Almost Finishedby Olivia Sisay

Forward

When I signed up for this class, I wasn’t really sure what I was going to learn. I didn’t think it would be challenging, and I didn’t think it would surprise me, but I was wrong. For the first time, I was required to write poems with structure, which I used to be so uncomfortable doing. Free-verse poetry was the only thing I enjoyed, but now, I know that I can be content with writing haikus and triolets, and I’m proud of myself for learning that.

One of the most interesting writing techniques I’ve learned is writing micro-fictions. They are short works of fiction that tell an entire story in a small number of words. I wrote one called “Fidelity” that told a humorous story about a husband and a wife, in under 250 words. It was strange trying to fit all of that information into such a short length, but I enjoyed it.

I also learned about character development, and a lot of different types of characters. I used what I read about dynamic, static and round characters to create a few if my own characters in my fiction stories. I got to fill out a questionnaire about my character, Barbara, and it was funny how much it felt like writing about a real person.

Learning about the various types of antagonist in stories was one of my favorite things. Antagonists can be people, occurrences, or even the protagonist themselves. When I was creating an antagonist for my stories about Barbara, I made her into her own enemy. It was an interesting way for me to get inside my character’s head, and it was something I had not tried to write about before.

My favorite thing that we did was the small magnetic poetry assignment in the beginning of the course. I know it

was not one of the most difficult things we did, but I really enjoyed working with limited words. I felt good about the unusual aspects of the poems I wrote then.

The thing I struggled most with was the 3-page fiction story. I have never been much of a writer to begin with, but when I had to create a longer story, I was very out of my element. Coming up with characters that weren’t cliché or unbelievable was tough, but I had an even harder time trying to figure out what kind of voice my writing has. I’m still not very comfortable with writing fiction, but I am glad I gave it a shot.

As a writer, I have never been very confident. Perhaps it’s because I never found the drive for writing that I have for other things. I struggled with wanting to write, but also not wanting to write, for a long time, and I’m still not really sure if it’s for me. However, I’m glad I decided to finally take this class. I feel like if anything was going to encourage me to write more, it was this.

Table of Contents

Cold……………………………………………………………………………………………...01

Work of Art………………………………………………………………………………….02

17…………………………………………………………………………………………………..03

Here I Am…………………………………………………………………………………….04

Burning…………………………………………………………………………………………05

Tired………………………………………………………………………………………….…06

Tea……………………………………………………………………………………….………07

Walk…………………………………………………………………………….………………08

Graveyard Shift……………………………….……………………………………….……09

Fidelity…………………………………………………………………………………..……..10

Youth…………………………………………………………………………………………….11

Not Quite Sad…………………………………………………………………………….….15

Author’s Notes………………………………………………………………………………20

Free Verse Poems

Formal Poems

Flash Fiction

Non-Fiction

Fiction

Cold

You turn my lips blue.I try my bestto stay away,but you are always waiting.When I step out of the shower,or my covers fall to the floor.You grab me,and I shiver,dreading your touch,but enjoying the chill.

01Work of Art

He was a painting.

His darks made you wonder, his lights made you cry.

He was layers of time, with fingerprints on every inch

of his skin.

He was strokes of violence, of anguish, and of

beauty.

From a distance he was a composition of muscle and

deep shades of black.

But when you were nose-to-nose with him,

you could swear he was delicate, breakable.

Almost untouchable.

He was a work of art.

A masterpiece.

But I was the ocean,

and he was a lost treasure

at the bottom of the sea.

0217

I went to a beautiful partywhere all of the girls wore lipstickand the boys wanted to kiss them but couldn’t.I wore my favorite shoes, and blush that made my facemore red than the carpet.We stood in circles and talked about ourselvesand I thought we looked happy like a picturethat’s a little bit torn.My tights rubbed against my thighsand I wanted to rip them offbut I was afraid that my skinwould shine too brightly.

A boy made a joke about the way that my skirt fitand I laughed even though I didn’t get it.I drank things that people gave meall night longand later when I went to bed,I was excited for the next time.I was comfortable.I was quiet.I was living.

03Here I am.Lipstick on my face.

Lipstick on my neck.

Here I am smelling of perfume and rotting

and rotting.

Here I am with ashes on the bottoms of my shoes

and the rustling of unfamiliar sheets in my ears.

I tap my watch to see if it’s working.

It’s not.

Here I am with a broken timepiece

on a street where everyone can see me.

On a street I’ve walked so many times

it makes me want to cry.

Here I am wearing a suit of shame

on a street of monotony

and I can still feel the oils on her skin.

I can still hear the sharp breathing and the teeth grinding

and the knees shaking.

Here I am feeling everything,

and here I am,

ready to do it all over again

and again

and again.

04Burning

With paint smeared over my lipsand charcoal on my faceI set fire to every piece of art,

each product of my frozen heart,and watched them light the whole damn place

05

Tired

I woke up exhausted, late at night.My chest pounded, and my eyes spun.I tried to walk but my feet were light.I woke up exhausted, late at night.And hoping that I’d be alright,I failed to walk, but tried to run-I knew that sleep was out of sight.I woke up exhausted, late at night.

06Tea

I cut my mouth on a teacupAnd I was ok with the feelingThat I was the only oneAble to feel a kiss in the pain

I was ok feeling Like I melted to the touchOf a painful kissAnd glass in my skin

I melted to your touchAnd it overtook meSo much that the glass in my skinWas second to your voice in my ears

07Walk

I walked and walked for miles on a roadthat made my mouth dry out and my breathing wheeze.And when I looked down at my aching toesI saw my socks were slipping off my feet.I kept on going down the road in earnest,trying to pull my socks back up my legsI slowed my pace and tripped a bit on purposeBut dust was up my nose, and in my head.So on I went, my tired, awful strideshowed how much my socks scratched at my heels.I lost my dignity; I lost my pride.They’d never stopped to ask how I would feel.I tripped once more, but took a heavy fallAnd saw I wasn’t wearing socks at all.

08Graveyard Shift

My work is tiring, so I took a quick nap on the job. But now it’s dark, and I can’t get up. That’s the last time I’ll sleep in a graveyard.

09

Fidelity

My husband has never trusted me around other men. He does everything in his power to keep me away from them. “I’m the only man you need,” he screams.“No other guys measure up.”He makes assumptions. Accuses me of having affairs with younger, more attractive men.Of course, all of these claims are completely false. I don’t need more than one man in my life, that’s for certain.

I try so hard to tell him this, but he just won’t listen. He becomes more and more suspicious every day, and I don’t know how to comfort him. I tell him that he’s strong, protective, courageous…everything a man could be. Yet he continues to do the most ridiculous things. Just last week, on one of his particularly suspicious days, he became angry over nothing at all. I had just gone outside to get the mail, and when I came back in, he threw the letters on the floor and accused me of flirting with the postman. Why would I do such a thing? It’s so outrageous. It’s really quite the story. I cant wait to tell my girlfriend all about it.

10Youth

Everyone was burning up. It was the last night of

our twelve-day trip to France, and we were spending

it in the South, where the people were tan and the air

was hot. I was travelling with four of my best friends,

and we were looking for something spectacular to do.

We had two hours until we had to be back at our

hotel, and absolutely no idea where we were, but

there was something beautiful about being lost in a

place we’d never return to.

We were half-walking, half-running down a

poorly lit alley that slithered behind cafes and

bookshops. There was jazz music playing from a

window above one of the restaurants, and I almost

understood the smooth lyrics as we passed. I felt

thrilled and disoriented as I tried to take everything

in, while also searching for a familiar sight. Lizzy was

holding my hand so I wouldn’t run into anything; I

was too distracted to look straight ahead. Andres was

listing all of the things he still wanted to do, but

wouldn’t be able to. Meredith was panicking.

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“What if we’re getting farther away? I feel like we’re

getting farther away. What if we have to stay here

forever? What if I actually have to learn French?”

Carly was just laughing. I thought it was her way of

saying she was nervous.

After almost an hour of this, we finally found

something we recognized. The sea was calm and

quiet that night, and there wasn’t a single person on

the beach. We wandered down the coast for a few

minutes, and it was clear that we were all a bit more

at ease. Andres was continuing his list.

“I feel like I didn’t even speak French here! All of the

people here know English! Also I didn’t see a single

mime. Hey wait.”

He slowed down, his gaze widening a little bit.

“You know what I’ve always wanted to do?”

We sighed a unanimous “What?”

“I want to have a movie moment. Like, where the

teenagers do something spontaneous and weird, and

there’s a little montage with indie music playing in

the background.”

This kind of talk was typical of Andres. His mouth

widened

12

into a grin.

“Let’s go swimming.”

Carly laughed and shook her head. Lizzy and I

breathed an excited “Yes!” Meredith looked

confused.

“What about our clothes? We don’t have time to go

all the way back and change.”

Andres suggested going in fully clothed, but Lizzy

had another idea.

Before anyone could say anything, she had

kicked off her shoes, pulled her dress over her head,

and started running for the water. I followed close

behind her, thinking about the possible

consequences and not caring. I hit the water, feeling

warm and exuberant. I went under, and I noticed how

the silence of the sea was actually deafening. When I

came up for air, I saw all of my friends in the waist-

deep water, laughing harder than I’d ever seen them

laugh. Meredith looked relaxed for the first time that

night. Carly wasn’t nervous anymore. We splashed

around like children; it was almost as if we could feel

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how young we were. It was almost unreal, and

exactly like the kind of movie Andres had wanted. All

we could say was a chorus of “Oh my god. Oh my

god.”

We got back late that night, with our hair

dripping salt water and carrying our shoes. But we

went to bed smiling. I knew, and so did all of them,

that we had just experienced exactly what youth is

supposed to feel like.

14Not Quite Sad

The phone rang seven times before the machine

answered it. I heard my dad’s voice on the other end,

muffled and low.

Dana. Dana, I don’t know how to do this.

He was breathing funny.

I don’t want to do this over the machine, but you

never answer. I know you’re there.

I was.

I’m sorry. Your mother is dead. You need to come

home.

I sat in the bath for a long time after he hung up.

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t cry. The water was the

loudest thing in the whole house, and I felt deafened.

The parts of my body that were outside of the bath

went cold. Your mother is dead echoed softly through

the bathroom, and as hard as I tried to be sad about

the words, they just made me angry. I wanted to

melt down the drain. I sucked in a breath, and let the

soapy water run over me.

Growing up, my parents weren’t exactly the best

at their

15

job. My dad was a car salesman who was only ever

home to eat dinner and sleep. My mom stayed at

home and pretended she didn’t want to know where

he went every night. They never fought, mainly

because they were rarely together. But most nights,

before my dad came in late, I could hear my mom

crying in the shower. They did what they had to do.

They clothed me, fed me, and took me to school. But

I only got hugs from my dad on my birthday, and my

mom only woke up early with me on Christmas. As

parents, I would describe them as “functioning.”

I did well in school, and I got along with all of my

teachers. I felt more at home there than I did at my

actual home. I took music classes at school, and I

knew from an early age that I wanted to be a

performer. I sang in the shower, and in the car, and

sometimes in the kitchen with my mom. I went

through high school talking about how I was going to

grow up and go to a big city, so I could get paid to do

what I loved. When it came time for me to graduate, I

decided to really take a shot, and go to school in

Manhattan. When I told my dad, he

16

said he was proud of me, and went back to staring at

his food. When I told my mom, she cried, but she

said she always knew I was going to leave.

I fell in love with New York, and the passion I

found within it. I loved the people, and the food, and

the buildings. I never wanted to go home, so, I didn’t.

And then five years had passed. And then I found out

my mom was sick. But I was busy, and I was

successful, and I needed to stay in the city. She

started calling every day when they started making

her stay in bed. I used to pick up every time, or

return every call that I missed, but after a while, I ran

out of things to say to her. It’s not that I didn’t care. I

just didn’t care enough to make up things to tell her

about my life. So I stopped calling back. And after a

while, I stopped answering. She left messages all the

time, and for a whole year, she kept calling to tell me

how she was doing. Some days were good, but more

days were bad. Time passed. A year went by. Then

two. Then one day I decided to take a bath in the

middle of the day, and my dad called me for the first

time since I left.

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So there I was, sitting on the bathroom floor,

wrapped in a towel, screaming my lungs out because

I was too pissed to cry. I blamed my dad, for not

calling for seven years. I blamed my mom, for not

being honest about how sick she was in her

messages. I blamed everyone I could until I couldn’t

think of anyone else I knew to blame. Then,

suddenly, I remembered singing in the kitchen with

her, and finally, I started to cry.

The next day, I was packing bags, and calling

airports, and doing everything quickly and efficiently

like I normally did, just without the feeling of

normalcy. There was a funny sensation in my chest

all day. Not quite sad, and not angry, and not quite

anxious. I called into work, and I cancelled my yoga

class, and I put my dog in the kennel, and I did all the

things that I needed to do, but I still felt like there

was still one things on my list.

It was strange, doing all of these everyday tasks

after finding out about my mom. I would have

expected the death of a parent to be a traumatic

event, causing me to be frantic, or numb, or

something other than what I was feeling. I tried

crying again. I tried being mad at my dad again. I

tried

18

drinking. But none of it did anything to make it seem

like I had just lost someone.

And then, out of nowhere, I decided to blame

myself. I should have gone home when I found out

she was sick, and I should have called her back every

time. Looking back on it all, I should have done a lot

of things, and I definitely could have been there for

her. But I was a bad daughter, and I ran away for too

long.

I didn’t know if I was ready for my mom’s

funeral, or to see my dad again. It would hurt, and all

of the memories from my childhood would be waiting

right there for me. But I’d had it easy for a long time,

and there were things I had to do. For the first time

in seven years, I was going home.

19

Author’s Notes17

I went to a party one nightwhere all of the girls wore lipstickand the boys wanted to kiss them I wore my favorite shoes, and blush that made my faceredder than the carpet.We stood in circles and talked about ourselvesand I thought we looked happy My tights rubbed against my thighsand I wanted to rip them off

but I was afraid that my skinwould shine too brightly.A boy made a joke about the way that my skirt fitand I laughed even though I didn’t get it.I drank things that people gave meall night longand later when I went to bed,I was excited for the next time.

Author’s Note: This poem was one of the more difficult poems that I wrote for this class. I wanted to convey a feeling of blurriness, so that the speaker of the poem came across as a little bit drunk. I tried to portray the boys in the story as insecure and ignorant, and the speaker as confused and naïve. I added three lines at the end of the final draft in order to make her seem more inexperienced and young. She believes that her empty parties are what life is supposed to be about, and without the last three lines that I added, that did not come across in the poem.

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The Artist (Burning)

With paint smeared over my lipsand more on my faceI set fire to every masterpiece,each product of my frozen heart,

and watched them light the whole damn place

Author’s Note: This poem was one that I didn’t make a whole lot of changes to. I had a definite idea of what I wanted it to be from the beginning. In the first draft, I put the word “masterpiece” in the third line of the poem. I eliminated the word in the final draft of the piece because using the phrase “piece of art” helped the structure, and it rhymes with the last word of the line after it. I also got rid of the word “more” in the second line, and replaced it with “charcoal.” I thought that adding that word would create a more interesting picture for the reader. The last thing that I changed from the first draft was the title. “The Artist” sounded too cliché and vague to me. It did not explain the purpose of my poem. The title “Burning” better suited the main idea of the poem, and that is why I changed it in the final draft.

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Tea

I cut my mouth on a teacupAnd I was ok with the feelingThat I was the only oneAble to feel a kiss in the pain

I was ok feeling Like I melted to the touchOf a kissAnd glass in my skin

I melted to your touchAnd it overwhelmed meSo much that the glass in my skinWas second to your voice in my ears

Author’s Note: This poem was very structured, which made it difficult for me to write in the first place. I ended up not changing much from the original draft, because by the time I had figured out the structure of this type of poem, I had thoroughly written and re-written every line. After this draft was finished, I added and changed a couple of words that I thought would better suit the poem. Describing the kiss as painful gave the line more meaning, and the extra two syllables made it fit in better with the rest of the stanza. Changing a few other words slightly gave cohesion to the poem, and made it easier to read.

22

Fidelity

My husband has never trusted me around other men. He does everything in his power to keep me us apart. He makes assumptions. Accuses me of having affairs with younger, more attractive men. Of course, all of these claims are completely false. I don’t need more than one man in my life, that’s for certain. I try so hard to tell him this, but he just won’t listen. He becomes more and more suspicious every day, and I don’t know how to comfort him. I tell him that he’s strong, protective, courageous…everything a man could be. Yet he continues to do the most ridiculous things. Just last week, on one of his particularly bad days, he became angry over nothing at all. I had just gone outside to get the mail, and when I came back in, he threw the letters on the floor and accused me of flirting with the postman. Why would I do such a thing? It’s really quite the story. I cant wait to tell my girlfriend.

23

Not Quite Sad

The phone rang seven times before the machine answered

it. I heard my dad’s voice on the other end, muffled and low.

Dana. Dana, I don’t know how to do this.

I don’t want to do this over the machine, but you never

answer. I know you’re there.

I’m sorry. Your mother is dead. You need to come home.

I sat in the bath for a long time after he hung up. I

couldn’t move. I couldn’t. The water was the loudest thing in

the whole house, and I felt deafened. The parts of my body

that were outside of the bath went cold. I was frozen. Your

mother is dead echoed softly through the bathroom, and as

hard as I tried to be sad about the words, they just made me

angry. I wanted to melt down the drain. I sucked in a breath,

and let the soapy water run over me.

Growing up, my parents weren’t exactly the best.. My

dad was a car salesman who was only ever home to eat

dinner and sleep. My mom stayed at home and pretended

she didn’t want to know where he went every night. They

never fought, mainly because they were rarely together. We

only saw my dad at dinner times. But most nights, before my

dad came in late, I could hear my mom crying in the shower.

They

24

did what they had to do. They clothed me, fed me, and took

me to school. But I only got hugs from my dad on my

birthday, and my mom only woke up early with me on

Christmas. As parents, I would describe them as

“functioning.”

I did well in school, and I got along with all of my

teachers. I had a lot of friends, and I participated in

everything. I felt more at home there than I did at my actual

home. I took music classes at school, and I knew from an

early age that I wanted to be a performer. I sang in the

shower, and in the car, and sometimes in the kitchen with

my mom. I went through high school talking about how I was

going to grow up and go to a big city, so I could get paid to

do what I loved. When it came time for me to graduate, I

decided to take a risk, and go to school in Manhattan. When I

told my dad, he said he was proud of me, and went back to

staring at his food. When I told my mom, she cried, but she

said she always knew I was going to leave.

I fell in love with New York, and the passion I found

within it. I loved the people, and the food, and the buildings.

I never wanted to go home, so, I didn’t. And then five years

had passed. And then I found out my mom was sick. But I

was busy, and I was successful, and I needed to stay in the

city. She started calling every day when they started making

her stay in bed. I used to pick up every time, or return every

call that I missed, but after a while, I ran out of things to say

to her. It’s not that I

25

didn’t care. I just didn’t care enough to make up things to

tell her about my life. So I stopped calling back. And after a

while, I stopped answering. She left messages all the time,

and for a whole year, she kept calling to tell me how she was

doing. Some days were good, but more days were bad. Time

passed. A year went by. Then two. Then one day I decided to

take a bath in the middle of the day, and my dad called me

for the first time since I left.

So there I was, sitting on the bathroom floor, wrapped

in a towel, screaming my lungs out because I was too pissed

to cry. I blamed my dad, for not calling for seven years. I

blamed my mom, for not being honest about how sick she

was in her messages. I blamed everyone I could until I

couldn’t think of anyone else I knew to blame. Then,

suddenly, I remembered singing in the kitchen with her, and

finally, I started to cry.

The next day, I was packing bags, and calling airports,

and doing everything quickly and efficiently like I normally

did, just without the feeling of normalcy. There was a funny

sensation in my chest all day. Not quite sad, and not angry,

and not quite anxious. I called into work, and I cancelled my

yoga class, and I put my dog in the kennel, and I did all the

things that I needed to do, but I still felt like there was still

one things on my list.

It was strange, doing all of these everyday tasks after

finding out

26

about my mom. I would have expected the death of a parent

to be a traumatic event, causing me to be frantic, or numb,

or something other than what I was feeling. I tried crying

again. I tried being mad at my dad again. I tried drinking. But

none of it did anything to make it seem like I had just lost

someone.

And then, out of nowhere, I decided to blame myself. I

should have gone home when I found out she was sick, and I

should have called her back every time. Looking back on it

all, I should have done a lot of things, and I definitely could

have been there for her. But I was a bad daughter, and I ran

away for too long.

I didn’t know if I was ready for my mom’s funeral, or to

see my dad again. It would hurt, and all of the memories

from my childhood would be waiting right there for me. But

I’d had it easy for a long time, and there were things I had to

do. For the first time in seven years, I was going home.

27