David- Hey
Maggie- Um...Hi
David- So...
Maggie-(with an uncomfortable giggle) So...
David-...
Maggie-So are you gonna tell me what happened to you. I mean none of us heard from you for three fucking days.
David- I was just rotting.
Maggie-What?
David- Never mind.
Maggie- Are you really never going to talk to me?
David- What do you mean?
Maggie- I mean we've been dating, or whatever this is for like two months and I never see you and you won't talk to me. Is it so wrong to want to see the person I'm with?
David- I don't really want anything out of this.
Maggie- Then why the fuck are we even together.
David-...
Maggie- Well you know what we obviously want different things, so fuck it, I'm done.
David- OK
Maggie- We just didn't connect.
David- I thought we connected.
Maggie- Well you were wrong, you were fucking wrong.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
The Institution
Disinfectant, mothballs, cafeteria food, and the overall smell of decay that’s been covered up with cheap perfume fills the air, and stings my nostrils. The carpet seems to have been cleaned within an inch of its life, and almost has a utilitarian fell to it. Well this whole place feels that way. There are these awful plastic plants in “quaint” little pots on the wall that are perfectly spaced between the “apartment” doors.
This whole place gives me the hee-bee jee-bees. I grudgingly follow my mom down the narrow hall, pictures of kittens, and embroidered doilies staring menacingly down at me. My grandfather is the one leading the way with my mother and his new ditzy, slightly demented wife tottering along behind him. Grandpa is talking gaily, reminiscing about one dinner party or another in Morocco. My mom obligingly nods her cute blonde head, having not only heard the story many times, but was present during the party.
My step mother on the other hand is paying no attention what so ever, for we have reached the dinning room, and she is completely absorbed with commenting on how many fat people that are there. “My word, I’ve never seen so many fat people before”, she gasps. “Good heavens just look at that woman. What a fat women”. She continues with her mantra of fat, fat, fat until we reach the perfectly set, and spaced table. These people are really O.C.D., I mean even the knife blades are turned in. I know we all have to end up somewhere. But if i have a choice and I hope I do. I'll spend my last days in a wicked dry heat, with the smell of creosote soothing my senses.
Pink Polka Dots
The suns out. It’s the first time since…well for a good bit of time. Pulling back the depressing thick black curtains that Ma so ingeniously put up I see drops of water glistening on our shaggy front lawn. No ones mowed it in months, that were always Dad’s job. Every Sunday morning he would have breakfast with us, read the Sunday funnies and go mow the lawn. But now he doesn’t even come out for breakfast, Ma just brings it to him in his workshop out back.
A devilish smile begins to creep across my face as I rush to my room; it too has had the recent addition of those awful black curtains. After a few minutes of crazed rummaging, I finally find it. My brand new pink polka dot bikini, yes I said bikini. Ma really flipped her lid when she saw it but I made her promise not to tell Dad, and she cooled down when I said I would only wear it at home. After wriggling into the tiny top and me new clam diggers I skip out back and get the lawn mower. I mean it’s such a beautiful day, why not mow the lawn. And I’ll get a super neat tan, Mary Anne just got back from Florida and is positively golden, but after today I think I can give her a run for her money.
Up, and down, up and down, our front lawn I go. It’s really not that fun but I’m almost done now so I might as well finish. With only a small patch of shaggy lawn to go I see the mail man drop something in our box. Glad to have a distraction, I run down our gravel drive. I’m sure it’s not for me, but it might be Ma’s new home and garden. Which would be super because I could lay on the lawn, glossing over the pictures.
With a squeak I pull open our mail box. I can’t believe it. My mouth drops and my eyes widen with surprise. It is for me. I don’t even pay attention to who’s it from and I rip open the letter. Ten minutes later I’m still standing in the same spot as when I opened that dreadful letter. I’ve read it three times now, and just can’t believe it. Tears begin to gush from my eyes, and a rage I’ve never felt begins to flow from my pink toe nails, to the top of my blonde head..
Prick, asshole, that fuck. I always heard Lemmon use those words but I really never found a use for them, you know what I mean. Well now I had a use for them alright. Prick, asshole, fucker. Those three words filled my mind. I just couldn’t believe it. I mean who gave him the right, who gave him the fucking right. It’s been four months, four long months since we found out he was never coming back. And in those four god damn months I’ve just ignored it, we all have. Ma never talks about it and dad just doesn’t talk, so it’s as if it never happened.
But now comes this stupid boy telling me how fucking amazing, and wonderful my brother was. Well no shit. He was my big brother he always snuck me out to the movies with him, and put me on his shoulders so I had the best view at baseball games when we were little. So yes, I know he was amazing and wonderful, trust me I’ve been trying to forget for four months just how fucking wonderful he really was.
I race inside leaving the lawn mower splayed out on the ground. I sneak in quietly and tip toe to Lemmon’s room. I open the door with only a tiny squeak. I haven’t been in here in four months. Before that I used to sleep in his bed, but after we found I just couldn’t anymore. I slowly open one of his desk drawers, and pull out his lighter; he always said he wished he’d taken it with him. In moments the letter is engulfed in flames, what beautiful blue and orange flames. I lay down on lemons bed, entranced by the flames. Slowly flames begin to dance across Lemmon's bed, and with a smile I close my eyes
A devilish smile begins to creep across my face as I rush to my room; it too has had the recent addition of those awful black curtains. After a few minutes of crazed rummaging, I finally find it. My brand new pink polka dot bikini, yes I said bikini. Ma really flipped her lid when she saw it but I made her promise not to tell Dad, and she cooled down when I said I would only wear it at home. After wriggling into the tiny top and me new clam diggers I skip out back and get the lawn mower. I mean it’s such a beautiful day, why not mow the lawn. And I’ll get a super neat tan, Mary Anne just got back from Florida and is positively golden, but after today I think I can give her a run for her money.
Up, and down, up and down, our front lawn I go. It’s really not that fun but I’m almost done now so I might as well finish. With only a small patch of shaggy lawn to go I see the mail man drop something in our box. Glad to have a distraction, I run down our gravel drive. I’m sure it’s not for me, but it might be Ma’s new home and garden. Which would be super because I could lay on the lawn, glossing over the pictures.
With a squeak I pull open our mail box. I can’t believe it. My mouth drops and my eyes widen with surprise. It is for me. I don’t even pay attention to who’s it from and I rip open the letter. Ten minutes later I’m still standing in the same spot as when I opened that dreadful letter. I’ve read it three times now, and just can’t believe it. Tears begin to gush from my eyes, and a rage I’ve never felt begins to flow from my pink toe nails, to the top of my blonde head..
Prick, asshole, that fuck. I always heard Lemmon use those words but I really never found a use for them, you know what I mean. Well now I had a use for them alright. Prick, asshole, fucker. Those three words filled my mind. I just couldn’t believe it. I mean who gave him the right, who gave him the fucking right. It’s been four months, four long months since we found out he was never coming back. And in those four god damn months I’ve just ignored it, we all have. Ma never talks about it and dad just doesn’t talk, so it’s as if it never happened.
But now comes this stupid boy telling me how fucking amazing, and wonderful my brother was. Well no shit. He was my big brother he always snuck me out to the movies with him, and put me on his shoulders so I had the best view at baseball games when we were little. So yes, I know he was amazing and wonderful, trust me I’ve been trying to forget for four months just how fucking wonderful he really was.
I race inside leaving the lawn mower splayed out on the ground. I sneak in quietly and tip toe to Lemmon’s room. I open the door with only a tiny squeak. I haven’t been in here in four months. Before that I used to sleep in his bed, but after we found I just couldn’t anymore. I slowly open one of his desk drawers, and pull out his lighter; he always said he wished he’d taken it with him. In moments the letter is engulfed in flames, what beautiful blue and orange flames. I lay down on lemons bed, entranced by the flames. Slowly flames begin to dance across Lemmon's bed, and with a smile I close my eyes
Thursday, February 5, 2009
whoo, hoo for comments
http://jonsteinberg.blogspot.com/, I commented on how Jon was really upfront, and how I appreciated that. There's enough bullshit in this world, and it's a breath of fresh air when someone actually says what they mean.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Monday Night
Monday Night
The thumping base of happy hardcore fills the apartment. Three girls sit in a circle and a cloud of smoke circles above their heads which bob in time to the music. “I know this pretty rave girl, always think about her, and when she say I do me I feel her go right through me” the girls sing in a wonderfully enthusiastic, yet off key chorus. The loudest of the three is Maggie. Maggie is in her early twenties, but constantly exudes the persona of a young child in a candy store, yet she can be serious at times. These time are just very few and very far between.
All her life, Maggie has found outlets of “not seriousness”. When Maggie was younger this manifested itself in theatre. In Theatre Maggie was able to be weirder than ever, which was done to the sounds of laughter, applause, and on occasion, crickets. One such occasion was when she played the part of a not only a talking, but a singing and dancing pea. There really is nothing funnier than a 5’7” tall girl painted green, wearing what looked a humongous green sparkly ball, with a green bowler perched atop her head, to top it all off.
In theatre Maggie had some of her most loved memories, but all good things must come to an end. And after doing back to back shows for over three years, and being a part of theatre since she was four, Maggie stopped completely, and has not preformed in a show since. Surprisingly this does not depress Maggie, for theatre people are mean and obnoxiously competitive. It has been like a vacation for Maggie not to be surrounded by so many high-strung, diet soda drinking, shit talking carb watching, yet still lovable theatre people.
“Here Mag’s”, Brittany, the redheaded girl to the right of Maggie says as she exhales. A huge goofy smile spreads across Maggie’s face, “Thank you”, Maggie says as she comes out of her techno dance zone. Brittany leans back and brushes her freckled arm against, a fading brown button that has been carelessly tossed on the couch. It is covered with a light smattering of condiments, and a lovely dusting of lint. The shirt looks as if it were designed for a fancy safari, including gorgeous pleated breast pockets. Above the right pocket the word, “Zinburger” is embroidered in a once white thread that has dulled with time.
Zinburger, a burger and wine restaurant sunk their claws into Maggie over a year ago. Since then Maggie has gone through extensive brainwashing, all basically boiling down to “its not only okay to bend over and take it, but you should like it.” Even though Zinburger is slightly pretentious Maggie really enjoys her job. At Zinburger Maggie is not only allowed to make crude jokes, be loud, and incredibly goofy, but encouraged to do so. Daily Maggie and the cooks exchange a witty banter of insults, flirtation and “children cover your ears” kind of jokes.
The sound of smokers cough fills the air and through gasps Maggie says, “Here James”, to the girl on her left. After Maggie has regained her breath and quenched her considerable thirst she leans against her apartment wall and smiles that goofy smile.
The thumping base of happy hardcore fills the apartment. Three girls sit in a circle and a cloud of smoke circles above their heads which bob in time to the music. “I know this pretty rave girl, always think about her, and when she say I do me I feel her go right through me” the girls sing in a wonderfully enthusiastic, yet off key chorus. The loudest of the three is Maggie. Maggie is in her early twenties, but constantly exudes the persona of a young child in a candy store, yet she can be serious at times. These time are just very few and very far between.
All her life, Maggie has found outlets of “not seriousness”. When Maggie was younger this manifested itself in theatre. In Theatre Maggie was able to be weirder than ever, which was done to the sounds of laughter, applause, and on occasion, crickets. One such occasion was when she played the part of a not only a talking, but a singing and dancing pea. There really is nothing funnier than a 5’7” tall girl painted green, wearing what looked a humongous green sparkly ball, with a green bowler perched atop her head, to top it all off.
In theatre Maggie had some of her most loved memories, but all good things must come to an end. And after doing back to back shows for over three years, and being a part of theatre since she was four, Maggie stopped completely, and has not preformed in a show since. Surprisingly this does not depress Maggie, for theatre people are mean and obnoxiously competitive. It has been like a vacation for Maggie not to be surrounded by so many high-strung, diet soda drinking, shit talking carb watching, yet still lovable theatre people.
“Here Mag’s”, Brittany, the redheaded girl to the right of Maggie says as she exhales. A huge goofy smile spreads across Maggie’s face, “Thank you”, Maggie says as she comes out of her techno dance zone. Brittany leans back and brushes her freckled arm against, a fading brown button that has been carelessly tossed on the couch. It is covered with a light smattering of condiments, and a lovely dusting of lint. The shirt looks as if it were designed for a fancy safari, including gorgeous pleated breast pockets. Above the right pocket the word, “Zinburger” is embroidered in a once white thread that has dulled with time.
Zinburger, a burger and wine restaurant sunk their claws into Maggie over a year ago. Since then Maggie has gone through extensive brainwashing, all basically boiling down to “its not only okay to bend over and take it, but you should like it.” Even though Zinburger is slightly pretentious Maggie really enjoys her job. At Zinburger Maggie is not only allowed to make crude jokes, be loud, and incredibly goofy, but encouraged to do so. Daily Maggie and the cooks exchange a witty banter of insults, flirtation and “children cover your ears” kind of jokes.
The sound of smokers cough fills the air and through gasps Maggie says, “Here James”, to the girl on her left. After Maggie has regained her breath and quenched her considerable thirst she leans against her apartment wall and smiles that goofy smile.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Letter to my friends
Hello all,
My name is Margaret Schaffer, but everyone calls me Maggie. Margaret is far too formal of a name for me. Technically I am twenty, but I behave like a two year old, on a good day. I truly live to laugh, thus the reason I am constantly using silly voices and making weird noises. Those who know me barley even flinch when the hear me babbling on in a Donald Duck voice, or making any number of other odd voices. I constantly forget that not everyone understands my estranged logic, and that not everyone understands that one of my odd gestures really means something. My friends who have come to terms with this, and I hope come to love it, are my family. I am rarely alone; I just don't function well by myself. Not to mention things are generally funnier when you have someone to laugh with.
As far as my history as a writer, I don't really have much of one. I've always enjoyed reading, partly because my mom took TV away when I was four, but I've never done any writing that wasn't assigned to me by a teacher. When I was much younger I tried and failed to keep a journal. Freshman year I got the idea into my head that I wanted to be a journalist, so I tried writing for my school paper. Upon actually trying to be a "journalist" I realized that it was not for me, not that I know what is for me. Writing editorials and reviews was really fun though. I’m amazingly opinionated, and it was fabulous to put those opinions down on paper.
I always found writing enjoyable, but I've really only written research papers. When I was doing my schedule this semester, I realized that I didn't have to take a writing class, so I decided maybe I should actually try doing some creative writing, to see if I like it. So far, I think this should be a fun experiment of kinds.
It’s rather intimidating being surrounded by so many people who seem to have been writing all their lives, but hey it’s best to learn from those who know what their doing, so I look forward to learning from all of you. My one promise is I will do my best to never judge any of you. Whatever whacky things you may say, do, and, write. I just ask that you try and do the same for me.
Peace and Love,
Maggie
My name is Margaret Schaffer, but everyone calls me Maggie. Margaret is far too formal of a name for me. Technically I am twenty, but I behave like a two year old, on a good day. I truly live to laugh, thus the reason I am constantly using silly voices and making weird noises. Those who know me barley even flinch when the hear me babbling on in a Donald Duck voice, or making any number of other odd voices. I constantly forget that not everyone understands my estranged logic, and that not everyone understands that one of my odd gestures really means something. My friends who have come to terms with this, and I hope come to love it, are my family. I am rarely alone; I just don't function well by myself. Not to mention things are generally funnier when you have someone to laugh with.
As far as my history as a writer, I don't really have much of one. I've always enjoyed reading, partly because my mom took TV away when I was four, but I've never done any writing that wasn't assigned to me by a teacher. When I was much younger I tried and failed to keep a journal. Freshman year I got the idea into my head that I wanted to be a journalist, so I tried writing for my school paper. Upon actually trying to be a "journalist" I realized that it was not for me, not that I know what is for me. Writing editorials and reviews was really fun though. I’m amazingly opinionated, and it was fabulous to put those opinions down on paper.
I always found writing enjoyable, but I've really only written research papers. When I was doing my schedule this semester, I realized that I didn't have to take a writing class, so I decided maybe I should actually try doing some creative writing, to see if I like it. So far, I think this should be a fun experiment of kinds.
It’s rather intimidating being surrounded by so many people who seem to have been writing all their lives, but hey it’s best to learn from those who know what their doing, so I look forward to learning from all of you. My one promise is I will do my best to never judge any of you. Whatever whacky things you may say, do, and, write. I just ask that you try and do the same for me.
Peace and Love,
Maggie
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
List for living
Fabulous
Silly
Gooey
Gunky
Reservoir
Twisted
Tarnation
Grandiose
Gazebo
Macadamia
Bulbous
Sullen
Brazen
Thus
Hither
Tangy
Blubber
Homologous
Melted
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