Bitterness

Interior Monologue Creative Writing:

Bitterness

The Seven train. Good old MTA. Always a fun ride on this train. There is always a wide variety of people on this train: whites, Spanish, Asians, poor, middle-classed, blind, fat, skinny, smelly. Look at everyone pile in, rushing to an open seat; no one having any respect for anyone else. Not like I can say much for myself, I do keep my eyes peeled for a seat, but I never run to a seat or anything. Although I do enjoy sitting down after a long days work. Cleaning is such a tough job, so rough on your body. It’s not as easy as it was when I was younger. But, you have to do what you have to do when times are rough; and for me times are always rough. Just for once in my life I wish I could be well off, have enough money in the bank for two months worth of rent. Instead, I have to make a living. I have to work for rich, white folks in the city. The funny thing is, though, they are so oblivious to the things they own. They never notice that pair of diamond earrings that so happen to get “lost”, or that their secret money stash in the closet is losing $50 every week. Rich folk are so blind; they don’t notice the things they have, because to them everything is replaceable.

Like this woman. Look at her: a very pretty, older woman. She obviously has money. I wonder what stop she’ll get off at. Probably transfer at the Grand Central, or if she’s a Queens woman she’ll transfer at Queensborough Plaza to go to Astoria. Or maybe she’ll transfer at Roosevelt to another train. There are so many possibilities. Oh lord, look at that beautiful purse. Prada, figures. I really wouldn’t know the difference though, if it had not been for the big gold label type thing. Not like I have the money to care about the differences between purses. A purse is a purse: it holds your shit. Although, sometimes I do wish I could know the difference. Her coat is gorgeous too. That material looks so soft, warm and inviting. Wool maybe? It seems like it would be that, it looks really expensive. Even the single breasted button looks expensive! It has some sort of gem studs in it. Is that really necessary? That huge, puffy collar isn’t needed either, although I’m sure it keeps her warm. Unlike my coat; full of holes and so thin. I wonder how much this coat cost. $400? And that purse is probably another $200. Oh, and those stockings? They look nice as well, probably way over priced: I’d say $50. Her shoes are forgettable though. Just from what I can see, over $600 is visible on her body. $600? That can pay half my rent. What I would do for $600 right now.

If only I could have more money. People say money doesn’t bring happiness; well whoever said that is a damn fool and has never lived off of food stamps, or never lived paycheck to paycheck. They have never gone starving or had no warm clothes, and had no worries whatsoever. I’m a hard working woman. I’ve been through hell and back. I’ve been on the streets and have lived from car to car, shelter to shelter. I work for below minimum wage. And here is this wench wearing over priced stockings; she doesn’t know a goddamn thing about suffering. Oh great, now she’s flashing us her giant rock on her neck. A huge diamond. Why does she have to do that? She is just screaming to be mugged. A part of me wishes she would, just so she could feel some pain.

Even if she was mugged, she’s probably married to some rich lawyer or some stock broker. In fact, she probably is married with a handful of kids and just rolls around in money. I wonder what she’s doing in the city though; working, perhaps? She probably works at some high end office where she makes a decent amount. She seems like a city girl though, like she’d live in the Village or Upper East/West Side. She’s probably never seen the ghetto; only on TV. Well, here’s Queensborough Plaza, and it looks like she’s staying. She seems annoyed; she’s looking at all of us poor people like we’re some kind of pest. Like us poor people are some unknown creature to the world. Well honey, you’re the odd one out here; more and more people are suffering, and less and less people are becoming like you.

I remember when I was married to a well off man. He was a hard working man, made a decent amount of money. Paid the bills, and had some left over cash for some fun. That didn’t last long though. Drugs and alcohol took over him and his money. It made him greedy. I remember when he was full of life and love, before the heroine. Before the abuse, before the miscarriage. After that, he developed some sort of hatred for me. Did he ever stop to think about how I felt about this? How losing the baby affected me? He didn’t give a damn about my feelings, or my emotions. I’m the woman, I’m supposed to clean, cook, and bear children. I tried my best to be a good wife. Apparently it wasn’t enough, considering he overdosed some ten years back. The pain I went through throughout my life, this Prada woman will never know. Well, will you look at that? 33^rd and Rawson is her stop. I should’ve given her my card, maybe I could have had an extra costumer, another rich home to clean.

9/11 Letter

Unedited- Creative Writing:

Untitled

Dear Susana,

I can't imagine the amount of emotions that are flooding through you right now, since you read the return address. Let me tell you, it is really me, and this is not a joke. I felt after eight years, I owe you an apology and an explanation.
First, let me express my love for you. We were together for ten years, and we had a beautiful little girl. Please believe me when I say that I love you and our little Jane, and I miss you both. The last three years before my disappearance, or assumed death, you and I both could tell life was beginning to get a little rocky. Our marriage was suffering due to Jane's autism, and because our financial issues. I am sure the financial issues have not subsided, especially after the Towers fell. But I am hoping that Jane's autism has become more reasonable and bearable since then.
Let me just tell you straight forward what happened. In the early summer of 2001, I began to think long and hard about my life; about you and our daughter, my job and our life in Queens. Honestly, it was becoming too much, and I felt weak as a man. My career was beginning to be very stressful, and the office life was too mundane for me. Jane's autism was also starting to be too much to handle. I don't know how you were able to stay so calm and patient between her fits and her tedious life styles. The first few years after her diagnosis, I was beginning to wear thin- much too thin to handle. I am an awful father for thinking this way; a father is supposed to care and love their child, and support his family in every which way. But Suzie, I couldn't. I just couldn't any longer. So, in August of 2001, I tried talking to you about our life, how we could change it. That maybe I should have looked for a new job, something more creative; perhaps me going back to school and to continue my passion in the arts. You ignored my wants, and focused on our financial basis, and Jane's priorities. I suggested a helper around the house to help us maintain Jane's illness, but you were too stubborn and too proud to ask for anyone's help, that we could do this ourselves. Well, Suzie, I couldn't. I couldn't handle it anymore. I couldn't handle my job, I despised it. Sitting at that desk day after day, pushing pencils 10 hours a day. I couldn't handle Jane's illness; I couldn't handle you ignoring my wants and needs any longer. As much as I love you both, I had to do this for myself.
On September 11th, 2001, I headed to work early. I gave you and little Jane a kiss goodbye, and to you both it may have seemed like it was our everyday routine, but this day was different. I took the train and transferred to the PATH. From there I headed to New Jersey, and I arrived in Newark. There I saw the news, and I saw the towers burning. Susana, I can't tell you what I was feeling while watching that news station. Horror, luck, guilt, and happiness. Horror because it was an attack on America, and it was completely horrific and awful that so many people lost their lives; many of those people I knew, people I worked with for years and years. I was so lucky to not have gone to work that day, or else I would have been in that building when the planes hit. It was very likely I would have not lived.
I felt guilty for the same reason I felt happy. I felt these both because it was my time to escape. To escape the life I was unhappily living, the life I did not want. That was my chance to run, I knew you and the rest of my friends and family would have presumed me to be dead. There are still hundreds and thousands of missing people from that day, many of their remains have not been found; and I know you are one of those people who could not find your love's remains. I don't know which would have been harder for you; knowing your husband left you and the family and his burdens, or thinking your husband died due to a terrorist attack on America.

Let me tell you Susana, though, I am very happy. I have not found love like the love you and I once had, but I live in California now, and I am very happy. I am going to UCLA, and I am majoring in Fine Arts, I'm painting again. A passion of mine I had buried years ago. I have an amazing group of friends, and I love them dearly. I feel very much at home here in California. It is always sunny, the beaches are beautiful and it is always warm. I am very happy. But please, don't think for a second that I don't think of you and Jane every day. I have a picture of the three of us in our wallet, and I look at it every day. I love and miss you both so dearly.
I know you are probably in tears, and I'm sure you are angry at me and my decision. I am sure you feel betrayed and embarrassed and humiliated. This is not why I sent this letter, though. Not to humiliate you, or to anger you. I thought after eight long years, that you deserved to know the truth about what really happened to me. I am not dead, I did not die when the Towers fell. I simply left. It was the perfect moment for me, and I took the opportunity to start over, to follow my dreams.

Susana, I honestly don't know what I expect out of you after reading this. I don't know if I should expect a response, a phone call, an email, for you to show up at my door and slap me in the face. I don't know. I don't know why I'm mailing this to you, other than the fact that I thought you should know the truth, and to know exactly what went on that day.

So, do what you want with this letter. Take it as you want to. I understand if you hate me, and if you never want to contact me. I would like to know, though, whether you received this or not. Below I have added my mailing address, my email, and my phone. Mail me, email me, call or text me, if you want. If you do not want to have Jane know about my existence, could you at least send me a recent picture of the two of you? Just so I can add another picture in my wallet. I don't know what else to say, except I love you and Jane both.

Love,
Gregory

My Hell

Creative Writing:

My Hell



As I walk up the 36 steps, my hatred begins to grow within me. With each step I take, my legs feel heavier and my jaw begins to clinch harder. The people around me rush around me, often times bumping into me, to get to work. I take my time. I am in no rush to sit inside the place I despise for eight hours. As I begin my slow stride towards the turnstiles, I find my identification card, and I look at it. The card feels heavy in my hand; on it my picture of my once-happy self is in the corner with the words “Cadwalader” written in a perfect font of Times Roman in a shade of royal blue. I swipe my card, and walk towards the elevators.
I look at the people around me, wearing fake smiles, and perfect business-casual outfits. I press the button for the elevator and wait. As I shuffle into the elevator, I press the number eight and move to the back of the elevator. People are casually talking about the weather, the stock market, and personal dilemmas. People begin to trickle out, one floor at a time, until I am usually the only one left. The elevator then creeps slowly to my floor, and as the door opens, I take a deep breath to prepare for the long day ahead.
As I walk down the long row of cubicles, I can hear the pecking of keys, the low murmurs of people on the phone, and the click-clacks of high heels walking. Once I get to my desk, I pause to take in what my day will be filled with. I look at the computer, the tower’s green light blinking ever so slowly. The monitor is covered in multi-colored post-it notes with attorney names and ID code numbers on them; along with random subtle notes from my Dominican desk neighbor.
The metal shelf on the left holds papers rubber banded together, with yellow post-its saying “file asap” in blood red ink. Beneath the shelf there is a metal organizer holding white sheets of labels; big ones, small ones. To the right is yet another metallic organizer, holding blue sheets, and countless blue folders.
I sit at my desk, turn my monitor on and type in my password. The sound of Windows XP loading explodes from the speakers. As I begin to settle into my hell hole, I notice my chair has been recently adjusted by someone other than me. This instantly triggers a sudden spike in my rage. After it is adjusted, I open my email and begin sorting through the bolded emails. “So and so will not be in today…” or “Audit Inquiry for so and so received…” fills up my inbox. I highlight all, and delete.
I sit there, and I close my eyes. I take a deep breath. With that breath, I smell my supervisor’s breakfast: egg whites with peppers, onions and mushrooms, with a side of bacon. I keep my eyes closed, trying to steady my heart rate, trying to push down my anger and bitterness. I hear the heavy footsteps of people walking back and forth, greeting everyone in their path, “good morning!” I ignore their fake-polite gestures. I begin to hear the printer turning on, and spitting out paper after paper. After a while, my ears begin to muffle all of these sounds, and I just sit there rubbing my temples. Maybe if I click my heels three times, I’ll open my eyes and be home.
Suddenly, a voice that makes a baby’s scream sound like birds singing interrupts my silence. “Danielle! Danielle!” I look up, and I see my supervisor. A very short woman with fire-like hair pops up. Her face is old and worn, crow’s feet and laugh lines cover her face. I see her lips moving, but all I hear is mumbled words with a thick Polish accent. I don’t have to listen to know what she’s telling me. With this one way conversation, my work day beings.
Throughout the day, I file sheets of white and pink paper away, write notes on post-its, and I dully click the keys on the keyboard. To drown out the noises, I listen to music on full blast, hoping no one will interrupt me. I stare at the computer screen at the program in which my eyes have grown to know like the back of my hand. The green and yellow folders fill up the screen, with the large capital letters stating “CORRESPONDENCE”, “ATTORNEY’S WORKPAPERS”, “RECRODED DOCUMENTS.” After a few hours, my eyes begin to blur, and I switch to something else that wont cause further blindness. I file papers away, I staple them, hole punch them, and slip them into the baby blue folders. A sting overwhelms my body; my bitterness and rage fills up, and I can nearly taste it in the back of my throat. I look down at my hands. Another paper cut to add to the collection. The bright red liquid begins to stain my nails. I take a deep breath, and return to my tedious work. Staple, punch, slide. Staple, punch, slide. I click on the mouse from time to time, then I staple, punch, and slide. This is my day. This is my cubicle. This is my hell.

Hands

From my Creative Writing Class (there are typos I believe):

Hands

His hands are smooth and tender when they touch your skin. As they glide down your back, it makes you quiver with desire. The feeling had you begging for more. The tenderness of his skin covers you in comfort and love; making the rest of the world disappear. By simply looking at his hands, though, you would not expect such an amazing feeling would come from them. His knuckles are rough and worn. His cuticles are ripped and stained black from years of mechanical abuse. At a closer look you are able to see new and fading scars. These cuts do not phased him, as they are a part of who he is; a part of his daily life. His occupation requires much strength and endurance, which is visible by a simple by glance at his hands.
How could such mean and rough looking hands feel so inviting? Perhaps it’s the intentions behind each touch; behind each glide his fingertips travel across your body. With this touch, you can tell he was a gentle, loving person. He is careful and slow when his skin touches yours; he meant no harm. As his hands skim your body, you feel at ease with yourself. His fingers slide across your torso, and your stomach. A giggle bursts from you; while his smooth hands touched you, they found your belly button. You open your eyes to see him playfully sticking his finger in your belly button, trying to get a smile from you, and of course you surrender with a grin.
You grab his hands so they would stop abusing your navel. With that touch, you feel two sides: the top of his hands are slightly rough, especially around the knuckles, and his palms and fingers are smooth. Just by grabbing his hands you are able to know this man. The person he shows to the world was somewhat rough and defensive. He does not have a hard shell around him, but rather a thin layer, to protect from the threats out in the world. Due to his slight roughness, it allows much play. He is an easy going guy, he is playful, sweet, but also knows when to show his worn knuckles. His confidence billows out of him, even sometimes comes across as cocky. A typical Leo. He always stands his ground; he never backs down without a fight, without showing those knuckles first.
His knuckles also showed much of his history. They showed the hardships he endured throughout his life. You are able to feel the calluses from holding wrench after wrench; there are some miniscule scars that are on his hand. Some scars are from careless cuts from sharp edges of motors, or scars from childhood. One of which is a scar is given to him by his sister from rough housing. There are burn marks from failed attempts to cook rice and beans, his mother’s favorite food from home. There is a scar that travels from the top of his hand to the beginning of his palm; a scar from heart break. His first love left his heart bleeding, as well as his hand.
The bottom of his hands though, his palms and fingers, are smooth and clean. They are innocent and tender, they are loving and careful. It was with these hands, he is able to love the ones in his life, those who are dear to him. With these hands, he is able to hold another person. With his careful touch, he is able to show his true self to each love. His hands guided him throughout his life. It is these hands that make him money, give him love, and hold a story. It is these hands that will help him continue through life; through many more scars.