Creative Writing Workshop Stories: Dancing by Anna McFadden

Is there a classical text that inspired your writing?

This piece was inspired by a number of things, but one key element that I wanted to use from a classical text was derived from Ovid’s Metamorphoses. We read an excerpt that told the tragedy of Orpheus and Eurydice, and I was fascinated with the concept of telling a story through a poem; a delicate balance of tethering your narrative to a plot while at the same time maintaining the poetic rhythm that I was trying to capture.

Were there other mythological stories you read in the class that give (or might in the future give) inspiration for other stories?

A work that I drew enormous inspiration from was a short story that we read in class, Dido’s Lament by Tessa Hadley. The idea of using a fable or classical story as the frame for my own work interested me greatly, and provided the jumping off point for several pieces of writing that I hope to continue refining.

Dancing

“Do you like to dance?”

I wondered what dancing is,

Is it reserved for those who practice until their feet bleed

Deliciously into bags of ice, satisfied that they have repeated the same

Delicate steps over and over, a smile playing on the corner of their lips

As they call themself a dancer, and mean it,

And wake up early to repeat them again, and

Perfect them until the ability to smile onstage comes in stride, and they can smile and mean it,

And the ritualistic synchronicity of the bodies is beautiful, and the dancer feels the perfection of the steps

they repeated washing over them,

As they finish and bow and rise to grin at the watching crowd and their face is real and is one thing that

they could never repeat,

And they are dancing.

Or maybe dancing is

Found only in parties of people, crowded and

Exquisitely suffocating, As the scent of moving bodies wafts and drifts

In the air that there doesn’t seem to be enough of, the noise that they’re dancing to soon drowned out by

voices screaming along,

And then the dancers are no longer dancing along to music,

But to each other, and the sounds that their feet make,

And the sweat and darkness of the moment, hearts

Thumping in tandem as their limbs

Are waving and their dancing consists

Of jumping and yelling and the sparks of weightlessness that throb across the one body that they have

melted together into,

And they are dancing.

Or perhaps dancing is

Seen only in the silent thoughts of someone struggling with boredom,

Their head swirling as they don’t learn teacher’s lessons they haven’t learned before,

And soon something begins worming gently into their mind,

A song reminds them of another moment, the tune ingrained into the surface of their

Skull as they hum the comfortable dips and swells, joined by the cadence of their thoughts

Their lips moving barely to coax the noise as it escapes from their

Mind, tapping their feet on a linoleum floor,

The dancer tapping their fingernails on the plastic wood of a desk,

The tap of a neighbour’s hand upon theirs to get them to stop, it’s annoying,

The neighbor becoming the dancer as well when they hear

A melody that spreads and leaps from one ear to the next, and then they squint, recognising,,

The first dancer turning and smiling at them when they hear the same tune whistle from their neighbour’s

mouth, and then they are dancing together, quietly, sitting side by side as the lesson drones on, singing the

same song,

And they are dancing together.

Or possibly dancing is

What a musician feels when they are playing in an orchestra

Feet lightly stomping on the carpeted floor to

Keep rhythm, the rhythm of the musical voices that seep from all of their instruments

As each tune answers the one before it

Fingers fluttering over keys

Strings gently tugged and grazed to release the sound

That now surrounds each and every dancer, as they catch their breath and smile,

And mean it, and look across the heads of those around them,

And follow the score, and follow the conductor

Delighting in the colorful artwork that is floating above them,

And they are dancing together.

“Yeah, I mean, yes. I do like to dance.”

You say, and you walk away, and smile,

Because you don’t need

Anyone else, what if you can dance alone

Eyes shut, in a silent room, all fear of judgement dissipating as you move, and smile,

Knowing that you wouldn’t care what others think

Anyway,

Because you never have, and you can even dance alone in public

Others telling you to stop, please, it’s annoying,

And you laugh, and continue, dancing by yourself to

Nothing at all, knowing that you’re the dancer, and one day they’ll all regret not joining you

Because you love to dance, so

You dance alone.

Creative Writing Workshop Stories: The Sky’s Choice by Bree Jones

Is there a classical text that inspired your writing?

I wasn't inspired by traditional literature but I was inspired by Voltaire’s painting of Mount Vesuvius.

The Sky’s Choice

Awakening to the sound of sirens, I slide out of bed, checking my phone. The light from the screen is almost too bright; it’s 2:35 AM. I wander into my cluttered living room, tripping over a slipper, and spot a dark figure by the window: my mother. She is staring out the window while talking on her phone. I walk over to the window, curious as to what she is looking at. As my eyes adjust, I see a fire at a distance mixed with the midnight purple sky. Not believing my eyes, I walk to the kitchen. I yank at the door on the fridge and grab a pitcher of water. While I pour water in a cup, I look at my mom; she is now off the phone. I need to know what’s happening and I fully intend to pick her brain. 

“What’s happening?” I ask. She stands for a minute, placing her phone down. “There was an explosion. Honey your father is over there,” she replies with a sad look plastered on her face. I stare at the counter, trying to compose myself, processing what she said. She steps into the light, her face drowsy, and I notice the bags under her eyes. She walks to the bedroom muttering “There’s nothing we can do right now. I’m going to the room. I will let you know if I hear anything.” 

Enchanted by the sky, I decide to sit outside, thinking the cold air would be useful. I sit by the side of my house near the eerie river. I watch the flames envelop the clouds and soot damage the air; the picture seems surreal. I know what’s happening over there, people rushing to set out the flame cautiously making sure no one is trapped. My father might be there. Our strained relationship is beside the point this morning. My mother hates him, and rightfully so. But, it doesn’t matter what he did to my mother, he was still my father. I pick up my phone to call my friends. Ivory is the only one that picked up, which is fine considering she is the only one I want with me. “Precious. It is way too early for this,” she says as soon as she picks up. “I know, I know,” I say, “but look out the window.” There is a 5-second pause and a considerable amount of shuffling until she gasps. ”Oh my God.” I can tell she can see what I am seeing. 

“Where are you?”

 “I'm on the porch. Come join me” I plead as she groans in protest.

 “Fine. I'll be out in a bit” 

Knowing that she wouldn’t change her mind, I go back to staring at the opposite side of the river. I couldn’t help but wonder if anyone was hurt. It doesn’t seem like a fire - there are flames, but it feels artificial. I think of my dad. What was he doing? All I know is that he worked across the river where the explosion seems to have started. I think of giving him a call. Would he pick up? Before I have a decent chance to think about it, Ivory sneaks up behind me.

“Hey silly.”  I let out a weak “Hi” and proceed to stare at the scene in front of me. “I'm sure he’s fine,” she assures me. “I guess.” I smile weakly. 

“How are you feeling?” 

“Fine.” She gives me a quizzical look.

 Being the one who knows everything about me, she can tell when I am lying.

“Let me rephrase. What are you feeling?”

 “Fear, I guess.”

 “Why?” 

I look at her with her bright eyes even in the dead of night. Ivory is an aspiring psychologist, she’s good at analyzing and listening. She took a course over the summer and ever since then she has been testing out her skills on me. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind being a test subject but I’m not used to sharing my thoughts. When she says those words something inside me snaps like a bent silver spoon that just broke. She rubs my back as I cry on her shoulder. It isn’t like me, but Ivory, she grounds me. She makes me human. As tears sting my cheeks, she wipes them away with her pinky, unbothered by her tear-soaked clothes. She knows why I’m crying, she is the only friend who knows. 

“It’s okay, it will be okay.” 

“I-I ca-can’t do this. M- my dad he’s ov-ver in the fire,” I stutter. I look up at the sky. Where were the birds? Everything is spinning out of place. I can’t feel myself anymore as I slip out of consciousness.

I  think of a man - tall yet short, old yet young and crude yet subtle. When I saw him a few months ago, he seemed almighty. He saved me from the fire and the storm. A whirlwind. A gust. A tragedy. 

I should have noticed the symptoms before. I was too busy studying my mother, the pilot who walked down the hall to my bedroom door with her plain low black heels, fitted slacks, and a navy blue suit with a white blouse underneath. A blue hat marked with a wing pin, the same one on her suit adorned her hat. She was beautiful in the suit, her lips were glossed with purple matte lipstick that paired perfectly with her dark skin tone and brown eyes. She waved goodbye and kissed me on the forehead. I watched the pilot go off, leaving me to my thoughts.

 ‘BOOM’. The sky was furious, my head was pulled opposite from it like a magnet. I couldn’t make out what caused it; all I craved was the ground. I had crashed, colliding with the ground and when I opened my eyes I was in the hospital. The sky yearned to wreak havoc and cause pain, separation. It seemed to be full of anger. Ivory didn’t even know. She didn’t know how to stop it. I couldn’t see but I felt her hand running through my loose curls. I loved her. 

Laying on the hospital bed, unaware of the severity of my disease, I wondered what mama would do if I went towards the sky without her. ‘No.’ What is wrong with me? She would be sad, disappointed, mad, that I didn’t stay. I thought of my mom in the sky. She was a pilot. I wondered what it was like - flying with the birds. I’ve never been on a plane before. Her boyfriend was a flight attendant. I enjoyed his presence; he was always reciting mini speeches from work. “There is an unexpected tropical storm causing turbulence. Sit down in your seat folks and put away any items that might fall.” The sky took them away from me every day. I loved them. Mom would get ready with her pressed uniform, equipped with a curling iron to tame her unruly curls, carefully tucking them under her hat. The two worked for the same airline and met at a convention. I knew they would come see me as soon as they could. I didn’t know if my dad would come see me. My dad... well, I don’t know what he does. I never have. All I know is that he is compelled to work all the time. Sometimes the sun swallows him, sometimes the moon. It's the reason why I don’t see him very often.

Maybe I was being punished. Maybe the man and the sky don’t want me here..

` “Keep climbing”

“What?”

“Keep climbing. Until you’re safe” It was the almighty man again. He always saved me. But did he save my father too?

My eyes flutter, the scent of coconut fills the room. We are in Ivory’s room. She must’ve noticed my hand twitching because she turns to me abruptly “Precious, finally sleeping beauty, you’re a heavy sleeper.” I smile a genuine smile but don’t say anything for a second.

  “What happened?” 

“You fainted. I brought you here, I hope you don't mind. My mom was a little mad. She didn't understand what possessed me to go outside with a fire so near.” She lowers her tone. ”She’ll get over it. But you had a panic attack and you passed out and to top that off you were really tired.” I recognize that look. It is pity, a common face nowadays. I can recognize the emotion anywhere after being diagnosed with a silent assailant threatening to sacrifice me to the sky - Addison's Disease. A tragedy. I slowly stand up, turning to the direction of the window. “Is my father-” My eyes widen. I should have read her face when I woke up. I choke back tears. He died in the fire. Did he sacrifice himself? Maybe he is a hero. Is this what the man wanted? To rip me away from my dad? Is this what the sky wanted? The sky isn’t red or orange anymore, just blue, a different blue not one we’re used to. It is almost serene. No sirens, no drama, no setbacks. I have been freed from the sky’s tests, its threats and I never intend to be  chained to it again.

Creative Writing Workshop Stories: Villainous Vulnerability by Nia Hardaway

Is there a classical text that inspired your writing?

Actually yes! Specifically, during the Creative Writing Class I was truly inspired by the American Sonnets by Terrance Hayes. I truly love the strength of the narrator's perspective on the world. Through talking about relevant topics like race, love, and world dynamics, Hayes was able to leave the reader with the strong beliefs of the narrators. This inspired me to write poems that would talk about relevant things such as vulnerability, individuality, and the Coronavirus, which everyone around the world is impacted by.

Were there other mythological stories you read in the class that give (or might in the future give) inspiration for other stories?

The poem that sparked inspiration in me was Orpheus Alone by Mark Strand, and the other stories we read about the story of Orpheus. I enjoyed reading about the dynamic between him and Eurydice. The author truly developed the pain Orpheus felt after losing the person he loved. The levels of emotions truly pulled me into the story. From sadness, to pain, to love, to loss, I felt encapsulated with the stories and poems. Through this roller coaster of emotions, I used this to brainstorm and write the three poems, The Mask, which highlights the painful truth about Corona, Free Falling, which highlights fear and enlightenment, and The Puzzle Without a Piece, which highlights the vulnerability of not knowing who you are.

The Mask

Grounds grumble, 

Rocks crumble, 

Soil thickens, 

The air sickens, 

The masks protect from the coughs of illness. 

It is security from the sickness, 

Both the vulnerable and invulnerable trying to find peace in such turmoil. 

While trying to find a future that’s sound,

Only the masks are future bound. 

Free Falling

Up, up, and up, 

Bump, bump, and bump. 

Into the sky, I love the views, but don’t know why-

Looking down, I can do anything, but fly. 

Faster and faster to the top, 

All I want to do is stop. 

The roller coaster making my brain spin, 

Like a fish swimming without a fin. 

Crank, crank, and crank,

I see the little ants of the world- 

And all of a sudden- WOOSH 

I’m falling… and falling… and falling, but breathing. 

And finally…

I can see, what I was trying to retrieve. 

The golden air everyone wishes for, 

But tries not to adore. 

Descending from the sky, 

I try, 

To think why, 

I was so blind. 

Because the fears we spark,

Are actually the toys that demons play with in the dark.  

The Puzzle Without A Piece

What could there be? 

Who would want me? 

As I got out of bed, these questions wrung in my head. 

Standing straight looking up into the starry abyss, 

I know I was someone who wouldn’t be missed. 

Going down a list in my mind, 

Nobody in all of mankind, 

Would cry if they had to say goodbye. 

Reaching up into the sky, 

I try to find why-

A piece of me is missing inside. 

The world in black and white, 

Scares my heart into a fright. 

What if I’m the puzzle without a piece, 

The sheep without his fleece. 

I wondered this as I drifted into my deadly slumber, 

And tried to number, 

The pieces I was made of, 

An artist who failed at finding his calling, 

Because he simply couldn’t perfect a dumb drawing. 

Or the guy who proposed to his 5-year girlfriend, 

Only to find that she loved his best friend instead.

Or maybe the guy who dropped out of college, 

Because he lacked the knowledge… about the creator of the light bulb. 

But despite still not knowing, 

He kept hope that his mind was still growing. 

Because the puzzle can always expand, without the last piece.

Creative Writing Workshop Stories: The Fae by Maria Millette

Is there a classical text that inspired your writing?

The texts that inspired my poem are Mary Norton's The Borrowers and the play Peter Pan by James Matthew Barrie. When I was little I was in love with stories about fairies and little people, especially Tinkerbell and the borrowers: little people who lived inside the walls of people’s homes. I constantly tried to find them when I was a kid and eventually as time passed, I moved on and forgot about them, one of the many downsides of growing up. I wanted to touch upon the themes of maturing and the beauty of imagination and write it in a simple way everyone can relate to. Most importantly, I wanted to send a message that although one might mature, the elements of childhood will never be forgotten.

Were there other mythological stories you read in the class that gives (or might in the future give) inspiration for other stories?

I really loved the perspective of Circe in the excerpt that we have read in class. It told the story of Odysseus landing on the island of Aeaea in her point of view which changed the tone of the classic tale drastically. I am currently working on a short story about Athena’s perspective on the tale of Medusa!

The Fae

My grandmother used to tell me about the fae 

Little beings that danced around the collard green grass that decorated our farm. 

Their little feet planting success for the next harvest to come

They came 

Every August, September, and October 

Around the time our apples were at full growth  

Our carrots thick as the marshes by the river 

The fae gave us hope that we will win the year’s pumpkin contest 

And ate all the weeds away.

At that young age I was determined to see the fae so 

Every August, September, and October

I took the stepping stool from Uncle Tim’s shed 

Snatched the jar of sugar from the second shelf and ran towards the orchard

Decorating the ground with roads full of sugar for the fae to feast on.

I never found the fae but found the rage of my uncle

Mad for feeding the fruit flies that ravaged our strawberry fields 

Years went by and

 I forgot about the fae

My imagination weakened like my grandmother 

Who passed away that September 

I was going to the orchard to pick an apple for late night’s pie 

And that’s when I saw them.

Dancing around my grandmothers tree

Decorating the fruits with bite marks and pixie dust.

So that very day I knew 

That the fae not only promised us a good harvest 

But also my grandmother’s soul a safe journey home.

Creative Writing Workshop Stories: Moles by Olivia Mofus

Is there a classical text that inspired your writing?

I think my writing was mostly inspired by earlier works of people like Edgar Allen Poe and

Nathaniel Hawthorne. But, the writing of Oedipus Rex was also very inspiring to me as well.

Were there other mythological stories you read in the class that give (or might in the future give) inspiration for other stories?

A Very Old Man With Enormous Wings by Gabriel Garcia Marquez and the Aeneid by Vergil

were both very interesting and inspiring to me. I think I’ll try to incorporate aspects of those

stories in my future writing.

Moles

The alleyway between the two beatdown brick buildings was dark. Just a fleck of red light on the ground from the bright neon signs above shone through. It was drizzling that night. The puddle caused by hours of light rain was murky but made alive by the sounds of water droplets dripping in, one-by-one. Drip, drip, drip. A rat scurried across. It screeched when its fur felt the water, not noticing the puddle hidden in the darkness. It jumped back, stared for a moment, and shook itself furiously. The rat then scampered off, ready to fight another day. 

This wasn’t Victor’s usual scene. Banks, ballrooms, tailors’ shops, smoke rooms, executive offices. These things, Victor dedicated his life in their fierce pursuit. Even now, he leaned against the walls of the alley draped in a $7,000 suit. Victor breathed in the cool, wet air, letting it conquer his body. Not as good as a Cuban Cigar, but still good. It was quiet for the city. But then again, this was where the tourists avoided. Nights in this part of town unearthed people of dreams. Or nightmares, better yet. 

Here he was, leaning to the left of what seemed to be the door to a prison. It was taller than him, who was taller than most men. It was also made completely out of steel. So impenetrable, nothing could get in or out without a key. Victor wondered to himself why these types of doors were still made. He waited in the drizzling rain for a few more moments until the door opened with a resounding bang. He breathed in a shaky breath as he walked towards the open door. He wasn’t allowed to enter without a guide. That was the rule. 

Before he could speak, a body stepped out of the darkness. It was a short man with long black hair and a beaded necklace. His face was clean-shaven except for the long, narrow, pencil-like strip of facial hair on his chin that extended to his chest. An old scar graced his right cheek. The Mitigator. That’s what they called him. The man that could fix anything. 

“Please follow me, Mr. Victor,” the Mitigator said in a foreign accent unknown to him. 

He led him down the stairs lit sparsely by light bulbs along the way. As they walked, Victor adjusted his tie and fixed his hair every now and then. Most people would find him handsome, except for the fact that he did things like that anywhere he was. They arrived at a metal examination table in a room riddled with all types of colorful stones, odorous herbs, and potions from all over the world. The type of stuff that’s only written or read about, never seen. 

“Please remove your shirt and take a seat on the table,” the Mitigator told him.

Victor removed his coat and unbuttoned his shirt, revealing the body hidden behind the suit. He was well built, as he had the money to take care of himself. But his chest. How should one describe his chest? Round black and purple protrusions covered it. Like dark pimples, or moles. But they were much too big to be considered moles. Each resided closely on his skin, like the surface of a blackberry. There were nine or ten, perhaps, a new one appearing each week. Around them were scratch marks. Not scratch marks that stay on your skin for a moment and fade. No. These marks were etched nail-deep on his chest. So deep and numerous that they left plump red scars. 

“I told you not to scratch at them,” the Mitigator said, looking deeply concerned at the “moles.” 

“But I did everything you told me to do,” Victor said.

“You drank the juice every day?”

“Yes,” he said annoyed. “Yes, I did. And I used the bath salts like you said, and the oils too.” 

“I see,” the Mitigator said, thoughtfully stroking his beard. “I suppose I’ve done everything that can be done. 

“Don’t give me that!” Victor shouted in a rage. “I paid you to do something and you haven’t done anything! If nothing changes, you’ll be sorry.”

The Mitigator turned away, searching for a possible answer in his collection of trinkets, finding nothing.

“Come back tomorrow and I’ll try something new.”

“I have a funeral to go to tomorrow. I’ll be back Tuesday.”

The Mitigator solemnly nodded and pointed Victor towards the exit. As Victor walked out, the Mitigator yelled out to him.

“Perhaps these moles are deeper than they seem. Some mens’ problems require more than even I can provide.”

“Those men don’t wear my suits,” Victor spurned, foot out the door. “Fix it.”

Out he went to the road to hail a taxi. As a cab approached him, he could’ve sworn that the same rat he saw earlier was run-over, dead on the side of the street. 

The designer of his apartment said it was minimalistic, but what it was was empty. On those rare occasions when women weren’t in every room, all Victor could hear were the echoes of his own voice or his footsteps. He despised it. He walked to his bathroom, not bothering to turn on any lights, and looked at himself in the mirror. This was his face, his hair, his eyes, his nose. These were his hands. He took off his shirt and ran a trembling hand against his chest, feeling his scars and his ailment. Did Lloyd do this? he thought. Did he somehow come from beyond the grave and do this to me? Sweat rolled down his forehead. Was he not drunk enough that night? Were my hands bashing his head against the table not enough? Were my hands around his neck not enough? Was death not enough to quiet him? To stop his growing fortune? These thoughts raced through his head. He thought that he’d puke, and quite soon he did. He forced his body up from the toilet bowl, wiping some vomit from the side of his mouth. He stole another glimpse of himself as he walked to his bedroom. The time was 2:22 AM. The funeral would be 9:30 AM. Alone in his bed, Victor tried to catch as much sleep as possible. He managed an hour, at most. 

The morning at the funeral felt like the longest hour of his life. He sat slouched in the pews looking down at his feet as tens of people came to offer their condolences. We’re so sorry Victor, they said. You two were so close, or I know you guys were rivals, but business was booming! Too bad that’s not the case anymore. Victor said nothing. Grief, they thought, lovingly putting their hands on his shoulders as they passed through. His hair was disheveled, which they all noticed but chose not to mention. Not today, of course. Not at his best friend’s funeral! Speakers spoke about how great Lloyd was and the mysterious circumstances of his death. The crowd smiled, and they cried, but all were silent when it was time to pay their respects at Lloyd’s open casket. 

Victor didn’t want to look, but he had to. Afterall, his reputation was already at stake. As he dragged his feet towards Lloyd, he felt a strange new sensation on his chest. I’ll deal with this later, he thought angrily to himself. Now, it was time. Time to look at a dead Lloyd for the second time. Lloyd rested peacefully in his coffin. The makeup covered any scars or bruises he suffered in his dying moments. They all believed he fell hard on his head in a drunken stupor, which is not uncommon for these men in suits. Memories of the time they spent together came flooding into Victor’s head. The good times, and the bad, they had spent together. 

Just then, he moved his hand to his chest, scratching it violently. He couldn’t stop himself. This was the first time his “moles” were itchy. Not many people noticed it until he began grinding his chest against the side of Llyod’s coffin. He opened his mouth. He thought he would scream, or cry. But a low, inhuman moan oozed from his lips. Now, everyone was staring in awe, and bitter tears rolled down his cheeks. The hoarse words, “I’m so sorry Lloyd” managed to escape this unnatural uproar. The coffin wasn’t enough to soothe the itch, so he ripped off his shirt, revealing his ailment to the baffled crowd. They gasped. Some screamed. After a few more seconds of Victor’s episode, they regained their senses. A few men in the crowd had to pull Victor from the coffin with all the strength they had. The police came, and soon the psychiatrists. Victor was taken away, of course, and his empire was split among his associates. Those who were at the funeral would never quite understand what happened that morning. But they would never soon forget.

Creative Writing Workshop Stories: Collision by Lana Swindle

Is there a classical text that inspired your writing?

My writing was not particularly inspired by a classical text but followed a similar design to Dido's Lament, a short story we read in class by Tessa Hadley following the reunion of two ex-lovers who parted ways. The story was based off of the tale of Dido in the Aeneid.

Were there other mythological stories you read in the class that give (or might in the future give) inspiration for other stories?

The text following the tale of Orpheus and Eurydice was wonderful both in plot and writing and could provide inspiration for other stories. I thought the general idea was captivating; a follow up to the tale (as shown in Orpheus Alone by Mark Strand) would be interesting to write.

starting out

Everything was a disaster, and there was nothing Jasmine could do about it. Standing in the middle of the airport near a sign she supposed read “baggage claim”, she was clutching her leather backpack strap, eyes flitting from person to person as she tried to spot Alex. The two had been split up in a crowded section of the airport while leaving the plane, and, given that Jasmine couldn’t read Japanese, she had no idea where she was supposed to be or how to get there. 

Haneda Airport was well-run, there was no doubt, but it was crowded and not particularly amenable to non-Japanese speakers. Alex knew how to navigate the place, given her knowledge of Japanese and generally reliable sense of direction, but Jasmine didn’t. She had never been to Japan before, had absolutely no idea where she was going, and was thoroughly bewildered.

Of course, the two should have planned what might happen if they were accidentally split up, but they didn’t, and were now faced with a situation that wasted both time and energy. Jasmine scanned the crowd. No sign of Alex. Not even a glimpse of her dyed platinum-blonde hair, which should have stuck out in a crowd. With a growing sense of panic in her stomach, she tentatively approached the person nearest her. She was nervous, and didn’t want to make a fool of herself to someone who didn’t speak her language. But it was the only option she had. 

“Excuse me,” she started, her voice barely audible. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Excuse me, do you speak English?” 

The person stared at her, brows creased in confusion. Jasmine mustered an apologetic smile and left without a word, panicking despite her reassurances that it wasn’t a big deal. It was just an airport, after all, and her friend was bound to call at some point. But Jasmine didn’t have cell service at the moment, so they were stuck. 

Nervous and discombobulated, Jasmine whirled around and only succeeded in knocking into the person to her left. 

collision

It wasn’t a neat collision. It was an unglamourous crash to the floor, one that might involve a bruised tailbone or a ripped seam in one’s shirt. One that involves embarrassment from both the person standing and the one who fell. The girl was on her feet in an instant, as though her current defensive stance contradicted the fact that she had just been on the floor. He was apologizing over and over, but she didn’t seem to understand what he was saying. If she did, she took no notice of it. Her dark hair was coming out of its once-neat ponytail and her eyes flitted across the room, as if nervously scanning who had seen her fall. 

It was a habit he knew only too well.

It couldn’t be true, but … 

“Jasmine?” he asked, before he could stop himself. 

Jasmine was a friend of his from college. Perhaps more than that. Shun had always liked her in a way that confused him, liked her in a way he had never liked anyone before. In fact, the main reason he moved to Japan was to get away from her and to redefine the hope that he would never see her again. Or so he told himself. The two had been in a relationship together, a relationship that ended before it had the chance to begin.

He glanced at her, assessing her quietly.

Jasmine looked harsher than she did in college, but only slightly. She looked just as small as before, but had a defensive air that was unfamiliar; an air that came with the inevitable hardships of life.

He wondered how she might view him. Whether she might relinquish her original impressions of him and start anew. But when he looked at her, he didn’t see the same person. All he saw was a person with a smile plastered on her face, eyes cold and unreadable. Her smile was fake, unrecognizable, unnatural. A smile that was nothing like the Jasmine he remembered. 

“Shun!” She addressed him like she was greeting a close friend. The two of them had been anything but close at school. “It’s so great to see you!” 

At least her voice remained the same, even if her tone was fake.

“How’s everything going with you?” she asked, reaching inside her purse for something.

He smiled back at her, but the corners of his mouth stretched uncomfortably. Unnaturally. “I’m doing pretty well. You?”

“I’m good! Just visiting here with my friend.” She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “What are you doing here, if you don’t mind my asking?” 

“Oh, I moved here just last year, actually.” 

Her eyes widened. “To Tokyo?” Her voice was laced with shock, with surprise. 

Shun had been reckless at school, complaining constantly about his relatives in Japan and describing his country none too kindly. They knew how much he hated it. Anyone would, if they heard him at school. And now he had moved here, and Jasmine was staring at him with her large brown eyes even wider than usual.

Shun nodded. “Yeah. Change of plans, I guess.” He resisted the urge to look at her, focusing his gaze on the wall across from him instead. 

“Cool.” She paused, gaze averted. “It’s been a while.”

“Yeah.”

She bit her lip, glancing at him again. “Why did you move here? I thought you hated it.”

“Family reasons.” 

The lie was poised on his tongue, and slid off smoothly. He had thought up a reason a while ago, in case he ever experienced a situation such as this. There was always the voice in the back of his head, the reckless voice that insisted he tell her everything. It was always there, even at school, whenever they were talking or exchanging civilities. 

But there was a sinking feeling in his chest today. The feeling of being unsatisfied, of wishing there was more substance to the conversation that he had dreamed of for a year now. A longing for things to be as genuine as they once were. 

But as they parted, he couldn’t help but feel relieved.

leaving behind

Jasmine met up with Alex about fifteen minutes later as they finally received enough cell service to communicate. Her friend grinned at her, shorn white-blonde hair bouncing around her face. Jasmine smiled at her, but it felt forced. Unnatural. Just as it always did.

Meeting Shun was strange. As it should be, but this time seemed a little more forced than usual. They had started on unsteady terms and parted on worse, all because of Jasmine’s own insecurities and problems. She made him feel like she was indifferent towards him, like she didn’t care. But she did care. Just not in the way he wanted her to.

“Everything okay?” Alex asked. It was a courteous question, one that held little substance and only one correct answer. She said it lightly, carelessly, as though only half paying attention to her question and its answer.

Jasmine sighed inaudibly, but kept her smile. She didn’t want Alex to ask questions.  “Yeah. Everything’s great.” 

Calder Classics Summer 2020 Art Competition Third Place Winner!

Congratulations to Campbell Musslewhite, our Third Place winner of the Calder Classics Summer 2020 Art Competition!

Campbell attended both our “Intro to Greek Level 1 and Level 2” programs.

“I have entitled my piece Beyond the Book. My colored pencil piece was inspired by a section of the Odyssey. The infamous Polyphemus is composed of Ancient Greek words from the text as Odysseus and his companions escape hanging onto the bellies of the sheep. This represents how in my Calder Greek classes we learned the language and were able to really see the ancient tales come to life right before us. It was a truly magical experience.” - Campbell

“We also translated the classical tales of Alexander the Great that I could definitely see myself composing artwork of in the future!”

Calder Classics Summer 2020 Art Competition Second Place Winner!

Congratulations to Naomi Lam, our Second Place winner of the Calder Classics Summer 2020 Art Competition!

Naomi attended our Reading Latin program in Florence in July 2019 and  the “Reading Latin: Rome in Absentia” online program this summer.