The Golden Apple
The juice dripped down their chins. Streams of pink and red liquid flowed from their mouths as they gorged on the ripened fruit. Aurelia stared, unable to touch the fruit which stained their faces. Livia was laughing as she leaned in close to Augustus. She looked radiant in her simple gown and golden armband. Usually, Aurelia would be joining in the gaiety, but she could not appear animated this evening. She thanked Jupiter that the emperor and his wife were too busy to notice. The table was full, conversation was lively, and Aurelia could sink into her own world.
Julia reached toward Aurelia, proffering one of the ripe and swollen pomegranates. It had been cut open, revealing the red seeds inside, which Julia ate greedily. “Aren’t you hungry, Cousin?” she asked. Aurelia shook her head. She glanced from the fruit to Julia’s quizzical expression as her cousin said, “It’s not going to hurt you.”
Aurelia saw the question in Julia’s eyes, but she knew she couldn’t answer. “Perhaps no,” she said, forcing a smile, willing the lower quality of her teasing voice. “But maybe Pluto will trap me as he did Proserpina. I couldn’t risk it, though my hunger bids me.”
“Ah, but Aurelia, he has his bride. You’re assuming your beauty matches Proserpina’s if you think he might be tempted enough to coax you into the Underworld.”
Aurelia forced a laugh. It was true, she was no beauty–not like Livia or Julia–but that hadn’t stopped Domitius from wanting her. Suddenly she was no longer in Livia’s dining hall. She found herself again on the street, walking from the market to her home on the Palatine. She found herself again being pulled into an alley.
“Aurelia–golden, sweet,” she had heard him whisper in her ear, his hands gripping her shoulders, holding her against a rough brick wall.
“Domitius. Please, let go. I must get back.”
“You are beautiful.”
“Stop, Domitius!” she had commanded. Instead, he’s pushed against her. He tugged at her toga, jerking it above her thighs. He’d sucked greedily at her neck, his hands groping her thighs, her butt, her breasts. She’d been unable to fight, to struggle against him. She had been choked by her sobs, unable to scream. With the noise from the market place, no one would have heard her anyway. In the dark alley, no one had seen.
When he’d finished, gasping against her rigid body, he’d pushed his hand against her mouth, streaking blood across her face. “Take care not to tell anyone about this.” He’d pressed his lips hard and cruel against hers. She’d closed her eyes, turning her face from him, and, as he’d walked away, slumped to the stone street.
“Proserpina…oh, Proserpina,” Julia softly taunted Aurelia, jerking her back into the present. Aurelia slowly tore her eyes from the painted red fruit on Livia’s mural to meet again Julia’s quizzical expression. She saw still on Julia’s chin the stain from the pomegranate. Without answering her cousin, she took the proffered fruit, feeling its weight in her hands, and raised it to her lips.
A Piece of You
I caught your scent this morning –
Just a whiff, a lingering piece
Of you in my bedclothes.
It was not Your cologne which,
Heady, intoxicates me so.
Rather, it was You, your
Masculine, human, sweaty
Musk: it, now familiar, dear,
Now fading, whispered of
Secrets lost to stolid walls –
Private, tender moments: when I
Cried damp, salty tears on
Your bare chest and surprised e’en
Myself with honesty; when, in
The dark, we talked about
Our Future – together; when,
In the dark, your lips pressed against
Mine, your arms encompassed
Me, and grasping, reaching, we
Discovered together ourselves.
With you, Love, I am me.
The Shape of God
If the thing is God, what then should be the form?
Ought it be long, grand, obtuse, or simple?
Ought it be rhymed, metered, take the shape of a storm?
If my body is calléd God’s temple,
What then is the point of a poem?
What art lies in singing God’s shape:
The widening sky, the sea’s glist’ning foam;
The sleeping babe’s tender neck’s nape;
The minutest atom, intricately designed;
Whirling winds – dark grey skies dripping rain;
Whispered words, secrets quietly divined,
Or an unrequited lover’s pain?
If God is the thing, what then can be the form?
For He is there in all – a touch of a hand,
A poet’s words, an artist’s paint,
The insect’s wings, Autumn’s leaves’ fall,
The winter’s snowy skies, even the hurricane.
He is ever-present, in all.
Beyond definition, all things
Are centered in Him, and apart
From His grace, all confusion springs.
If the thing is God, what then is the form?
It is the Earth, this creation, you and me,
And all that is is His grand poetry.
In the Nude Chair
The living room of our home had always been white – a dull, dirtied white which invited no warmth and no discussion. Now they were even more bare: all the pictures had been removed, and plaster smeared over nail holes. We were preparing to paint; the colors had been selected, and they reflected my mother’s feeling of freedom now that the divorce was final, and her vivid personality, which we had each inherited. It was something she’d always wanted to do, but we had never had the time or the money.
Our dining room table had been pulled into the bare living room. Earlier that day, my mom had painted the dining room, and it was drying in the late afternoon sun. Now, in this moment, in our wide, sun-filled living room, with the large front windows flayed outwards (we had always wished those windows had a window-seat; they were picturesque and would have made the perfect reading corner), I was settled at the table. I guess I was too little to really help paint. I fancied myself an artist, though, and, in the spirit of things, had discovered some old finger paints hiding in our basement. I had pulled out loads of printer painter to explore my artistic ability. My mom and my two older sisters decided to join in the fun, and we had brushes and paper scattered across the table.
My oldest sister, Jennifer, with several shades of green before her, was spreading them across the page with such quick, fierce, short brushstrokes that the paint flailed around the room, spattering along our white living-room walls. As she decorated not only her paper but also the walls, Jennifer was chanting, “I am a genius,” giving an extra flourish on “genius”. We laughed as we watched her, but continued plugging away at our own work. Finally, she leapt from her chair, ran across the living room, past the entranceway, and down the hallway to her bedroom. She returned shortly, carrying a lipstick tube. We watched, enthralled, as she pulled the top off the lipstick, smeared a single streak across the painting, and, with a self-satisfied smirk, recapped the tube. She held up the completed product proudly, shades of green crisscrossed across the page randomly, and, over it all, a single pink line.
“I have entitled it In the Nude Chair, or, I am a Genius.” And we laughed, altogether, aware that “In the Nude Chair” was her favorite lipstick shade solely because of its name. It made sense that she would incorporate it into her work, if only because it amused her. As we sat in our home, the furniture in disarray, the dining room walls still drying, we laughed, we talked, and we painted. The sun, which had illuminated the living room, faded into night as we whiled away the hours in one another’s company. And, a few weeks later, when the entire house was painted and the walls dry, we hung our artwork on the walls, with Jennifer’s In the Nude Chair in a place of honor – right over where most of the paint from her brush had landed on the wall.
Ocean Visit
Slate grey sky reflected in wide open sea
Which crashes angry against the shore,
Foaming white before gurgling away.
You say, “We made a decision,” and
Tears flow unchecked down three sets of rosy,
Salty cheeks. Now questions stream forth like
The clear, fresh creek disappearing into
Ocean. “Where will we live? Where will Dad?”
Now our footsteps crunch against the rocky
Shore as we make our way to the car.
My first visit to the ocean, overcast –
Sun fading into night. Headlights pierce through fog.
Now I eat marshmallows and press against
My sisters’ bodies in the backseat as
We watch the dark roll past our cloudy windows.
A Little Teapot (Fiction)
The light slanted through the shades, creating a prison-bar pattern across Amber’s inert body. She rolled over, pulling the covers up to hide her face from the light. She could hear Sarah in the living room; her daughter was quietly humming along with the television.
Amber knew she should get up, make some breakfast, start their day. She couldn’t seem to make herself, though. She thought she could be happy – or as close to happy as she may ever be – if only she could stay in bed forever. She let herself succumb to her desire, and stretched out with a sigh.
Sarah’s humming had become singing, and Amber could picture her girl’s blonde ringlets bouncing as chubby hands made the motions: “I’m a little teapot, short and stout…”
Amber closed her eyes to ward off tears. Sarah should have had a playmate. She had been promised one – a little brother to keep her company. She remembered the first time she’d felt the stirring in her womb, reassuring her that the last five years’ barrenness had finally ended, that all of her prayers and doctor’s visits and meticulousness had paid off. She had been driving to her mom’s home in Port Angeles. “Just a quick visit to see Grandma,” she’d told Sarah. The rain had pummeled the windshield, fog drifting across the highway. “I can hardly see anything,” she’d muttered. And then, her stomach had turned and she’d known. She had been certain.
As a grin had spread across her face she heard a “pop,” and she’d gripped the wheel as their sedan began swerving across the slick road. She’d gotten it under control and pulled off to the side. “Mommy will be right back,” she’d told Sarah, stepping out into the angry, freezing rain. Praise God Tony had taught her how to change tires, and she had done so as deftly as she could manage in the dark, foggy night. Despite the bad luck – the weather, the flat – nothing had been able to dampen her good mood. After climbing back into the car, she had sat for several minutes, her hands resting on her belly, letting herself imagine she could feel the heartbeat which was not her own.
Here in her bed, her hands again rested on her flat belly, where once that heartbeat really had pounded against her palm. She’d done everything right, but it hadn’t been enough. She had miscarried at four months. Tony had been devastated, but he handled it differently. He disappeared to the office, where he could keep his mind off things with business. Even two months later, Amber felt like she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move.
She heard a shuffling at the door, and there stood Sarah, silhouetted against the light behind her. The sun created an aura about her, setting her ringlets glinting like strands of fine gold.
“Mommy?” Sarah asked.
“Come here, Baby,” Amber said, sitting up and patting the covers next to her. Sarah bounded across the room and onto the bed. She wrapped her arms around Amber’s shoulders and buried her face in Amber’s neck. “I love you, Mommy,” she whispered, her little voice muffled against Amber’s skin, her breath tickling.
My Sister (Fiction)
Jacqueline is now a twenty-four year old woman, so different from the girl she was while we were growing up. She was always independent – I remember her leaving the house without permission for nights, and nonchalantly waltzing in the door several days later, with no explanation and no apologies. I remember, also, the day I burst in on her in the bathroom, brushing her teeth and spritzing perfume to cover the smell of cigarette smoke from her first experimentation with the habit.
Then, her hair was semi-scraggly, long, but always shiny: a brilliant brunette without John Frieda’s help. Her huge, thick-glassed rims always hung precariously from her face, and her clothes were slightly too big, hiding her blossoming figure: she had inherited a full bust from the women in our family. She played soccer, and fiercely. I remember once she told me about playing during a game and overhearing a girl from the other team remarking, “Get out of her way. You might get hurt.” We used to laugh and laugh about that. But she was fierce, and not only on the soccer field.
Jacqueline was intensely emotional. The cliché “she wore her heart on her sleeve” fits perfectly, for she did. I would avoid eye contact when she was angry or else succumb to another hair-pulling screaming match which would inevitably end in tears – my tears. When she was happy, though – oh, when she was happy – we were the best of friends, and I loved to be in her good graces, tagging along with her friends and her wherever they went.
This story I have heard often; she recounts it as evidence of all these things – her ferocity, her independence, and her youth. Although it makes me cringe, I know that she has been forgiven, and has in turn forgiven, which has helped shape her into the woman I now know.
She would say, “I was so mad. I’m not even sure why, but it was when Grandpa and Grandma were there – you know, during the divorce. I was supposed to do the dishes or something, which,” and she looks at me, me already nodding in agreement, “you probably ended up doing. I wanted to hang out with Larissa instead. Grandma and I went at it. I mean, we really went at it. I was so tired of them being there. I was tired of her acting like she was our mom.
“We fought all through the house, until I finally ran out the front door with her screaming in her thick Southern accent, ‘You get back in the house this instant!’ I was halfway to the street by then. It was a gorgeous autumn afternoon; everyone was out in their yards, raking leaves and taking in the beautiful day. I turned back to her, and shouted, not even really knowing what I was saying – I was just so mad, you know – and shouted at the top of my lungs, ‘Goddam you people!’”
Here she’d pause, remembering the severity of her words. “She got real quiet, and just turned back in the house and shut the door. I’m sure she locked it, but that didn’t matter, because I left with Larissa. And I’ve never forgotten how I treated them after all they’d done for us. And I know they remember, but I wish to God they didn’t. It just goes to show the power of your tongue, the power of words, to hurt someone. God, I was such a mean kid. But I hope,” again looking at me, winking slightly, “I hope I’ve changed somewhat.”
Well, she has. Her hair is cropped and always styled; she abandoned the glasses for contacts, and she has adapted to the figure God gave her. Mostly, though, she is brave and caring. Jacqueline is attending med school now, in order to help others. What hasn’t changed is her dynamism; she draws people to herself without trying, and I am just grateful that she still considers her baby sister her best friend.
Autumn
Flaming leaves leap Heavenward,
Attempting with their last gasping breath
To touch the face of God. Their
Elegiac dance engulfs
Us in flames, falling to the Earth in
Blazing crimson, gold, and orange.
And now blind, we fall apart.
Our collision was by chance, and we,
Cracked upon contact, breaking,
Watch Everwood and hope that
We can heal this breach. With our last gulps
Of breath, we attempt to touch
The face of God, but, failing,
We fall to the Earth: crumble, decay –
Autumn is finished for us.
Change
Funny how life changes so quickly. I ran into a friend of mine today, who said that it’s just been three short years. But in these last three years so much has happened, so much has changed, and neither of us are the same persons that we were when we met during Freshman Initiation. I used to think that our most formative years are our childhoods. Then I went through high school, and, looking back, can now see how much I changed from year to year.
I have had rapid moments of change – in a week, I have encountered God and felt like an entirely new person; in a day, I have felt my world crumple and, as a result, evolved into a stranger to myself. And then there are the periods of stagnation, in which months go by and I feel stale, old, the same as I ever have been. And perhaps these are the periods of greatest change. It’s only when I reflect later on them that I realize that those periods shaped me and molded me, slowly, into someone else.
Growth is a gradual process, isn’t it? When we’re children, we want to be adults, but it takes time to learn and to mature and to physically grow. Growth is also an intentional process. If we merely go through the motions of living, what can we learn? When I choose to notice the world around me, to talk to someone new – even when it terrifies me – or to go to a foreign place, then I have experienced life and changed. I must participate. Sometimes, yes, I’ll feel stagnant and static, but eventually God will reveal to me what He was doing during those times.
And no matter how much I do change, and grow, and learn, and mature, even when I look back and don’t recognize that girl I was three years ago timidly stepping into my U-Sem class, I am that same person. Hopefully I am just a better version of her now than I was then.
Writing
I was privileged to meet an author today, David Guterson, who wrote Snow Falling on Cedars and, most recently, The Other. And after having talked to him, an accomplished, renowned author, who wouldn’t feel intimidated by the daunting task of creating a world through words? I am coming to realize that I am no writer – not by any means. When did I fool myself into thinking I was? And yet…I was walking on clouds after my Imaginative Writing class on Tuesday. It seems that everything I attempted to get across in my poem did come across – even some unintentional meaning, which just added to the point and tone of what I was attempting to do. And even in my Fiction Workshop I received a “B” on my first short story, which I personally hated. I mean, I did not like this story at all, and it came from me!
The world stretches before me like a vast, barren desert, in which there is no spring of life, of imagination – not even a mirage of that. And I am left feeling empty and alone. How, how do I make myself capable of writing the way I so desperately desire? One must be an observer, a participant, an experiencer of this life to do so. I am not these things, not usually. I am introverted; I am scared; I am mostly socially awkward. And I have been so okay with that. Now things are moving forward at a new pace: I am meeting new people, going out, experiencing the world in a new way. That frightens me too, though, because in so doing, it seems I am leaving behind many of the morals and core beliefs I was raised on. Or am I? I am constantly meeting people with a different moral code than the one which I live by. I don’t want to judge them for that – how can they be expected to live by my standards when they don’t hold the same beliefs I do? But I cannot live the way they do, and so have I become too accepting of the way they live? Can I reconcile these new desires with the faith I still cling to? What is my responsibility as a writer and a Christian to this world?
I don’t want to be a cliche Christian author. That is not my purpose. I do want to be a writer who is a Christian. My faith is what defines me, and while it is continually changing, growing, and becoming more informed as I learn, it is an integral – and inseparable – part of the person that I am. What I would like to do is write secular fiction with themes of faith – take, for example, Guterson’s The Other. It is rife with themes of hope, loneliness, spirituality, the quest for faith and purpose in life, as well as what the human responsibility to the world is. I would much rather write as Guterson does and leave it to the reader to decide.
First, though, I must write. I must devote myself to this craft. I must dedicate myself to a date, each day, with my computer screen, or at least a pen and paper, in order to become those things I want. And maybe through practice and exploration, I will discover the answers to all these questions.
