i write.

tattoo list

1. one day, three autumns
2. rise against emblem from the sufferer and the witness
3. tree of life
4. the call of the void
5. our liberties we prize, and our rights we will maintain
6. purple iris

Today was the day that I could swear there is nothing broken in the cage of my body.
But today has to end.

The edited, final draft.

She stood in front of me across the dull counter, fumbling with her small frayed purse, and handed me the Crayola blue clearance capris that she wished to exchange for the equally questionable beige printed ones. Her eyes seemed to be looking at anything but me as I scanned the price tag of the first pair and watched it auto-select on the screen. The screen was covered in fingerprints. It reminded me that I needed to get the touch screen of my phone cleaned again.

As I processed her transaction I took in her appearance. Her spine was slightly hunched and her hair hung limply around her shoulders. It was greasy. I would never have picked her out of a crowd. On the front of a wrinkled black T-shirt the logo of a local restaurant in town yelled at me through its neon colors. The odor of cheap cigarette wafted from her. My nose wrinkled at the smell.

I thought about how much more I needed to save up to get the Burberry perfume I had my eye on. $95 for two ounces, that’s going to hurt. I plotted the perfect puppydog face that would get my mom to buy it for me.

“Your total comes to $1.76. The first ones were on clearance for just a little bit less than these ones. That’s pretty good!” I said with my well-groomed, retail-tastic smile.

I watched as she gently stuck her hand into the purple purse, and I noticed the strap was starting to disconnect from the rest on one side. I thought about how lopsided that must feel, the weight of the purse unevenly distributed. I need to get my purse repaired, I can’t let a Chanel masterpiece rot in my closet.

She withdrew a dollar bill and put it slowly, almost reverently, on the counter. Crumpled and faded, it had probably been run through the wash more than a few times. I picked it up and waited for the remaining 76 cents. My hand found its way to my hip and I struggled to hold in my agitation.

She dug and dug in the purse, slowly finding the spare change. I noticed the blush growing on her cheeks, hot and nervous. She huffed, embarrassed, mumbled an apology, mentioned that she had just gotten off a double shift and should be able to find the money. I tried to hide my sigh of impatience as she finally withdrew the remaining four pennies and placed them gingerly in my hand. Her hand was sweaty and clammy, and I noticed a few age spots.

When should people start worrying about wrinkles? Is 16 too soon? I should make a dermatologist appointment.

I completed the transaction and stuffed the receipt in the bag with the ugly pants, handing the bag to her with another of my artificial final remarks.

“And here you are, I hope you have a lovely rest of your day.”

She still wouldn’t look me in the eye and said a quiet, mousey thank you as she gently took the bag. I watched her shuffle away, the exhaustion evident in her drooping posture, her slow stride. I thought again of the perfume, attempting to put the woman out of my mind.

my attempt at flash nonfiction. here goes nothing.

She stood in front of me, across the dull counter, fumbling with her small frayed purse, and handed me the Crayola blue capris that she wished to exchange for the equally questionable beige printed ones sitting in front of me. She didn’t once look me in the eye as I scanned the price tag of the first pair, watching it auto-select on the screen. The touch screen was covered in fingerprints. It reminded me that I needed to get the touch screen of my phone cleaned. I didn’t want to pay for that.

As I processed her transaction I took in the appearance of the woman standing in front of me. Slightly hunched, hair in need of a stylish cut and a dye that would transform it from the dismal brown it was. She seemed to be plain, someone that you would never notice or pick out from a crowd. She wore a t-shirt of a local restaurant in town and there was the faint odor of cheap cigarettes wafting from her, not enough to insult my sensitive, 16-year-old senses, but just enough to register. I thought about how much more I needed to save up to get the DKNY perfume I had my eye on. $60 dollars, what a ripoff, but I need it, I have to have it.

“Your total comes to $1.76. The first ones were on clearance for just a little bit less than these ones. That’s pretty good!” I said with my well-groomed, retail-tastic smile. I didn’t think much of $1.76, who ever really does?

I watched as she gently stuck her hand into the purple purse, and I noticed the strap was starting to disconnect from the rest of it on one side. I thought about how lopsided that must feel, the weight of the purse unevenly distributed. I need to get my purse repaired, I thought, it cost too much to ignore.

She withdrew a dollar bill and put it slowly, almost reverently, on the counter, right on top of one of the biggest scratches. It was crumpled, faded, had probably been run through the wash more than a few times. This dollar had seen its fair share of tribulations. I picked it up and waited for the remaining 76 cents.

She dug and dug in the purse, ever so slowly finding the spare change. I noticed the blush growing on her cheeks, hot and nervous. She huffed, embarrassed, mumbled an apology, mentioned that she had just gotten off a double shift and should be able to find the money. I tried to hide my sigh of impatience as she finally withdrew the remaining four pennies from the seventh layer of the aging purse.

I completed the transaction and stuffed the receipt in the bag with the ugly pants, handing the bag to her with another of my fake, perfectly choreographed final remarks.

“And here you are, I hope you have a lovely rest of your day.”

She still wouldn’t look me in the eye and said a quiet, mousey thank you as she gently took the bag. I watched her shuffle away, the exhaustion evident in her limp posture, her slow stride.

I thought again of the perfume. Maybe my mom will pay for it, I wondered to myself, attempting to put the woman out of my mind.

For those not aware of the term “flash nonfiction”, it refers to a piece of creative nonfiction writing done in 750 words or less, usually less. What I wrote above was done in 556 words. If you want to read more go to creativenonfiction.org/brevity

Am I really letting myself ruin this when it’s hardly begun? I’m so lost. Lost in my own head, my uncertainty a vast, unconquerable land that I would never be able to cross and survive.
I feel like I’m standing at the edge of a cliff, ready to let myself be tossed over with the slightest breeze.
I can’t breathe. I need air.

I loved hearing you say my name the way you did tonight, even if it was only for the night. You said it like it meant something, everything, to you. I want to hear it again and again and again.
I know I never will.

I saw someone last weekend who looked just like you. I thought I felt my young heart go through all of the stages of a heart attack at the same time when he walked in. It was almost more than I could bear.
He had your hair, your nose, your eyebrows, your chin. He had the same intense glare and the same swaggering stride. He even had your coat and your laugh. He was the perfect twin of you. I had to blink hard a few times to convince myself that this was real and not all taking place in my head.
It caught me off balance, this stranger. I felt like the world was closing in around me, like tunnel vision. I’m sure he noticed me staring at him. I couldn’t help it. The resemblance was too perfect.
He came in at the most inopportune time possible. I didn’t invite you back in my life, I didn’t want you here and yet here you are, invading my personal space and making me feel once again like my whole world is incomplete.

things i’ve learned this week

1. I don’t know what to do when a guy is nice to me.