writers_loft | Writing Exercise

something I do often to help free myself of writers block, and help inspire a new direction for my current work in progress. Let me know what you think.

Expression

My mother was doing that thing she did. That thing with the rag in the sink. She only did it when she was annoyed or angry, and today, it was both. I could tell because there were muted screams coming from the bottom of our metal sink underneath the coarse rag. I stood still in the doorway to the kitchen frozen, unsure if I should walk all the way in and disturb my mother's therapeutic cleansing or back out quietly. When I turned to leave, deciding the it might be best to let her temper cool down first, she called my name between her clenched teeth. At this point, I prayed that her anger wasn't a direct result of something I did. Moms always had a way of knowing everything.

Turning slowly back around to face her I said, “Yeah mom?”

“We need to talk.” She finally said after a few long minutes. It felt like they were the longest minutes of my life only to be interrupted by the four most horrifying words any teenager dreaded. We need to talk.

“O-okay. Sure.” I said uncomfortably, sitting down at the dining room table. I watched her throw the rag into the sink, and sigh. She still had her back to me, which unsettled me even more. I knew she was upset by something I did. Her body language screamed it. I was also pretty sure what this talk was about too.

“I got a call from your principle today.” She started. Yep, it's definitely what I thought this was about. Great.

“Oh, yeah? Why?” I tried to sound ignorant which made her jerk around to face me. Her eyes were blazing.

“Why? Oh, I think you know why young lady.” She clenched the side of the counter, her knuckles growing white. Ignorance wasn't quite working out like I had hoped. Then again, did it ever? I blew out a sigh.

“Mom, honestly-” She cut me off. I hated it when she did that.

“'We were drinking champagne and losing our shirts'? Really?” She screamed incredulity. Her blatant anger started to fuel mine. I ripped my body out of the chair.

“It was just a stupid piece of fictional writing. An assignment, like Mr. Werner asked. That's all!” I said, my voice rising an octave. I didn't like to be cornered. What did she know about expressing artistic curiosity anyway?

“Well, Mr. Werner said that there were some explicit suggestions in your writing that weren't exactly suitable for school. Oh Clary, you couldn't write about something else a little more, appropriate?” Mom asked, taking a seat at the table. She was visibly worn, and I suddenly imagined her standing at the sink grinding down the metal all afternoon to ease her anger.

“It was fiction, mom. Fake! We're told to express our imagination in class, and that's what I was doing. What else am I supposed to write about? 'Margaret had this habit of spitting. It began to get on my nerves.'” I mocked, slumping into my seat again. That stuff was boring. I much preferred interesting to boring.

“I understand that girls your age have certain curiosities about life, but instead of announcing them to the class inappropriately, why don't you try talking with me about them. Or maybe even keep a journal if you aren't comfortable with me.” She pleaded. I didn't meet her gaze.

I cast my moody glare on the short length of wall that led into the kitchen/dining room area. My eyes caught the oblong shadow of a faint stain on the wall near the base board. A memory flashed through my mind, taking me back to simpler days.

I was five. In an effort to surprise my mother with breakfast in bed, I prowled around in the kitchen, gathering things on a bed tray. It was the oddest breakfast feast known to man. There were chocolate chip cookies broken apart and precariously dumped into fruit loops. I managed to pour milk into the bowl without a huge mess. My simple mind replayed those stupid wholesome commercials exhibiting a perfectly prepared breakfast on a tray representing what every good American should be consuming everyday before work. Something was missing from my perfect display, orange juice. Problem was, we didn't keep any in the house, mom was allergic. So I had the brilliant idea of substituting purplish kool-aide instead. That was a bad idea but hindsight was twenty-twenty right?

Everything was put together skillfully on the tray. I started to pull it off the counter, and things went down hill from there. Kool-aide splashed everywhere, turning the puddles of fruit looped chocolate chip cookies lavender along with the wall. Broken glass went everywhere. Mom wasn't even mad, really. She just told me that it was the thought that counted more than the gesture itself.

What happened to those simple days where I just wanted to please my mother instead of cause grief for her?

“Clary? Are you listening to me?” Mom prodded, bringing me back to the present. I straightened up in the seat.

“Sure mom. I heard you. I will ask the teacher if my work is appropriate enough for the rest of the class so this doesn't happen again. I'm sorry. I will try my best to express my individuality in a more appropriate manor next time.” I huffed, getting up from the table. I shuffled myself upstairs to my room rolling the memory over in my mind.

I knew where the simpler days went. They left with my father, when he decided that family life was too much for him to handle.