Baby-Sitters Club: The Ballad of Claudia Kishi
Title - The Ballad of Claudia Kishi
Fandom - Baby-Sitters Club
Author - isabelquinn
Word count - 658
Rating - PG
Summary - It isn't easy to be Claudia.
Link to table - link
Author's note - Written for a Writer's Choice prompt. There's angst. And it alludes to a character death, albeit a canon one.
Also? It's a poem ;)
I was driving home a few days ago, listening to music (Blue Lips by Regina Spektor was playing, by the way), and I was randomly inspired to write a poem for one of my prompts. And I felt like it needed to be a sad one. So, this is the result! Thanks to ozqueen for the beta and the reassurance ;)
The Ballad of Claudia Kishi
She wears a black fedora.
She wears her lime-green shoes.
Her knee-length skirt is flared,
and composed of garish hues.
Her tights and shirt fit snugly,
they match her braided hair.
The jangling mess of bracelets
was selected with great care.
Her homemade bags swing loosely,
they bump against her hips.
They burst with paints and notebooks,
and with potato chips.
Her air of self-assurance
seems obvious to all.
Quick glances laced with envy
are strewn throughout the hall.
The final bell has sounded,
the school day’s done at last.
SHS is emptying,
and teenage hoards rush past.
She smiles and waves at Dori,
she stops to talk with Pete.
She likes to wait for Ashley -
they’re both a bit offbeat.
The two meander homeward,
their steps are light and free.
they speak of Höch, of Marc Chagall,
of brush techniques and Klee.
They don’t remain companions;
they part at Reilly Lane.
As Claudia walks onward,
her mood begins to wane.
Each step just brings her closer.
Her journey’s nearly done.
She hesitates, she wavers,
resists the urge to run.
Her house looms in the distance,
it’s tall and clean and white.
Her posture changes slightly.
Home makes her chest feel tight.
Expectations weigh her down,
they make her gasp for air.
She wants to please, she tries to please,
but they don’t seem to care.
A fifty-four in algebra,
another failed test.
She knows the moment’s coming.
They’ll both be unimpressed.
She wants to hide forever -
the evening’s looking bleak.
She really tried so hard this time,
she studied for a week.
There’s two distinct responses:
To which will they succumb?
They’ll think she’s boldly lying,
or that she’s really dumb.
Her limbs start drooping downward.
Her mind’s a haze of blue.
She cannot shake the feeling that
the latter one is true.
It’s more than just her schoolwork,
it’s bigger than just this.
She doesn’t fit, she never has,
her tries will always miss.
Mom makes her feel shameful
of what she likes to do.
“You know that high school freshmen
should not read Nancy Drew.
You have so much potential!
You waste your brilliant mind!”
She shakes her head in sorrow,
and Dad responds in kind.
His eyebrows furrow regularly
at how she spends her days.
He doesn’t get that artists
are different in their ways.
He doesn’t try to get it,
he merely shrugs and sighs.
He masks his disappointment;
she sees it in his eyes.
She drags her feet behind her.
She shuffles through the gate.
No-one ever beats her home,
her sister’s always late.
Janine will be a chemist,
Janine’s the favourite one.
She never fails assignments
or leaves her work undone.
The house still seems so empty
when she gets home each day.
She almost feels the air scream out,
the rooms seem to decay.
She misses Mimi desperately,
she feels it like an ache.
There’s no-one left at home who
doesn’t judge each new mistake.
The stroke was eighteen months ago,
it’s twelve months since she died.
Mimi’s bedroom door is shut;
she never looks inside.
It opens up the wound again
and litters it with salt.
She never quite convinced herself
it wasn’t all her fault.
She slips into her bedroom
and flops upon the bed.
There’s math to do, and science,
and novels to be read.
Reluctantly, she opens
her scribbled classroom “notes”.
Her writing is illegible -
note the double quotes.
The math gives her a headache.
The questions never end.
At times like these she wishes
that Stacey was her friend.
She seethes in her frustration,
she kicks books off the bed.
She loathes her stupid homework.
She’d rather paint instead.
She loves the feel of canvas.
She loves the smell of oils.
The paint swirls on the palette
in amiable coils.
She holds her favourite paintbrush,
ignoring life’s constraints.
With one hand full of Ring Dings,
she settles down and paints.
Fandom - Baby-Sitters Club
Author - isabelquinn
Word count - 658
Rating - PG
Summary - It isn't easy to be Claudia.
Link to table - link
Author's note - Written for a Writer's Choice prompt. There's angst. And it alludes to a character death, albeit a canon one.
Also? It's a poem ;)
I was driving home a few days ago, listening to music (Blue Lips by Regina Spektor was playing, by the way), and I was randomly inspired to write a poem for one of my prompts. And I felt like it needed to be a sad one. So, this is the result! Thanks to ozqueen for the beta and the reassurance ;)
The Ballad of Claudia Kishi
She wears a black fedora.
She wears her lime-green shoes.
Her knee-length skirt is flared,
and composed of garish hues.
Her tights and shirt fit snugly,
they match her braided hair.
The jangling mess of bracelets
was selected with great care.
Her homemade bags swing loosely,
they bump against her hips.
They burst with paints and notebooks,
and with potato chips.
Her air of self-assurance
seems obvious to all.
Quick glances laced with envy
are strewn throughout the hall.
The final bell has sounded,
the school day’s done at last.
SHS is emptying,
and teenage hoards rush past.
She smiles and waves at Dori,
she stops to talk with Pete.
She likes to wait for Ashley -
they’re both a bit offbeat.
The two meander homeward,
their steps are light and free.
they speak of Höch, of Marc Chagall,
of brush techniques and Klee.
They don’t remain companions;
they part at Reilly Lane.
As Claudia walks onward,
her mood begins to wane.
Each step just brings her closer.
Her journey’s nearly done.
She hesitates, she wavers,
resists the urge to run.
Her house looms in the distance,
it’s tall and clean and white.
Her posture changes slightly.
Home makes her chest feel tight.
Expectations weigh her down,
they make her gasp for air.
She wants to please, she tries to please,
but they don’t seem to care.
A fifty-four in algebra,
another failed test.
She knows the moment’s coming.
They’ll both be unimpressed.
She wants to hide forever -
the evening’s looking bleak.
She really tried so hard this time,
she studied for a week.
There’s two distinct responses:
To which will they succumb?
They’ll think she’s boldly lying,
or that she’s really dumb.
Her limbs start drooping downward.
Her mind’s a haze of blue.
She cannot shake the feeling that
the latter one is true.
It’s more than just her schoolwork,
it’s bigger than just this.
She doesn’t fit, she never has,
her tries will always miss.
Mom makes her feel shameful
of what she likes to do.
“You know that high school freshmen
should not read Nancy Drew.
You have so much potential!
You waste your brilliant mind!”
She shakes her head in sorrow,
and Dad responds in kind.
His eyebrows furrow regularly
at how she spends her days.
He doesn’t get that artists
are different in their ways.
He doesn’t try to get it,
he merely shrugs and sighs.
He masks his disappointment;
she sees it in his eyes.
She drags her feet behind her.
She shuffles through the gate.
No-one ever beats her home,
her sister’s always late.
Janine will be a chemist,
Janine’s the favourite one.
She never fails assignments
or leaves her work undone.
The house still seems so empty
when she gets home each day.
She almost feels the air scream out,
the rooms seem to decay.
She misses Mimi desperately,
she feels it like an ache.
There’s no-one left at home who
doesn’t judge each new mistake.
The stroke was eighteen months ago,
it’s twelve months since she died.
Mimi’s bedroom door is shut;
she never looks inside.
It opens up the wound again
and litters it with salt.
She never quite convinced herself
it wasn’t all her fault.
She slips into her bedroom
and flops upon the bed.
There’s math to do, and science,
and novels to be read.
Reluctantly, she opens
her scribbled classroom “notes”.
Her writing is illegible -
note the double quotes.
The math gives her a headache.
The questions never end.
At times like these she wishes
that Stacey was her friend.
She seethes in her frustration,
she kicks books off the bed.
She loathes her stupid homework.
She’d rather paint instead.
She loves the feel of canvas.
She loves the smell of oils.
The paint swirls on the palette
in amiable coils.
She holds her favourite paintbrush,
ignoring life’s constraints.
With one hand full of Ring Dings,
she settles down and paints.