Hey buds! I am so thankful to all the people who posted there applications when I was writing my application so I decided to pay it forward. Here is every piece of my creative writing application excluding my personal statement because in the wise words of @peachpoem “that's supposed to be personal”
Up until the age of twelve, I was not particularly aware of the red whispers beneath my skin. On Christmas Eve of 2012, I began to bleed in a way that I can now find beauty in.
The person sitting at the table that evening is but a familiar friend. However, the pain she felt is still mine. I like to picture it as finger nails peeling at my entrails, perhaps they are long and red. Maybe when they grow old they peel off in drops. My own beliefs do not align with this. But as I stared at the cross quietly resting on my grandparents wall, the figure of Jesus sprawled out across it, I couldn't help but relate to his head hung low, mouth half open-suffering. As a Jew, I've never understood the Christ figure as it relates to my own spiritual beliefs, but in that moment, all my pain was reflected. It was rather comforting. I have heard that period cramps serve as punishment for the sin of Eve. That God's wrath burns in my stomach. I think that's silly. My agony is rivers. It flows beneath my skin to the deep pits of my stomach but it still pumps my heart. It is life, it has the potential to create more. It is beautiful like red finger nails.
That night my mother helped me wash the stains out in the sink. Cold water works the best. Use very little soap. It has become a ritual of sorts now. One I carry out on my own, allowing the dried red to live again as it flows into the drain. Eve held life in every drop of her suffering, we have that in common now.
Two girls around 12 sit on a bench on the outskirts of their campgrounds. They are supposed to be asleep. The sun is rising.
Anne: I know it's silly, but I'm still scared we'll get caught.
Lilly: It's not silly, I understand. But you really don't need to be scared.
Anne: I know, I trust you.
Lilly: Smiling now You do?
Anne: Of course. I mean, I should...shouldn't I?
Lilly: What? Yeah totally! I'm so trust worthy... like super duper trust worthy.
Lilly: Think of the most trustworthy person you know, then multiply that by ten. That's me.
Anne: Hey, can I ask you something?
Anne: Do you wanna kiss me?
Anne: Do you wanna kiss me?
Lilly: Ummm...do you wanna kiss me?
Lilly: I mean well, yeah. I guess...
Lilly: Do you wanna kiss me?
Anne: Scans LILLY up and down Maybe later.
Anne: Sure, just not right now.
Lilly: No that's not fair, you have to tell me.
Anne: I just don't really want to right now.
Anne: I don't know, okay? You certainly aren't helping with all of this.
Lilly: Sorry...it's just, I really do want to kiss you.
Lilly: And you wanna kiss me too?
Lilly: Then why not right now?
Anne: Lilly, stop that. I just don't want to, okay? Why can't you just accept that?
Lilly : It's going to be morning soon. We should head back before we get caught.
Anne: Okay, talk to you soon... kisses LILLY on the cheek and leaves
The room was much too dark for my liking. My potion's smoke hung like a curtain coating everything in its blackness. Only the simplest of shadows were permitted to break through: the outline of a beaker, the sprinkling of unidentifiable powders by a hand that could only be my own... although I felt no attachment to it. I no longer remembered what it felt like to move. My brain and my body became two separate parasites, each one betraying me in their own unique ways. The potion was a cruel mistress disregarding my most necessary desires in favor of her trivial changes of heart. I was starving. I had not eaten in days; yet she sat full. She was so content with the smoke spilling out of her every pore. It fell softly across the room in a pattern so gentle it would have seemed innocent if it's foul rat's breath stench wasn't so sinister. I pretended not to notice.
I drove the unpleasant expression off of my face as not to upset her. I gathered myself. Not daring to take in the smoky air, I mustered the most convincing smile I could. She gazed back, then began to bubble. The way her delicate sunrise-toned surface dared to rise slightly, only to then burst, hypnotized me. Pulling at the sleeves of my sweater and tugging at the roots of my beard telling me to come closer and promising I was almost there. I do not remember why I believed her. It must have had something to do with the bubbles. They rose like smoke from a fire; like hope from desperation. They rose like everything I desired and so I ignored the spine chilling sounds of their popping. It wasn't that hard. The smoke fit around me like a mask that blocked out all concern. It grew thicker now, stitched to my skin like a shadow. I remained transfixed on my creation. For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, she smiled. The mist almost seemed to freeze; whether out of suspense, anger, or fear I could not tell. I didn't dare ask. My thoughts stilled, but my fingers still shook. She beckoned me. I do not know what I did to deserve her approval, but she seemed so pleased. Pride swelled in my chest. I do not remember the feeling of bringing her to my lips. But the way she slid down my throat was unforgettable. The change began in the tips of my toes; then my beard; finally my face as my every feature transformed into a sculpture of solid gold. I made to laugh but found my face frozen in place unable to bend at my will no matter how desperately I begged it to. I stood like a statue as the smoke made its move finally, ready to choke the life out of anything it could suffocate
Paris Through a Window, based on the painting by Marc Chagall
Morning mist always feels the same
Here, today, tomorrow, yesterday
Smoggy ghettos and outer space
Let fog twist in and out of time like lace
From the beginning to the ending It always remains
Lingering in the sparks of childhood fire
Carrying me through the smoke of adolescent desire
And if I find myself at a window in Paris
Let the mist be my queen and time be its heiress
Let fate reside in the faces of men who are falling
Or floating or flying or fleeing or trying
Let cats loom by with their dusty eyes
Faces welled like they are about to cry
The tears would reign like the love of someone gone
Watching and waiting and wanting
Let flowers bloom in places unexpected
On walls in the wind and the backs of chairs
Let color be something intricate or bold
Never intruding always intriguing
Protruding politely without asking permission
One day I wish to be the man with two faces
To look at the past as something that is tan
The bronze of a childhood
The hazel of running away by train
The brown of knowing regret as a feeling familiar
The grey of being just fine
But don't let anyone try to convince you the mountains aren't blue
Don't let them whisper about the slightness of your smile
That your rainbow window panes filter life's ways
Look up at the mountains and see something blue
Goodbye can be warm in a way that you hate
But it still wraps you up and still keeps you safe
When they ask you why you left and you don't know what to say
Paint your face like the mountain and turn it away
Leave your heart in your hand if that's where it stays
You are so much to look at they won't notice anyways
Turn towards the future if you can't just today
Notice the reds it hides in its rays
Buildings like thumbs or pinkies or an escape
People being in a way that is unnerving
Descending and twisting and turning
They might maybe notice the way we are staring
But this city has made them much too daring
To blush or glance or even to change
This is the way they were made to be made
