Reflecting on my tweets, microfictions, haiku, and found poem.

It was difficult for me to see any type of story in my tweets. My tweets have been accounts of everyday life--nothing descriptive or interesting at first glance. Since I had so many tweets, I didn't know which ones to choose. So, I ended up choosing random tweets.

Yet, when I picked out my first word, gravel, I began to have an idea about a girl who doesn't follow societal expectations and norms. Then, at the end--although subjective and up to the inferences of the reader--one may gather that she did change her style/personality to fit in. Or, perhaps, she thinks about changing in her unconscious, but never does. From looking at my tweets, I had no idea theme would emerge.

What I thought was funny about my tweets is that I didn't have enough articles. For example, "a" and the. So, my found poem is more fragmented.

For my haiku, I wasn't sure which direction I wanted to take. I.e., I didn't know if I wanted the haiku to be an extension of my microfiction or not. When I started writing it, though, the poem emerged as an extension, but from the point of view of the daughter at an older age.

He thinks that I don’t know, but I do. I have always known—I’ve just been too weak to act on it. It started when we first started living together. I bought a cockatoo for some comfort in our large but cozy duplex in New York. As days went by, the bird grew more distant; she would flinch when I would try to let her out of the cage, and after two weeks she stopped whistling altogether. One morning, I awoke to find her lying on the side of the cage, her eye bleeding.

            “What happened?” I asked Al, darting to the phone book in search of the veterinarian’s number, fingers fumbling over the tissue thin pages.

            “How the hell should I know? I’ve been watching T.V. all morning. And besides, you were the one to let her out last.”

            Things got worse when he had our first child, Julianna. I was holding two-year old Julianna on my hip, phone attached to my ear, and working in front of the stove when it happened. Al was with me, helping me mix the baking soda into the red velvet cake and manning the stove. I turned around for a second, and Julianna let out a gut wrenching cry; I dropped the phone, and with it, the confidence in my mothering abilities.

            “Christ! How can you not be watching her around the stove?” Al yelled over the piercing scream of our child.

            But for days after that, Julianna wouldn’t go near her father. She ran to her room whenever I mentioned the name “Daddy” and cringed when he walked in the door.

    So, I’ve made up mind. It has to be done. Steeling myself, I take that walk to the big house.  

*The lines taken from Gloria Anzaldua's Borderlands that were the inspiration for this piece are: "It has to be done./Steeling myself/I take that walk to the big house" (127).   

This week I read An Anthology of Really Short Stories, edited by Jerome Stern. The micro fictions that I read include pages 30-31, 42-43, 182-183, and 118-119. Micro fiction is one of my favorite genres to read; however, I wasn’t totally impressed with the pieces in this anthology. Below is the list of micro fictions read and my thoughts on them.

·         Wrong Channel, by Roberto Fernandez: This story had a slapstick ending. You could hear the “bad-da-bum” drum in the final lines of the story. I will say, however, that the imagery in the first two paragraphs is well done. The first line, and in my opinion best line, reads, “Barbarita waited impatiently for her ride as beads of sweat dripped from her eyebrows into her third cup of cold syrupy espresso” (30).

·         Mockingbird, by Laurie Berry: I do like that the metaphor of mockingbirds “waiting for the fierce end of summer” was woven into the story. I can sense the conflict between the two characters. Still, this wasn’t my favorite story.

·         Land’s End, by Antonya Nelson: This was definitely my favorite. The imagery and juxtaposition of “bloody footprints” to “valentines” was disturbing, yet effective. I liked how the author was able to tell the story while interlacing scene, all without dialogue. The author also uses the colors red and green—blood, valentines, nets of bright green acrylic, the setting sun, and a trail of red hearts are all examples. I find it interesting that the author “draws” the main character colorless. For example, she is wearing “crusty no-color shorts,” and she runs on foot—the author is painting her gray. In the end, the only thing that is hers—the blood from her feet—is what (we assume) kills her.

·         Waiting, by Peggy McNally: The only thing I like about this story is its style. The entire story is one huge run on sentence, connected by commas. However, I feel that the main character is flat and that the content of the story is bland.