memoir writing; "turtlebox"
Considering these'll probably be the only works of writing I'll get done before Doctor Who comes back this spring, I figured I'd share them here. I'm taking a Memoir Writing course this semester, a genre I really have no experience in so this should be interesting. Here's my first attempt (well, second, my first got erased :() at it. Enjoy? xD
“What do you think they are?”
I knew my eyes were wide in wonder as they stared down into the little pool of still, flat water in the worn down turtle sandbox that sagged into the dampened ground. I had a fascination with nature that was unmatched by almost nothing else in my life, save for perhaps reading a good book instead of doing my homework for the day. (The days that my homework and reading overlapped-- they were the best moments.)
“I dunno,” I responded, with an edge of curiosity to my voice I couldn’t quite mask, and I hesitated to reach out my finger and upset the beautifully pungent water that had probably been building up in the old sandbox for months, at the very least. The sand looked more like dirt, and the water was a murky gray-brown that housed strange little creatures swimming around in it like mutated tadpoles. My neighbour and I, Casey, had stumbled across the peculiar critters as we had been searching for old dinosaur figurines that I had remembered had been buried in the sand.
Instead we had found these.
“Maybe they’re baby salamanders,” I offered, thinking of the time we had tried to keep a few of the slimy creatures inside this particular place. I didn’t quite know what salamanders looked like when they were young, but I figured it would be possible for them to be a bit like tadpoles. Casey, however, made a face and shook her head.
“They’re too ugly for that. I think they might be mosquitoes.”
Mosquitoes. It made so much sense all of a sudden; mosquitoes liked the calm, still waters like the kind found inside the forgotten sandbox. They were pungent. They drank blood. They were like miniature, buggy vampires, except people were more likely to welcome a murderous creature from fantasy and literature into their lives than the simple little bugs that left itchy bumps wherever they bit.
The same went for me. I quickly threw the lid back over the sandbox, forgoing the excavation for the dinosaurs, and stood hastily to my feet, brushing off my jeans as though they had been contaminated by the very presence of the developing mosquitoes in the box that had used to house hours of fun. I shuddered in mild disgust, looking over to Casey who was watching me with a wide-eyed expression. I normally was intrigued by new creatures, not revolted by them, and it showed on her face.
“I don’t like mosquitoes,” I told her in explanation, rubbing at my arm nervously. “Let’s go build fairy homes in the woods instead.”
Together we tromped into the woods behind my woods to find moss and twigs, the sandbox once again left to be forgotten by age and time.
Not much has changed about my backyard over the years, but one thing that has was the removal of that old sandbox shaped like a turtle, one of its painted eyes rubbed off and worn away in the years of mad, unpredictable weather. It had gotten to be too much, and neither my brother and I had really used it in years. He was ten. I was twelve. We both had better things to do than stamp about in a sandbox that, to us, was so six-and-four, not twelve-and-ten.
It’s funny, but the clearest memory I have of that sandbox is finding the newly hatched mosquitoes in it. I know that I used to play in it when I was younger, with my brother, with Casey, the girl who lived next door to me, but nearly all of my memories associated with it are stuck in some far-away place in my mind, left to be forgotten. My fondest memory of it isn’t even a fond memory at all, but an event that stirs the same wave of uneasiness in me now as it did back then.
(For the record, mosquitoes still inspires that same level of disgust, too.)
I don’t know why an object that fills so many children with fun and pleasure only makes me think of grimy water and leech-like pests. I’d say it was a reflection of how my childhood really was; on the outside, brilliant and inviting, on the inside dirty and upsetting, but I know for a fact that that’s not true. My childhood was a normal one, light and fun and untainted.
Perhaps, then, it represented everything bad that I happily managed to avoid in life. All I know for sure is that when it was finally tossed away?
I didn’t miss it a single bit.
“What do you think they are?”
I knew my eyes were wide in wonder as they stared down into the little pool of still, flat water in the worn down turtle sandbox that sagged into the dampened ground. I had a fascination with nature that was unmatched by almost nothing else in my life, save for perhaps reading a good book instead of doing my homework for the day. (The days that my homework and reading overlapped-- they were the best moments.)
“I dunno,” I responded, with an edge of curiosity to my voice I couldn’t quite mask, and I hesitated to reach out my finger and upset the beautifully pungent water that had probably been building up in the old sandbox for months, at the very least. The sand looked more like dirt, and the water was a murky gray-brown that housed strange little creatures swimming around in it like mutated tadpoles. My neighbour and I, Casey, had stumbled across the peculiar critters as we had been searching for old dinosaur figurines that I had remembered had been buried in the sand.
Instead we had found these.
“Maybe they’re baby salamanders,” I offered, thinking of the time we had tried to keep a few of the slimy creatures inside this particular place. I didn’t quite know what salamanders looked like when they were young, but I figured it would be possible for them to be a bit like tadpoles. Casey, however, made a face and shook her head.
“They’re too ugly for that. I think they might be mosquitoes.”
Mosquitoes. It made so much sense all of a sudden; mosquitoes liked the calm, still waters like the kind found inside the forgotten sandbox. They were pungent. They drank blood. They were like miniature, buggy vampires, except people were more likely to welcome a murderous creature from fantasy and literature into their lives than the simple little bugs that left itchy bumps wherever they bit.
The same went for me. I quickly threw the lid back over the sandbox, forgoing the excavation for the dinosaurs, and stood hastily to my feet, brushing off my jeans as though they had been contaminated by the very presence of the developing mosquitoes in the box that had used to house hours of fun. I shuddered in mild disgust, looking over to Casey who was watching me with a wide-eyed expression. I normally was intrigued by new creatures, not revolted by them, and it showed on her face.
“I don’t like mosquitoes,” I told her in explanation, rubbing at my arm nervously. “Let’s go build fairy homes in the woods instead.”
Together we tromped into the woods behind my woods to find moss and twigs, the sandbox once again left to be forgotten by age and time.
Not much has changed about my backyard over the years, but one thing that has was the removal of that old sandbox shaped like a turtle, one of its painted eyes rubbed off and worn away in the years of mad, unpredictable weather. It had gotten to be too much, and neither my brother and I had really used it in years. He was ten. I was twelve. We both had better things to do than stamp about in a sandbox that, to us, was so six-and-four, not twelve-and-ten.
It’s funny, but the clearest memory I have of that sandbox is finding the newly hatched mosquitoes in it. I know that I used to play in it when I was younger, with my brother, with Casey, the girl who lived next door to me, but nearly all of my memories associated with it are stuck in some far-away place in my mind, left to be forgotten. My fondest memory of it isn’t even a fond memory at all, but an event that stirs the same wave of uneasiness in me now as it did back then.
(For the record, mosquitoes still inspires that same level of disgust, too.)
I don’t know why an object that fills so many children with fun and pleasure only makes me think of grimy water and leech-like pests. I’d say it was a reflection of how my childhood really was; on the outside, brilliant and inviting, on the inside dirty and upsetting, but I know for a fact that that’s not true. My childhood was a normal one, light and fun and untainted.
Perhaps, then, it represented everything bad that I happily managed to avoid in life. All I know for sure is that when it was finally tossed away?
I didn’t miss it a single bit.