I am in a weird mood, so I decided to start browsing the website of my high school, and came across a current syllabus page for a creative writing class taught by one of my old teachers Mrs. Miller.  I guess I got carried away because I ended up doing the assignment for descriptive essay #3 just for the hell of it. Then I emailed it to her. Here’s the assignment:

You have recently read several tutorials on figurative language: metaphor, simile, personification. Now you are to write an essay of at least two typed pages in length in which you use figurative language on at least twelve occasions.
You may choose from the following choices:
A. Describe your dream house of the future.
B. Describe a place that is special to you.
C. Describe what life would be like in a past time, such as the medieval world or colonial times.
D. Describe a perfect wedding, birthday celebration, or other special celebration.
E. Pick a topic of your choice that will meet the requirements.

And my essay I wrote tonight(JTHS stands for Jim Thorpe High School)

Descriptive Essay #3 (slightly late)
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I pause.  A blinking cursor signals an s.o.s. beacon in blinding white sands.  A vast desert of emptiness spans my vision.  I try to think of my special place.  I attempt to warp my mind into a past time. A time so endlessly long ago I have trouble comprehending it. My mind isn’t quite working.

I try to forget what it is like now, with my apartment in the city.  I must forget that where I am is in my own dream house of the future. I glance over my shoulder.  A bright college degree hangs, elegantly framed on pristine white walls.  A dark plasma screen TV sits on slick black glass.  A row of game controllers neatly set across a crystal coffee table. A smile comes to my lips.  I slide my hand into my jeans and my fingertips read the business card that carries my name. Game Designer. Now is the future from back then. Now is happiness.

It is starting to work now, my mind.  As I type I am beginning to remember more about my special place, stripping away my possessions. I must forget my happiness to get there.  I start with reciting those letters, ‘JTHS’ and my world stretches apart.  It reminds me of the awkward way my jaw had to expand to utter the syllables: Jim Thorpe. Thourpe. Thooouurpe.  Such a bizarre sound.  The sound echoes in my ears and ricochets inside the walls of my skull, transforming into inaudible voices. It begins to rattle me back to that time. So long ago.

I am afraid. Perhaps I don’t want to remember.

I pause again.  I scan the paragraphs I have just written.  It looks like a message now.  A message scrawled in the white sand: an alert for others in case a don’t make it back.  I am a mad scientist lost in the desert, just scribbling notes on whatever is nearby. I am trying to unlock some mystery.  The mystery of time travel.  I know I am close.

My heart rate is increasing. I measure it in my head like this is some kind of experiment.  My fingers quiver because of the unknown.  I begin to sweat.  I know that with every keystroke I dig deeper into my memories. I am a surgeon digging through blood and flesh.  I know not what lies beneath it.  Suddenly a flash.

I am in a public restroom, bright florescent lights illuminate the sterile scene.  All is white, aside from bold thick stripes of red and blue on the smooth walls.  I hear the voices of hundreds outside the door.

A cafeteria.

I reach my pale, bony hand under the sink faucet and turn the knob.  A perfect pillar of white water rushes from the pristine spicket on to my waiting fingers, sounding like a barely audible static.  I notice the pillar breaks its symmetry as it impacts my palm. The water feels cold and clean.  I get a strange feeling as I rotate my hand in the now chaotic rushing water, watching the tiny bubbles form and then pop on my skin, fizzing like seltzer. I feel some impending doom in my chest, like an inevitable unavoidable terror is about to overtake me.  I lift my head to see my own reflection in the mirror.

I quickly look away.

A shot of adrenaline floods my veins and I tense my muscles.  I take a deep breath and glance to make sure all the stalls are empty.  I slowly crane my head back up and stare into my own eyes.  It is brutal.  My cheeks are ravaged with pimples. The florescent light amplifies my greasy skin.  I blink to try to unsee my face, but it only makes my view crisper.  Every inch of my forehead is red with bumps, some are bright white, glistening in sweat.  I furrow my brow but it only causes physical pain.  My face feels like it has an extra layer caked onto it, and any expression I make will cause it to crack and bleed. I want to cup my hands in the foaming white water and splash it on my face, but I fear any pressure could cause a rupture. My head feels like a balloon, like a delicate artifact. My breathing is irregular, and I am sweating more.  I feel it coming out of my pores, under my chin and behind my ears. It streams in the crevices of my nose. It feels like all my internal fluids are seeping out of me to be deposited on the outside. I turn my head and notice a dab of blood on my earlobe.  Instantly, I want to grab it and squeeze it,  to force it all out in one violent motion, to bring everything in me out all at once. But that is foolish. I know such physical exertion would only flush my face with more redness, so I must stay calm.  I slowly tear a paper towel from the dispenser and pat my hands dry with it.  I lightly press it against my ear to absorb the blood.  My eyes begin to water.  They are the only part of me that is clean and normal.  I see in them the secret sadness that I see in others eyes when I am faced with them.  When I am as close to someone as I am now to this mirror, they see what I see. This is the elephant in the room that no one speaks of.  They will have a pained look, if only for a split second, that shows me their mind is thinking only of my acne.  I see teachers thinking of their children, praying they do not end up like this. Students breathe a sign of relief, only for an instant, thankful they are not in my skin. These moments of pity are forever. Even as I am laughing, the  weight of 1000 elephants reminds me of it. One for every zit on my face. They burn me every second of every day that passes here, in this bathroom.  It is my special place.  It is where I must stare at the truth.  It is where I am cut to the core of my being.  It is where I must realize my flaws.  It is what I try to forget.

I snap my hand from the keys and bring it to my cheek.  It is smooth.  I am in the future again.  No, the present.  I tilt my head back and stare at the ceiling, mind reeling. I split the window blinds with my fingertips and stare into a dark sky, its horizon sprinkled with flecks of light.  Skyscrapers.  People. Perspective.

Relief.

I am in the opposite of my special place now. My mind relaxes.  Another flash.

I see nothing.  I only feel a frigid autumn breeze on my cheek. I hear it menacing through nearby trees, trying to drown out chirping crickets. My hands are encased in a slimy fleece lining inside my jacket pockets. I rub my fingers together to feel sweat sliding over them.  Again I feel a sense of anticipation.  The wind becomes louder, building. More dread in my chest. Suddenly, there is a warmth on my lips.  A soft wetness presses on me, and I no longer feel the fleece lining, or my fingertips.  I feel only my heartbeat, competing with the pulse of another that is surging through me.  The grass falls out from under my feet and I am floating. My imagination is jumbled.  My bearings are lost. My ears are ringing.  The cold air dries my hands instantly as I expose them.  I am blind and grasping.  I plant my palm on a neck that is smooth and firm. I try to stabilize myself. I tilt my head forward in dizziness with my lips glued to this feeling.  A feeling of numbness.  I taste nothing as a foreign tongue begins to slide gently against mine. I yearn for a texture but my senses are overloaded. I lift my eyelids but only see the trees and the stars being pulled into infinity.  I am in a vacuum. In this dimensionless place, an eyelash flutters against mine. My entirety is jolted.  This intersection with another destroys my mind. My soul is violently and irreparably severed, spilling out raw emotion. The heat I feel through my jacket boils the air between us, sucking us together with inhuman force. In a panic, I attempt to freeze this moment; set a place for it in the dusty part of my brain and I try to live there forever.

Floating.

But slowly, my grip loosens. The wind and crickets rush back in a break our seal. Quickly, stretched images reform in front of my eyes. The soles of my feet compress as the grass returns to them. My head falls back and our lips part, bringing a smiling face in to view.  The setting has now returned, but my feeling is different. I feel everything. I am transported. Here, the air is no longer chilly, it is relaxing and cool. In this place, my jacket lining is soft and comforting.  Here I look into the eyes of someone else and see truth.  A first kiss. It is my special place.  It is what I try to remember.

My eyes scour the text above, fingers quivering, face bathed in the steady white glow of the monitor. I have done it.  My experiment is complete. My heart rate slows.

Wait.

The black text starts to bleed into the white background.  The whole thing, my scientific record is turning to gray. The wind is blowing over my message in the sand. Am I forgetting already? The light on my face dims slightly. I look over my shoulder.  My walls are specked with dirt, and my framed degree is gray.  The controllers are strewn about on the table haphazardly. I am seeing the smudges on my plasma screen for the first time.  I stand up and walk to a mirror, I examine my face and see faint scars.  I am feeling everything again.  This experiment has changed me.

Flustered, I yank a string and my window blinds zip open. I stare into the dark sky again, city lights faintly outlining the array of buildings.  I look above them and there are no flecks of light. I see only bright streaks expanding diagonally in all directions.

It’s the stars.  They’re still stretched out to infinity.
I sit down and begin to type.

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Kurt Margenau
11/23/2008
Period 3.14, creative writing
JTHS class of 2003