disgust at the sight, rushing to get home for an afternoon snack? Did they recognize my face?
What happened to Carrie’s freckles, pink cheeks and rosy smile? What happened to Amy’s long auburn hair and sophisticated expression? I always envied them because they were in the gifted classes. In my memories of Amy and Carrie I see entrepreneur Carrie selling Airheads in the locker-room after gym class and Amy smiling, wrapping a towel around us to shield the wind on our boat at Sea Camp. Except for short glimpses of our conversations on the bus, few other pictures of them remain.
A moment that I know will not relinquish, as I dream of erasing it from me entirely. Yet I know what its affect should be. I saw Amy’s mother at the wake in a wheel chair. She faces charges for homicide. Did she kill them? Hasn’t she paid the price? The neighbors have spotted her driving recklessly fast since the accident.
I see Zack in the hallway. He was their best friend. The trio we called them. He lost everything he ever knew. He started with a fresh memory. He does not remember the accident. He comes in hung-over on Mondays and a girl in our class has accused him of sexual harassment. He has lost what once was genius ability. His coordination will never fully recover. If it weren’t for my memories of him, I might mistake him for a typical, partying high school guy. But I know him as their best friend. Does he remember them at all? Would he recognize their faces?
When you’re thirteen, you think you’re invisible. I thought I was above God, if he existed. I thought I had everything; I knew it. Amy and Carrie were part of what I had. The first car back in the intersection, as policemen kept the entire road at a stand-still in an effort to save to save two lives. I just wanted to get home. As the helicopter landed and I glanced around, sitting next to my mother, whose eyes teared-up in the car, I stared at the evidence coldly, recalling the many crime-scene shows I’d watched on T.V. Already investigators had arrived, gathering evidence in tubs and bags. Maybe I winced when I saw the girl, Amy, stripped to her undergarments, as medics rolled her stretcher into a helicopter and took off. When the ambulance took Zack away, did I wonder who was inside?
It’s Christmastime. I believe, but cannot feel God here. Amy used to play piano beautifully, her father said. She’d told me how she loved music. Carrie loved to ski. At her wake they blushed her cheeks to make her look as if she’d just come inside from the cold.
Yellow roses, crosses, flags, cards their friends still place by the tree. I run often on that road, but never past the tree. I cross myself when I drive past. I see them. I feel guilt, hurt, jealousy, anger, confusion and love. I do not know where they are now. I only know, the roses, the flowers, the crosses—someone loved them.
I sit down at my piano bench. It’s late at night and I’m thinking of them, asking once more why I must remember, why God took them, why I cannot feel the coming of Jesus. I play “Coventry Carol” and with the ancient notes the tears roll down my cheeks. Have I forsaken them, have I forsaken my best friend, have I forsaken God and my family? Where are they? Can their families celebrate?
Carrie’s freckles like glitter on her dimples, Amy’s hair that caught the wind as the bus pulled up to their stop, Zack always next to one of them on the bus. Some things escape my mind…pleasantries, details, birthdays… and I regret. I know I will remember. I do not need the tree, the smell of flowers, the sight of wispy auburn hair or freckles to remind me. Will peace come with time?
I place my fingers over the keys— I am not a young girl, but a woman heading off to college, hoping to leave behind old memories of high-school, leave behind the resentment and bring what I’ve learned— and play a carol that was always my favorite, for a memory, that is painfully, my own…
“O Come oh Come Emmanuel, and ransom captive Israel, that mourns in lonely exile here, until the son of God appear. Rejoice. Rejoice. Emmanuel shall come to thee, oh Israel.”

by marie gordon

My mother always told me life wouldn’t always be easy, but that, I could always count on my family to be there for me. She told me I could always count on them, on my own integrity, and, on God…

I remember when I was there. I looked at her so peaceful. She was 85. She didn’t look very old to me. She looked contented with her arms by her sides, her tiny cross hanging from her neck on that gold chain. The flowers engulfed her as if she lay in a field, as if she slept on this silk pillow so quietly, just for the afternoon. I knew who she was, but my grandmother never touched my life like she did that one day.

My mother told me to touch her. “You may touch her. Hold her hand,” she told me. I wasn’t scared. Grandmother was a pillar, although so delicate, her faith on a bed of flowers. Her hands felt so smooth, so soft, like silky coolness. I remember the feeling of holding her hand in mine, my tiny hand. Her grace never left and I wanted to hold on. She captured me in her peace and I wanted to stay there. Instead, I followed my mother’s lead, knelt down before grandmother on the altar, and said a prayer for her soul in heaven.

That night I was given my grandmother’s Bible, her glow-in-the-dark cross. I held my blanket tightly, the one she had given me. The silky side of the blanket I slept on in the summer and spring and the cotton side in the fall and winter. But tonight I could not find that warm cotton side. I held my blanket in my hands like I held my grandmother’s hand that that day and I pictured her stitching the tiny figures of bunnies and flowers into the fabric. She never lost her beauty.

Grandmother did not speak much to me. I did not know her like I knew her until that day and until I first opened her Bible, to find it marked by the page marker on my favorite psalm, Psalm 23. I read it aloud and I began to wonder what my grandmother was feeling those last few days of her life. If she was in pain, we never knew. Everyone said she died quietly in her sleep. But I wondered. If anyone in my family has strength, Grandma Hyatt had a reputation for it. She’d been through Hell, so I’d been told. I’m not really sure what exactly. Certain secrets were always implied by a tone in my family, one marked by certain secrecy. For what she had gone through, Grandmother’s faith was amazing. She went to mass daily. She knew the old Latin masses. She came to my birth and baptism in her old age.

For Grandma Hyatt, having a Christian family wasn’t just a way of life, it was her whole life. When I look at my Bible, at that passage, I know Grandma Hyatt must have gone through more than what she ever told us. But I wouldn’t have known that seeing her at her funeral. For a woman of 85, she looked as if she’d slept on beds of roses her entire life. Maybe her body was old, but her soul never grew old. When I think about that, I do not feel so withered by my past. Despite what she’d been through those 85 years, she left too peacefully to ignore.

I didn’t know how or why Grandma left me that Bible. Maybe she felt what I felt long before that day I held her hand. Maybe she didn’t know who else to give these things to besides her oldest granddaughter. Nevertheless I felt her. I felt those cool hands, their softness in mine and I smiled. My grandmother had lived so fully and slowly, I prayed for her soul and that I might follow her footsteps.

And now, despite my petty suffering, I looked back on this particular experience and I remember that most important thing she’d marked in her Bible: “Yeah, I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me (Psalm 23:4).”

by marie gordon

It was approximately 4am the other morning when I awoke to a scratching sound. I saw a large shadow in the middle of the room. What was it? Was it moving? I couldn’t move. I was afraid to even move my eyes.

It appeared upon a midnight hour
When frozen vials thaw from ice
A single shadow- o’er bed it glower
Upon my soul of timid mice

I lay still, afraid to so much as move my hands, as if some horrid Chucky doll lurked beside the on switch to the light. Then I heard it again, like a screwdriver scratching away on the sides of my walls. Who the hell is in my room?

And on the floor I felt a cracking
Creaking shifting in my bedroom floor
Sounds so utterly a-gasping
I drew my breath and held my chilly core

In a swift movement, I flung myself upward into a sitting position while gripping the on-switch on the lamp. Should I turn it on? Do I even want to see the fate that awaits me? Why the hell did I sit up anyway? There’s a murderer in my room.

Alas a candle in the window
Just a wanderer this eve
Who passes by my window oft
Moving the shadowy manikin I perceive

Where is the light coming from? The window. I forgot to close the blinds. I feel the glow, seeping over my shoulder from behind. Who is it? The scratching, it becomes wild and unceasing.

As the bronze of lock swings open wide
And the click invites my guest inside
I shiver on my neck for refuge to hide
While yellow beady eye glares near bedside

I grip the switch. Click. Light. Slowly I move my eyes around. No one. I stand up slowly, out of bed and move towards the scratching sound coming from the wall. I see it, like a little joke-box, wobbling. My Raisin Bran box is moving.

The box it wiggles, creepy snails
Inside just waiting to arise
To haunt the corpses of those dead
But moreso those alive

I grab the box, and grip it in between my hands. Inside a creature scratches and squiggles. Inside, I reach. I grip it tight in my fist. I feel the fur. Its wriggling tail. A trapped little mouse drowning in cereal.

O to be less terrified of death
And so much less, to live
To battle in the tiny tomb of thoughts
O what I would not give

I pull the mouse out of the box and toss the remaining Raisin Bran in the trash can. Bloated from her cereal binge, her belly swells in my grip. She squeaks. I open the lid to her cage. I sit her back in and hop back into bed. Nothing to worry about. I turn off the lamp.

But solitary flicker glares
Inside my window its bearer dares
Staring breathlessly un-erred for where
I lay silently aghast under pallid cover layers

Shit. I forgot to close the blinds.

by marie gordon

Megan had a saying she loved to write on her hand in gel pen, “Fuck the world and kiss my ass.” I looked at the pink gel pen writing on her hand as we rode the bus to my house one day after school. She took the pen, grabbed a hold of my ten-year-old hand and wrote her saying. I looked at the glittering letters. “Fuck the world and kiss my ass.” I smiled and we laughed. We giggled. Because that’s what fourth graders do.

As far as I know, Megan and I had the dirtiest mouths of any elementary school girls I’ve ever met, but only around each other. As we approached my front door that day the two of us began frantically rubbing the tops of our hands with our palms, spitting and rubbing until the gel pen blurred into some incoherent pinkish smudge on our hands. We laughed.

Until I met Megan I thought I was the only girl who knew these words, these filthy words my mom had washed my mouth out with soap for saying. Megan and I found release in something so painless and yet so potent—cussing.

We crawled out the first floor window of her house at two in the morning. We scampered out to the barn barefoot in our pajamas and grabbed Megan’s horse “Blue” by its mane. From its stall we lead it outside, took running starts and leapt on Blue’s back. Blue would grunt under our weight. Megan was always the heavier of the two of us. Sometime we switched off, or if one fell the other kept riding. I remember the rain falling down, dripping off the roof of the barn and Megan and I at full canter quietly exclaiming, “God damn!” We giggled and let the rain come down on us. As we rode we would slander our parents, who were both divorced at the time. We would demean the purpose of life in general. And as Blue wore out, we would dismount and lead her back to her stall. We crawled back through the window and headed to the shower to clean the mud off.

Our favorite part of the evening began afterwards. Megan’s mom was a massage therapist and I learned from Meagan a few things about massage therapy. We took turns on each other. It was a release. The two of us spoke about things we never spoke about to anyone. We told each other the worst things we done. We told each other about what we thought of one another. We both determined that neither of us had it better than the other.

I can remember in her garage Megan had a huge box of individual packets of Halloween skittles. Those Skittles never ran out. We played basketball by her hoop, played teacher and classroom in her room and every time we went for Skittles they were there.

She had an old dog named Grey that she was always picking off fleas from. The dog looked about 20 years old, although I believe it was 10. Sometimes I helped Megan pick off Grey’s fleas. I felt sorry for the old dog. And I can remember the only time I met Megan’s father was because of Grey. The fleas kept getting worse as Grey aged and his arthritis was worse. Mr. Hart brought over a rifle and a shovel. I heard the gunshot and I remember feeling as if the world had flipped wrong side up my stomach got so queasy. Then I thought of Grey, laying there on the porch, too tired to keep fighting the infestation of fleas and bugs and I realized that he was decaying already.

After that day I realized something about Megan that I had never seen before. When she told me she understood why Grey had to be shot I was dumbfounded. But I knew she loved her dog, she loved it enough to have the mercy to call her father to come over and end its suffering. That’s when I knew Megan understood more about life than I could hope to in my immaturity. It wasn’t a façade anymore for Megan and me. We had friendship. I realize now our love of each other surmounted that of our overbearing lives at the time. We dumped our family turmoil into nights of horseback riding in the pouring rain and cussing, cussing like sailors never cussed, cursing like the words had as much significance as the inventions of Surge soda and quantum mechanics.

I think we took pain away from each other with our hands and our words. But when I remember seeing Megan, I remember sharing pain and as we shared, the pain weakened. We held on to each other and I learned what love really is. We loved each other enough to pick off the fleas together and to end each other’s suffering by doing the only thing we could do…

We took out our packs of gel pens and wrote on our hands, “Fuck the world and kiss my ass.”