In case anyone is interested...
my most recent assignment for my creative writing class was to write a story approximatly 1000 words about a character that wants something and half way through realizes they can't have it, and the consequences that follow. If you read this, remember that 1000 words was kind of hard to develop a story, so that is why its a little undeveloped and probably needs more room to expand.
That being said, if you want to read, here ya go...
My mother's small apartment is cramped but sparsely decorated; she always was the type of woman who stuck to the bare essentials and saw no need for extravagant details like embroidered pillows or ceramic figurines. In the corner of her living room, however, rests an old upright piano that once belonged to her grandmother, and atop of it sits an assortment of framed photographs. Some are of my mother's family, like the black and white photo of my grandparents as a young, newlywed couple, or the portrait of her brother's family of five, but the majority of them chronicle the life of her only daughter, me. Friends and boyfriends giggle and tease me about the many atrocious hairstyles I wore, or laugh at my awkward, curly hair and braces stage, and I silently curse my mother for her inconsiderate display of my most heinous photographs and open invitation for others to laugh at my expense. For such a no-nonsense woman, I think she should limit my childhood photographs to just one; the one that I think truly captures the essence of her daughter as a child, and my personal favorite, the class portrait taken in my elementary school gym in the fourth grade.
For most children, awkwardness and self consciousness doesn't settle in until junior high, but for me, it was a reality in the fourth grade. Most girls in my class wore brightly colored, coordinated outfits, and their mothers usually styled their hair in a perky ponytail or sleek braid adorned with a ribbon to match their outfit. Their mothers drove minivans, baked cupcakes for class parties, and organized themed slumber parties for their daughters' friends. I, on the other hand, was a product of a single mother who barely had time in the day to drop me off and pick me up from school, let alone pick out cutesy outfits or attend PTA meetings. We never had much money; we lived in a tiny two bedroom apartment, my mother drove a run down Buick, and my wardrobe consisted mainly of hand-me-downs. Since my mother saw no point in socializing with the other girls' mothers, I was rarely included in the pool parties or dance teams the other mothers organized. I wanted so desperately to be included and accepted by the pretty girls of my fourth grade class, but to them I was just the quiet, mousey brown haired girl who wore sweaters that were too big for her.
That year, an odd trend swept through the girls of the fourth grade. Previously, lunchboxes adorned with animated characters were labeled by other students as "dorky" or "nerdy". However, Jenny M. and Jenny H.'s mothers must have gone shopping together, because one day, the two girls showed up with matching "Rainbow Brite" lunch boxes and by the end of the week, Melissa, Stephanie, and Jenny R. also had the same lunch boxes. The girls giggled and squealed over their matching lunchboxes, and sat together at lunch, calling themselves the "Rainbow Brite club". I found this peculiar because just two weeks prior, Melissa was known as "smelly Melissa", but apparently, by possessing this lunchbox, she was now one of the "Rainbow Brite" club members. Always one to recognize an opportunity, I realized that by purchasing said lunchbox, I would quickly be on my way to slumber party invites and ice cream parties. There was no time to hesitate.
That afternoon as my mother picked me up from school, I wasted no time in springing my idea onto her. "Mom?" I asked with an air of impatience, "Can I get a new lunchbox?"
"Why, Melanie? You already have one. Did it break?"
"No…" I hesitated, "I just want a new one. One with Rainbow Brite on it."
"What? Why? You haven't liked Rainbow Brite for years now."
"I know, but…everyone else has one, mom, it's the cool thing to have right now." My mother rolled her eyes. I knew the dreaded if everyone else jumped off a bridge speech was coming, so I had to act quickly. "Plleeeeeaaassseee", I begged, "I won't ask for anything else, I promise!"
"Yeah, I've heard that one before," she answered, "I'm sorry hun, but I just can't afford it."
"But it's just a lunchbox!"
"Yes, but I can't afford to keep on buying you new lunchboxes every time you up and decide yours isn't cool enough. You know we can't waste our money on frivolous things like that!" I wasn't quite sure what frivolous meant, but I could see I was losing the battle. "Come on Mom, please? How about we use the money for picture day tomorrow for it! Pleeeaaasssee?"
"No."
"Its not fair! You never can afford anything I want!" I whined.
"Life's not fair," she retorted. I absolutely hated that response. What did it mean, anyway? It always signaled the end of an argument, and this time I wasn't going to let my mother have the last word.
"No, its not fair," I pouted, "Why was I even born if you can't afford me?!" I waited for a response, but never got one. It seems I did get the last word that time, because my mother silently drove on, with a sad and distant expression on her face. She didn't glance over in my direction once the rest of the trip home, and I know because I stared at her the whole way. Her expression baffled me; I had never seen my mom that way. She looked the way I felt when kids made fun of me and hurt my feelings, but moms don't get hurt feelings, do they? I didn't think so when I was in the fourth grade. I was too young to understand the nerve my words struck with her; I had no way of understanding then what it meant to have a child at age 20 and never receive a dime from the child's father. My mother hardly said a word that entire evening, and when dinner time rolled around and she still had not emerged from her room, I knew better than to disturb her. Instead I turned on the television, allowing phony laughter and insincere applause to drown out the tense silence of our apartment. I silently begged my mother to reprimand me, to ground me, banish me to my room, something! I knew I had done something horrible but had no clue how to fix it.
The next morning next to my backpack on the kitchen counter sat two white envelopes; one labeled "picture money", the other an envelope full of change labeled "lunch money". My heart dropped when I saw the second envelope, and all morning I could hear the dollar in change clinking around in the envelope inside my backpack, an auditory reminder of the terrible thing I had done to my mother the previous day. I could barely choke down the cafeteria food that day, but I felt I ought to, as if I could somehow swallow those words I had said to my mother so that she'd never have to hear them.
That afternoon we took our class pictures in a make-shift portrait studio set up in the school gym. I tried my hardest to express my most sincere, apologetic and thankful smile I could manage.
The pictures came back two weeks later, and though my mother had since resumed her normal life and went back to packing my lunch every day in my old lunch box, I was still anxious to see if she approved of the pictures. When she opened the envelope, she gazed over them silently for a few moments, and my heart pounded with anxiety. Finally she said, "Aw honey, you look so sweet," as she gave me a hug. I knew from her hug that she accepted my silent apology
That being said, if you want to read, here ya go...
My mother's small apartment is cramped but sparsely decorated; she always was the type of woman who stuck to the bare essentials and saw no need for extravagant details like embroidered pillows or ceramic figurines. In the corner of her living room, however, rests an old upright piano that once belonged to her grandmother, and atop of it sits an assortment of framed photographs. Some are of my mother's family, like the black and white photo of my grandparents as a young, newlywed couple, or the portrait of her brother's family of five, but the majority of them chronicle the life of her only daughter, me. Friends and boyfriends giggle and tease me about the many atrocious hairstyles I wore, or laugh at my awkward, curly hair and braces stage, and I silently curse my mother for her inconsiderate display of my most heinous photographs and open invitation for others to laugh at my expense. For such a no-nonsense woman, I think she should limit my childhood photographs to just one; the one that I think truly captures the essence of her daughter as a child, and my personal favorite, the class portrait taken in my elementary school gym in the fourth grade.
For most children, awkwardness and self consciousness doesn't settle in until junior high, but for me, it was a reality in the fourth grade. Most girls in my class wore brightly colored, coordinated outfits, and their mothers usually styled their hair in a perky ponytail or sleek braid adorned with a ribbon to match their outfit. Their mothers drove minivans, baked cupcakes for class parties, and organized themed slumber parties for their daughters' friends. I, on the other hand, was a product of a single mother who barely had time in the day to drop me off and pick me up from school, let alone pick out cutesy outfits or attend PTA meetings. We never had much money; we lived in a tiny two bedroom apartment, my mother drove a run down Buick, and my wardrobe consisted mainly of hand-me-downs. Since my mother saw no point in socializing with the other girls' mothers, I was rarely included in the pool parties or dance teams the other mothers organized. I wanted so desperately to be included and accepted by the pretty girls of my fourth grade class, but to them I was just the quiet, mousey brown haired girl who wore sweaters that were too big for her.
That year, an odd trend swept through the girls of the fourth grade. Previously, lunchboxes adorned with animated characters were labeled by other students as "dorky" or "nerdy". However, Jenny M. and Jenny H.'s mothers must have gone shopping together, because one day, the two girls showed up with matching "Rainbow Brite" lunch boxes and by the end of the week, Melissa, Stephanie, and Jenny R. also had the same lunch boxes. The girls giggled and squealed over their matching lunchboxes, and sat together at lunch, calling themselves the "Rainbow Brite club". I found this peculiar because just two weeks prior, Melissa was known as "smelly Melissa", but apparently, by possessing this lunchbox, she was now one of the "Rainbow Brite" club members. Always one to recognize an opportunity, I realized that by purchasing said lunchbox, I would quickly be on my way to slumber party invites and ice cream parties. There was no time to hesitate.
That afternoon as my mother picked me up from school, I wasted no time in springing my idea onto her. "Mom?" I asked with an air of impatience, "Can I get a new lunchbox?"
"Why, Melanie? You already have one. Did it break?"
"No…" I hesitated, "I just want a new one. One with Rainbow Brite on it."
"What? Why? You haven't liked Rainbow Brite for years now."
"I know, but…everyone else has one, mom, it's the cool thing to have right now." My mother rolled her eyes. I knew the dreaded if everyone else jumped off a bridge speech was coming, so I had to act quickly. "Plleeeeeaaassseee", I begged, "I won't ask for anything else, I promise!"
"Yeah, I've heard that one before," she answered, "I'm sorry hun, but I just can't afford it."
"But it's just a lunchbox!"
"Yes, but I can't afford to keep on buying you new lunchboxes every time you up and decide yours isn't cool enough. You know we can't waste our money on frivolous things like that!" I wasn't quite sure what frivolous meant, but I could see I was losing the battle. "Come on Mom, please? How about we use the money for picture day tomorrow for it! Pleeeaaasssee?"
"No."
"Its not fair! You never can afford anything I want!" I whined.
"Life's not fair," she retorted. I absolutely hated that response. What did it mean, anyway? It always signaled the end of an argument, and this time I wasn't going to let my mother have the last word.
"No, its not fair," I pouted, "Why was I even born if you can't afford me?!" I waited for a response, but never got one. It seems I did get the last word that time, because my mother silently drove on, with a sad and distant expression on her face. She didn't glance over in my direction once the rest of the trip home, and I know because I stared at her the whole way. Her expression baffled me; I had never seen my mom that way. She looked the way I felt when kids made fun of me and hurt my feelings, but moms don't get hurt feelings, do they? I didn't think so when I was in the fourth grade. I was too young to understand the nerve my words struck with her; I had no way of understanding then what it meant to have a child at age 20 and never receive a dime from the child's father. My mother hardly said a word that entire evening, and when dinner time rolled around and she still had not emerged from her room, I knew better than to disturb her. Instead I turned on the television, allowing phony laughter and insincere applause to drown out the tense silence of our apartment. I silently begged my mother to reprimand me, to ground me, banish me to my room, something! I knew I had done something horrible but had no clue how to fix it.
The next morning next to my backpack on the kitchen counter sat two white envelopes; one labeled "picture money", the other an envelope full of change labeled "lunch money". My heart dropped when I saw the second envelope, and all morning I could hear the dollar in change clinking around in the envelope inside my backpack, an auditory reminder of the terrible thing I had done to my mother the previous day. I could barely choke down the cafeteria food that day, but I felt I ought to, as if I could somehow swallow those words I had said to my mother so that she'd never have to hear them.
That afternoon we took our class pictures in a make-shift portrait studio set up in the school gym. I tried my hardest to express my most sincere, apologetic and thankful smile I could manage.
The pictures came back two weeks later, and though my mother had since resumed her normal life and went back to packing my lunch every day in my old lunch box, I was still anxious to see if she approved of the pictures. When she opened the envelope, she gazed over them silently for a few moments, and my heart pounded with anxiety. Finally she said, "Aw honey, you look so sweet," as she gave me a hug. I knew from her hug that she accepted my silent apology