Creative Writing

1. Mother marrying Chad. <greatest man I’ve ever met>

Chad gave me guidance. He has become my best friend and my

2. (really long period of time but…) Dating Danielle. Learned what I want and do NOT want in a relationship.

3. Finding out I have asthma and am allergic to Trees, Grass, Dogs and Cats.

san andreas fault

breaks 5000 mph.

avg break is 2.5 inches a year… over long geologic period. can move a lot

10 breaks over 2500 years on actual MAJOR san andreas fault.

build perpendicular trench. can find triangles of sedimentary rocks; record an earthquake event. fissure filled with sediment.

time gap between p and s.  convert into distance w/ graph.  plot distance on seismogram.  use amplitude scale <largest wave> plot amplitude on right. where intersect = magnitude.

I push my way through the crowd, hoping to get a better view of the wooden platform. My eyes aren’t as good as my older brother’s. Whenever we’d go out to hunt he always saw the deer before I did. But he wasn’t here with me today. He hadn’t given an explanation when he left three weeks ago; he just walked out the door.
My mother’s concern when he left was evident instantly, yet my father calmed her quickly. He was good with that kind of stuff. Traveling horseback from hour home in Lyon to Paris was only a three day trip, but to take two weeks, began to worry my father too. They feared the worst, so my father left two days ago, hoping to bring back my brother; alive.
As I reached the stage, I learned that my father was successful. Kinda.
Standing before me was my brother, looking ragged. His new white cravat was blood stained from noticeable cuts and scrapes on his face. How did this happen? Why would they take my brother? What could he have done to credit a noose around his neck?
I scream towards him, praying he hears my voice but if he does he doesn’t let on. He stands tall and confident, almost proud; as if his death means something positive. It doesn’t hit me until he turns to his left. My father stands there with him.
Why? What could my father have done? He fought nobly for that disgusting King Louis the XIV during his shitty war against Spain. Why would they want to hang a well-respected war veteran? He hasn’t done anything at all to warrant such disrespect.
As I plan to rush the stage, a strong callused hand covers my mouth as another one pulls me by the shoulder backwards. “Shhhh stay silent, I am a friend of your father’s,” is whispered in my ear as the hands slowly remove themselves from my body. “Follow me, but stay back,” he says over his shoulder as he begins making his way back away from the platform.
I stand still though, almost immobilized by the shock of seeing my father and brother with a noose around their neck. I stare blankly at them; watch as the wooden stand falls from beneath their feet. As their bodies become limp I turn around, I feel different, stronger almost. I begin making my way to the callused man.

The woman sits on the floor of her flat, surrounded by dusty unopened, moving cartons packed seventeen months ago. Moonbeams, the only light, spill into the window.
“I can’t stand looking at these boxes anymore. Every time I lay eyes on them I’m brought back to the day of his wake.
The school gave us a week after his funeral to get pack up all his stuff and move it out. A god damn week! They said they needed the room; that their residence halls were filled to the brim and another student needed Jake’s room.
You’d figure a school would at least allow a family to mourn. They’re the reason he’s dead. I told him that VCU was not the school for a kid like him. He was too nice, not safe enough for him. But he said it was the best art school in the state, insisted that he would be okay. That those hobos sleeping in the park don’t bother the students.
But no, two dollars and fifty cents, that’s it, not even enough to pay for a high school lunch! A knife to the stomach. The ambulance said he was dead in fifteen minutes. Fifteen long minutes my baby was left alone. Alone. I swear I could hear him calling my name. He was screaming it and I could hear him in my sleep. I swear.
But I didn’t know where he was.
I couldn’t save him.
But I can’t live with this anymore. Always walking past his room to my bed every night before I go to sleep. I can’t live with it. We’re moving. I decided instantly that we would have to leave. Move away. We didn’t even unpack his stuff when we brought it “home.”
“Home” what a shitty term. “Home is where the heart is” and my heart’s buried six feet under in downtown Richmond. An hour away from our “home.” That’s why I’m taking my reborn family of two to start a-new in Miami. Hopefully the sun and the all around joy of Miami will keep Jake out of my head.
He’s always there. Always walking around my head. Smiling at me as he scored a goal for his High School soccer team. Finding my face in the crowd, making a cross with his finder across his chest and blowing me a kiss.
But he’s gone.”
“So, where do you want me to load up those boxes Mrs. Joakson?”

There’s something about the way she moves…

There’ something about the way she moves that captivates me. The way the right side of her lip curls more than the left when she smiles. Giggling at something said not too long ago. She gives me that look, the look that everything is good and happy in the world. No matter what goes wrong that look reassures me. Stressed from school and sports I turn to her. Those reassuring words. I’ve always been told “it’s not what you say but how you say it that matters.” She captures this saying and uses it to her advantage. It doesn’t matter that she can’t find the perfect word to calm me down, it only matters that she’s the one doing it.

She drives me crazy with that long flowing brown hair of hers. She’s always complaining that it’s too long, always joking that she’ll cut it off. But we both know she won’t. It’s long and obviously brunette. Her hair feels wavy and thick as I run my fingers through it. But still that’s not enough. She wants it shorter but short hair on girls is weird. I’m not a fan, never have been. But on her we won’t know. Just a trim she says. Just a trim. So I believe her. Wait for the time to come when she really does get it cut. But we won’t know for a while.

It’s in a bun now. In two seconds it’s in a clip. Another three and it’s being held back by a beautiful hair band with a flower on it. Oops, now it’s braided. I wonder who braided her hair. Her dad? Her roommate? I don’t know. All I know is that it wasn’t her. Long beautiful thick hair her whole life and she can’t braid it herself. It’s fun to watch her as she changes it throughout the day. Never the same as she goes from Zumba to class to my couch.

I tell her she’s beautiful but I think she takes it as another one of my sarcastic jokes. I tell her she’s gorgeous, a princess, but she thinks I mock. I don’t. She is what is good in the world. Calming. Silent. Loud. Cooling on my forever warm body. Warming on my strangely frozen feet. As she walks in the room music controls my mind. Random songs that were stuck twenty seconds before.

“Listen, do you want to know a secret? Do you promise not to tell? Closer, Let me whisper in your ear, Say the words you long to hear.” The Beatles get it, it’s a secret, always is, always will be. But we don’t mind because, “hey, you’ve got to hide your love away.”

Me llamo Marissa.

I was named after my mother who was named after her mother who was named after her mother as well, you get the picture. Marissa is a family name; we can’t even track down the original Marissa. As you’ve probably be able to figure out, my daughter is also named Marissa.

My name is basically the only thing I share with my family, other than my heritage of course. I am the youngest of five children, the only one to be born in the Dominican Republic where we all grew up. Our family grew up comfortably middle class, of course, in the Dominican Republic that means that we had just enough food to scrape by on.

Because I was the youngest of the bunch, and the only help she had in the kitchen, my mother always made sure I had enough food to stay healthy. My brothers hated me for that, they called me a baby and mocked me endlessly. The mocking stopped only when my mother’s heart did as well.

She was the smartest person I’ve ever met. She became the inspiration for me to get my high school diploma. I was the only one in my family to ever get his or her high school diploma. My brothers were all on the family farm by the time they were sixteen. That’s the average life of a man in the Dominican Republic. Grow up, learn to read and write, then hit the farm.

My one wish is to have all my kids graduate from high school. My baby Marissa is the only child I have this far but Javier and I plan on having more, that is, when he gets out of prison. One time busted with drugs and Marissa is left without a father. Luckily our community here in Florida is a lot safer than what I’m accustomed to. But, our family will be together again in just four months.

So far though Marissa has been strong in just searching and exploring everything nature has to offer. I swear she’s never in the shoes I put on her! It’s crazy. When I was her age all I did was wear any clothes I could find. I’m a single mother and still I have more to offer than my mother did. She’s spoiled and yet she wants nothing I have to offer. Hopefully as she grows up she’ll maintain her high level of curiosity and stay in school because if she graduates, there’s no doubt the other children will too. And I plan on having at least six.

Exercise on Page 18

How I express myself, a long history of different forms. Always different yet always the same; one building off the last. But what happens? How does one create something that expresses abstract emotion?

One can tell stories or draw. Those are basically the two most basic ways to express oneself in an artistic manner. Drawing lends itself to painting, photography, collages, sculpting and much more. I’m not good at that kind of art though. I can’t express something in “figure” form. It has to be expressed in word. This is a good segue into writing about telling stories which leads to written form which is again divided into poems, literature, biography, philosophy, I could go on forever.

I personally tell stories. I love speaking and just telling people about what’s current and happening in my life. I lose track of my thoughts quickly though. I’ve found that being able to write down what is happening allows me to organize and really clarify what I’m trying to say. I hate describing a specific scene though. The first assignment was horrible. I took almost five hours to write a little over a page. I just can’t write like that. Enough about me though, telling stories in written form.

It started with Grendel and Beowulf. Or, that’s at least what a lot of people believe to be the first story. I love written stories. That’s probably why I’m majoring in English. The best written stories, in my opinion at least are definitely during the “forgotten era.” That’s the era approximately between the two World Wars; from about 1914 to 1945. There were a lot of great authors.

Hemingway is one of my favorite authors. His short story “Hills Like White Elephants” was/is amazing. I’ve had to analyze that one work three times and still I find something new out every time I read it. The way he uses minor details and MAINLY dialogue is remarkable. That work made me want to pursue Linguistics as a minor.

Another personal favorite is Fitzgerald. His novel The Great Gatsby got me interested in reading. I read it sophomore year and the way he shows the selfishness of people through their actions is remarkable. Every time I have to describe an action I try to put myself at Fitzgerald’s typewriter. I start with a basic action, and then expand, forever adding the slightest necessary detail.

The epitome of writing in that period is Steinbeck. The Grapes of Wrath is one of the greatest American novels. How he finds a way to express the vast amounts of love man is capable of in such a personally trying time that is the Great Depression fathoms me. His description of the American journey to California, he took the novel and made it a historical document. Granted Homer did this millennia before him doesn’t matter. He took the emotions that most Mid-west farmers were experiencing and put them into 400 pages. The best part is: he made it inspiring.

Travis Quattlebaum
13 September 2011

Donation without Representation

Your locks reach down to your
bra strap. The sun through the window
reflects off each blond strand.
As we lie together I struggle to
breathe. Your golden tangles escape
into my mouth with each inhale.
Yet,
still it grows. Down to the small
of your back. Your T-shirt’s
detail is lost behind your curls.
As we lie together you struggle to
not roll onto your mane as you
toss and turn.
Yet,
still it grows, inching south,
over your shorts, covering
up love notes concealed within
your pockets. Struggling to impede
advancing knots, we don’t lie together.
You sit and brush while I watch
television.
Now,
it is gone. Three years of growth
and dedication. Donated last summer
to a child unable to grow
her own. New joy found in
old stress. Now you begin again,
new hair to accompany a new
life. Your old hair long departed.
Just like
you.

I tumble down the hole
grasping for a hand hold,
I grab onto a piece of coal
instead of hot, it’s only cold.

You pull me down,
tugging at my flesh and bone,
I feel the air escape. I drown.
I sense you there, but I’m alone.

Hatred is what is forcing
us into all of this hate.
The life light slips, becoming
smaller as I accelerate at 9.8.

Yet, when I see you again
I will still love you
because it’s all I can do to maintain
a sane life, remain true.

-Travis Quattlebaum

Wanna Join Our Band?

The Quarry Men?
What a joke! I can’t believe
That Paul asked me to join
This stupid band. No way in Hell!
Paul’s Höfner 500/1 is bigger than
Him! Don’t even get me started on
John’s voice. No way am I joining
This retched band.
Elvis
Buddy Holly
Little Richard
Decent covers but nothing original.
I can’t imagine playing guitar for this
“band.”

But I am pretty awesome on
The Stratocaster! And my writing
Improves with every song.
They’ll probably depend on me
A lot to come up with originals.
Seriously,
We can’t cover songs forever.
That’s it, we could call ourselves
“George and the Gang.”
We’d be famous! But no, I think,

“I’ll pass.”
I tell Paul,
“I mean, we don’t even have
A decent drummer.”

-Travis Quattlebaum

Donation without Representation

Your locks reach down to you
Bra strap. Blonde as the sun
Reflects off each individual strand.
As we lay together I struggle to
Breath. Those golden strings sucked
Into my mouth with each inhale.
Yet,
Still it grows. Down to the small
Of your back. Every T-shirt’s
Detail is lost behind your curls.
As we lay together you struggle to
Not roll onto your mane as you
Toss and turn.
Yet,
Still it grows, inching lower down,
Over your shorts, covering
Up love notes concealed within
Your pockets. Struggling to hinder
Tangles, we don’t lie together. You
Sit and brush while I watch
Television.
Now,
It is gone. Three years of growth
And dedication. Donated last summer
To a child unable to grow
Her own. New joy found in
Old stress. Now you begin again,
New hair to accompany a new
Life. Your old hair long departed.
Just like
You.

shift + enter = linebreak

enter = paragraph break

section3

put name at bottom of post