I hear you. The words are blurred, sentences broken, but I’m still able to put the tattered sounds together.
          At lunch you read me my favorite novel. I know by the names of the characters: Barkley, Henry. I feel the warmth of your hand on mine when you get to the part where the two escape on a boat to Switzerland in the middle of the night. I can tell by the swift change in your voice, and tight clench of your hand, that the part where they almost get caught is near. Gently, you brush your fingers against my arm when they make it to safety, able to start their lives together. But you end it there. I hear the clap of the book fold. You never read all the way to the end.
          You grab my hands between yours and tell me that when I wake up, you and I will start our lives together. You say we’ll have our own adventures.
I respond, telling you we’ll be going home soon. Not to worry, everything will be like it once was. You never hear me. No matter how loud I scream – you never hear me. I feel your tears roll onto my face, down my cheeks, and into my mouth. I taste the salt from your body, and wonder if I’ll ever taste anything more of you ever again.
          At night you sing to me. You rest your head beside mine singing the lyrics of Bobby McGee softly into my ear, telling me ‘you’d trade all of your tomorrows for one single yesterday’. We sing the chorus together, like we always do. You kiss my forehead; brushing your fingers through my hair, putting me to sleep, like you’ve done every night since we’ve been together.
 

***

Continue reading ➞ Coma

Sophomore year in high school there was this teacher, Mr. Martello who taught American literature. He had this energy about him when reading Emily Dickenson or something jarring from Edgar Allen Poe; his eyes would brighten and he’d sway his hands as if conducting an orchestra. He taught me about Emerson’s lead in the transcendentalist movement and Thoreau’s adventures living at Walden Pond. He once handed out a picture of 35-year-old Walt Whitman standing in a field of grass wearing a black-top hat with a hand on his hip. He then spent the entire hour sharing stories about the war and how Whitman sought out hospitals in D.C to help the wounded. And how Whitman was one of the firsts to change the style of poetry, breaking away from traditional formats; no rhyme or meter. Like a man soaring through the sky and flying as if he were a gust of wind, Whitman wrote freely!

I was fascinated with Mr. Martello. Not in a romantic kind of way, but in a way in which I wanted to learn as much as I possibly could from him. Pick his brain and all that.

Continue reading ➞ Above the Mark: Part I

Today in class Mr. Martello told us all about Margaret Fuller. How she was born in Massachusetts in 1810 to a lawyer/politician father, who’d been disappointed she had not been born a boy. Yet instead of sending Margaret into the kitchen to cook with her mother, or out in the yard to beat-out the rugs, wash clothes and clean glass lanterns; Timothy raised his daughter in his den, homeschooling and educating her with a laborious course study.

At three-in-a-half-years-old Margaret was reading and writing. At four, she knew arithmetic. Before she reached five, she knew English and Latin grammar. Timothy brought his daughter up to read all sorts of books from ancient history, political philosophy, travel, biographies, novels, all the great European authors and playwrights, and so on.

He had told Margaret, “To excel in all things should be your constant aim. Mediocrity is obscurity.”

Continue reading ➞ Above the Mark: Part II

Note from founder: Studies show happiness is one of the most well-known sensations people inquire. Some even say it’s the purpose of life. Reports have found that possessing great heaps of money can buy things such as time and good hearty meals. It’s known to have helped people purchase memorable experiences, plow their way to the tops of pyramids, and if you can believe it – bargain their way into the hearts of others! Don’t fret if you don’t have money, sit down with a notebook and pen and write out the following list. # 1) Obsess. Visualize yourself having cash in your pockets and dough in your safe to the point where nothing and no one else matters. # 2) Borrowing isn’t stealing. When at the office or an outing or event, let other people pay for your dinner and drinks. Don’t be so eager to throw down your own cash. # 3) Beg. Stand outside super markets, laundry matts, bookstores, etc., with a sign in your hand that asks others to contribute towards the fundraiser of your choice. And when someone donates, be sure to look out for them the next time they come around!

Wednesday June 17th 9:30am:
In the bathroom while brushing my teeth, a little black ant circles the soap dispenser. How did it get in? I walk over to the window to the right above the toilet. No draft or hole. No other ants. Back at the sink, I spit, rinse, flick the light off and walk into the kitchen.

Saturday June 20th 6:00am:
I jump out of the shower and dry off. I dress for work, place the towel on the hook, and then reach into the whicker caddy beside the sink for my deodorant. A little black ant is crawling up the side of it. I let it crawl onto my finger, and then gently place it down against the counter. The ant walks along my finger over to his friends hanging around the faucet.

Continue reading ➞ Confessions of a Woman Gone Mad: Ants

Posted on December 7, 2015 by Britt

Monday September 28th 7:30am:
I stand at the front door and rub my eyes awake. My sister’s there, going on and on about how she has to go to work. My niece is sick and can’t go to school. She has no choice; Addie has to stay with me for the day. She hands me a note, a pink lunch box, kisses Addie on the cheek and darts towards her running car. “See you at four,” she hollers out the window and drives away.

The note:
– Make sure Addie takes a teaspoon of her medicine (see in lunch box) every four hours. Don’t worry, she’s not contagious.
– She eats a lot (like every two hours) so I packed her lunch and plenty of snacks. If she wants anything else, make sure it’s ORGANIC. She only eats organic and her stomach will not be able to handle anything with hormones or pesticides in it. ORGANIC FOOD ONLY.
– NO CANDY
– NO TV
– NO-
I crumble the note in my hand and toss it into the garbage.

Continue reading ➞ Confessions of a Woman Gone Mad: Addie

Ever wonder how writers start out? Or, about the process of writing a novel? If it were so easy wouldn’t everyone do it?

When I was studying undergrad, a student of English Lit, I drove four in a half hours to Hemingway’s archive at The JFK Library in Boston for research on my final project. The paper was a comparison between his first drafted manuscripts of The Sun Also Rises, vs. his final published version of the novel.

I spent nine hours rummaging through Hemingway’s journals, manuscripts, any paper with any mention of The Sun Also Rises. What an experience!!

As a reader, researcher and writer, I found it illuminating to see first hand Hemingway’s passion, work, and efforts that went into writing his first great novel.

Here is what I discovered:

Continue reading ➞ CALLING ALL HEMINGWAY AFICIONADOS!!!