Clicks and Clacks
Debra Fiscus
Edinboro University of Pennsylvania
Edinboro University of Pennsylvania
I sit at my small desk, staring at the chipping white paint and lead scratchings under my fingertips. The sun’s rays stream through the dusty blinds of my window and run horizontally from one end of my desk to the other, enclosing my laptop and notes. The bars of light mock me, like a prisoner in my own room, as I am forced to continue my college education from the confines of remote learning under the Covid-19 mitigation guidelines. My small, childhood desk feels like a cage. Once a place where I would scribble castles and beautiful mansions from my imagination, my desk now holds one of my only windows to the world: my MacBook.
My computer lies open on the desk, anticipating the next stroke and the crisp click of each key. I remember being pulled to its rose-gold shine from the end of the Best Buy aisle . Ignoring the attendant in bright blue, I walked down the aisle to finger the keys of the virgin MacBook. My hands cascaded over the sleek design, admiring the translucent letters covering the defined black keyboard. Each key felt natural under my fingertips; the delicate roll of the clicks and clacks could compete with any symphony. While my boyfriend sneered at the sight of my thousand-dollar MacBook, I knew the bond between a writer and her computer had no price. If I had to spend four years with a computer, we surely needed to get along.
My MacBook, purchased for typing novels to the whir of espresso machines and muffled chatter, takes refuge from a diseased world on my lead-marked desk. The sleek, rose-gold case sits immobile like a desktop Mac, designed as bulky and fat to remain stationary and hidden from the world. Her slender physique was not designed for her to remain still, but for her to be packed into a bag and taken from coffee shop, to hammock, to library, to school. Her collapsible frame predestined to sit on her writer’s lap before a cluster of peers meeting over coffee among the fluorescent green student lounge couches to finish a group project.
Instead of being my companion in the world, my MacBook is my cellmate. Ever since Covid-19 forced my small-town university into remote learning, the mundane routine of rolling out of bed, logging onto Zoom, and unmuting my microphone at least once during class has been my college life. Looking into my sullen face staring back at me from behind the smudges of my computer screen, I fail to see the girl who cared more about the clicks and clacks of her computer keys than the price of her costly connection.
Distracted by the greasy smudges illuminated by sunlight on my screen, I refuse to hear the beautiful melody of the keys or admire the metallic shine of the pink case. I can only feel the strain of my eyes against the powerful blue light as I massage the stabbing pain in my lower-back. Bent over before the computer for hours, I practically bow to the shrine that is the virtual screen. My fingers loathe to stroke the keyboard, now covered in Dorito dust and lint. The clicks and clacks taunt me with every key, reminding me of the hypnotic symphony that coaxed my fingers over the keyboard – a bond lost in the hours before the blinding blue light.
Once the student who gained muscles by carrying stacks of books from the library for my research, I now sit stationary and immobile at my desk, trying to hide from a world that continues to self-destruct. My mind feels as bulky and fat as the desktop Mac. I find myself diving into an assignment the day it is due, googling random sources with long blocks of quotes to reach the minimum page length. Instead of thoughtfully typing an essay on the ideas of Thoreau in a modern world while sipping spiced chai from a speckled blue mug, I labor over fifteen pages that explain the psychological effects of remote learning while chugging two bottles of Cherry Coke from my parents’ refrigerator.
Unable to reach the minimum page length, I begin texting friends, begging them to complain about their sore eyes, aching backs, sullen faces, declining sleep, and increased “happy” pills to add as evidence to my own complaints. In an absence of inspiration, their voices guide my fingers across the keyboard. I begin to hear each key forming a melody as stories from the people I love begin to weave throughout the rushed research thrown on the page. Words that previously ran dry now pour through my fingers as personal accounts of real people blossom on the page. Through the accounts of my peers, I feel closer to the mutter of the crowd and the students lounging on espresso-stained couches. My MacBook begins to draw me back to the sensual world, amid the soft clicks and clacks of the keys.
My computer lies open on the desk, anticipating the next stroke and the crisp click of each key. I remember being pulled to its rose-gold shine from the end of the Best Buy aisle . Ignoring the attendant in bright blue, I walked down the aisle to finger the keys of the virgin MacBook. My hands cascaded over the sleek design, admiring the translucent letters covering the defined black keyboard. Each key felt natural under my fingertips; the delicate roll of the clicks and clacks could compete with any symphony. While my boyfriend sneered at the sight of my thousand-dollar MacBook, I knew the bond between a writer and her computer had no price. If I had to spend four years with a computer, we surely needed to get along.
My MacBook, purchased for typing novels to the whir of espresso machines and muffled chatter, takes refuge from a diseased world on my lead-marked desk. The sleek, rose-gold case sits immobile like a desktop Mac, designed as bulky and fat to remain stationary and hidden from the world. Her slender physique was not designed for her to remain still, but for her to be packed into a bag and taken from coffee shop, to hammock, to library, to school. Her collapsible frame predestined to sit on her writer’s lap before a cluster of peers meeting over coffee among the fluorescent green student lounge couches to finish a group project.
Instead of being my companion in the world, my MacBook is my cellmate. Ever since Covid-19 forced my small-town university into remote learning, the mundane routine of rolling out of bed, logging onto Zoom, and unmuting my microphone at least once during class has been my college life. Looking into my sullen face staring back at me from behind the smudges of my computer screen, I fail to see the girl who cared more about the clicks and clacks of her computer keys than the price of her costly connection.
Distracted by the greasy smudges illuminated by sunlight on my screen, I refuse to hear the beautiful melody of the keys or admire the metallic shine of the pink case. I can only feel the strain of my eyes against the powerful blue light as I massage the stabbing pain in my lower-back. Bent over before the computer for hours, I practically bow to the shrine that is the virtual screen. My fingers loathe to stroke the keyboard, now covered in Dorito dust and lint. The clicks and clacks taunt me with every key, reminding me of the hypnotic symphony that coaxed my fingers over the keyboard – a bond lost in the hours before the blinding blue light.
Once the student who gained muscles by carrying stacks of books from the library for my research, I now sit stationary and immobile at my desk, trying to hide from a world that continues to self-destruct. My mind feels as bulky and fat as the desktop Mac. I find myself diving into an assignment the day it is due, googling random sources with long blocks of quotes to reach the minimum page length. Instead of thoughtfully typing an essay on the ideas of Thoreau in a modern world while sipping spiced chai from a speckled blue mug, I labor over fifteen pages that explain the psychological effects of remote learning while chugging two bottles of Cherry Coke from my parents’ refrigerator.
Unable to reach the minimum page length, I begin texting friends, begging them to complain about their sore eyes, aching backs, sullen faces, declining sleep, and increased “happy” pills to add as evidence to my own complaints. In an absence of inspiration, their voices guide my fingers across the keyboard. I begin to hear each key forming a melody as stories from the people I love begin to weave throughout the rushed research thrown on the page. Words that previously ran dry now pour through my fingers as personal accounts of real people blossom on the page. Through the accounts of my peers, I feel closer to the mutter of the crowd and the students lounging on espresso-stained couches. My MacBook begins to draw me back to the sensual world, amid the soft clicks and clacks of the keys.
Debra Fiscus is a junior at Edinboro University, double majoring in Secondary Education and English Literature with a minor in Creative Writing. Outside of school, she is a passionate equestrian: she teaches lessons to beginner riders and cares for her own horse and miniature donkey. To view more of Debra's work, click on this link: https://sites.google.com/view/debrasfiscus/home.
Awkward First Dates
Hazel Modlin
Edinboro University of Pennsylvania
Edinboro University of Pennsylvania
On an average day in the middle of an average week, I asked my first boyfriend out on a date. Ben was a sweet guy, a tall blond with gangly limbs, which he moved with all the elegance of an awkward giraffe still learning to walk. He was only a year older than I was, landing himself in junior year while I was still a sophomore. He was funny, but never rudely so—all puns and dry humor. It had been a long week, filled with endless marching band exercises in the rapidly cooling weather thanks to the early December breezes, and I was looking forward to the weekend. For the first time in ages, I had absolutely nothing planned except for rest and relaxation. At this point, my family knew about my crush on Ben, and they acted according to our Family Code, which required them to tease me mercilessly about it; so much so that I decided enough was enough—I was going to ask him out. I cornered him after practice, and the conversation went something like this:
“Hey,” I started, opting for casual, but instead sounded like I huffed helium for a living.
“Hey,” he responded, clearly equally as uncomfortable.
He had been shy around me lately, and I took that as a subtle sign that he might possibly return my affections. That, and the fact that he had started to share small smiles with me that made my cheeks approach the temperature of the surface of the sun when I talked to him. We stood there regarding each other as the seconds ticked by; I then realized that, as the conversation’s initiator, I should probably continue.
“So, uh, do you have any plans this weekend?” I managed to squeak out, confidence rapidly draining now that I was in Ben’s presence. This was stupid… why did I ever think this was a good idea?
“Not really,” he told me, “do you?”
It was now or never. He was officially free, and if I let this chance slip by me, my courage would never recover enough to allow me to try again.
“Do you… want… to come over? This weekend?” I tried. That was close, but not quite enough. That could be interpreted as friendly. “As a date, maybe?” That was solid. It clearly ended in a question, even if it did sound like I was questioning myself.
“Oh, yeah, sure,” he said. He agreed! “That’d be nice,” he finished lamely, but I didn’t care; I was still riding the teenage high of scoring my first date ever.
Looking back on it, there were several miscalculations I made that should have rung warning bells in my head. First: I should never have invited a potential partner to my house for a first date, especially when my family was home. This advice sounds suggestive, but it’s really not. It just means that my family, out of love, will never let me live down said events of my first date for the rest of my life. Next: Because my date involved a meal, I should have made sure we ate a dish my date was familiar with. The moment the phrase “It’s been a while since I’ve eaten Tikka Masala” fell from his lips, I should have put an end to the whole thing, but it’s a dish that my family eats fairly often. Instead, I simply reassured him that he’d like the flavors my dad uses for his special version, complete with cauliflower and a few spices he refuses to share out of secrecy. Finally: When planning the date, I should have realized it was important that both parties have their own licenses, and so they could drive themselves home without experiencing the embarrassment of calling their parents frantically from their potential partner’s bathroom, incapable of leaving, lest they puke all over the floor.
It was the beginning of December, so Christmas-mania had already vomited all over my house: tinsel lining staircases, holly hanging from the chandelier, sentimental ornaments and multi-colored twinkling lights covering the tree. After Ben arrived, we sprawled over couches in my living room. Well, I sprawled—Ben poised himself rigidly; ah, yes, date, my mind helpfully supplied. But how does one act on a date? Different from usual? The same? I was lost in a confusing whirlwind of thoughts before I realized Ben had asked me a question.
“Did you say you had animals?” he asked, looking for any excuse to break the silence. He’s right! I did! So of course, logically, the next step was for me to take off without a response, grab Zoya—my majestic, black-furred cat, who was probably a princess in one of her past lives and made sure we treated her as such—and hurry back to the living room where I had left Ben.
“Yeah,” I said breathlessly, “here she is!” And like magic, the tension melted.
As it turned out, Ben shared my love of fantasy books, and, much later on, ended up suggesting me the Game of Thrones series, which I would eventually come to know and love. We talked about the joys of kayaking, the most recent films we both were excited to see, and much more. By the time dinner rolled around, we had gotten through some of the more awkward conversation starters, and I was excited for him to meet my family. They’re my favorite people, and I love introducing them to my friends. We rushed into the kitchen, spooning ourselves plates full of Tikka Masala, and sat down at the table. Dinner was delectable, and I served myself a second helping as we made small talk. I noticed Ben had eaten only half of his plate and was now pushing the food around his dish, but I dismissed this observation without a second thought.
After dinner, Ben and I reconvened in the living room where we decided to play a board game. That’s when disaster struck: Ben politely excused himself to use the bathroom down the hall. I sat alone, occupying myself by rereading the directions to a game I’ve played dozens of times. Minutes passed. I subtly glanced down the hall to see if the door was still closed; it was. I began to hum, and the melodies of my favorite Simon and Garfunkel songs filled the air as I passed more time. Finally, Ben returned, patting me on the shoulder as he took a seat across from me. I smiled, glancing up, only to realize that his face had gone ghost-white. I did a double-take, worried about the sudden change.
“Do you want some tums?” I asked him, and he gratefully accepted, then suggested that we postpone our game until he felt better. We lounged around on the couches for a while, refusing to break the awkward silence that had engulfed us. Every now and then, we would make eye contact and smile uncomfortably. I ignored the silence because I didn’t know what to do about the situation, and at that point, he was too ill to care.
Soon, he turned to face me. “I feel like electricity is running up and down my spine.”
Half of a second passed, then he jumped up and sprinted from the room, hightailing it to the bathroom, and slammed the door. Gagging noises filled the hallway. I was now in full panic mode. What do you do when your date is vomiting in the bathroom? I sure as hell didn’t know, and I began pacing, unsure how to offer help. Ten minutes turned into half an hour, and there was still no sign of Ben. Eventually, I gathered enough courage to knock on the door.
“Are you okay in there?” I asked.
“Um, yeah. I think I’m going to call my dad though,” he told me, his voice muffled through the door. I felt my cheeks burn in second-hand embarrassment for him and uncomfortably shuffled away. The poor guy was glued to the side of a toilet at an unfamiliar house in the middle of a date. Thankfully, his dad did eventually come to rescue him, but it took another fifteen minutes for the man to arrive, and by then, Ben was likely mentally scarred by this experience for life.
Although romance novels are not my preferred genre, I have read my fair share. Guy meets girl, they share a life-changing experience, they kiss, and they fall in love. The End. Happily Ever After. I read it again; somehow, I seem to have missed the part where the guy throws up in the bathroom while the girl freaks out, unsure how to help or what to do. Like many ideas, we tend to romanticize love, raising it to unattainable standards. Never once have I felt the urge to board a plane to visit my partner’s favorite author as part of their dying wish, like Hazel and Augustus do in The Fault in Our Stars. Instead, I fumble and sweat my way through uncomfortable encounters hoping that one day, I’ll finally meet someone.
“Hey,” I started, opting for casual, but instead sounded like I huffed helium for a living.
“Hey,” he responded, clearly equally as uncomfortable.
He had been shy around me lately, and I took that as a subtle sign that he might possibly return my affections. That, and the fact that he had started to share small smiles with me that made my cheeks approach the temperature of the surface of the sun when I talked to him. We stood there regarding each other as the seconds ticked by; I then realized that, as the conversation’s initiator, I should probably continue.
“So, uh, do you have any plans this weekend?” I managed to squeak out, confidence rapidly draining now that I was in Ben’s presence. This was stupid… why did I ever think this was a good idea?
“Not really,” he told me, “do you?”
It was now or never. He was officially free, and if I let this chance slip by me, my courage would never recover enough to allow me to try again.
“Do you… want… to come over? This weekend?” I tried. That was close, but not quite enough. That could be interpreted as friendly. “As a date, maybe?” That was solid. It clearly ended in a question, even if it did sound like I was questioning myself.
“Oh, yeah, sure,” he said. He agreed! “That’d be nice,” he finished lamely, but I didn’t care; I was still riding the teenage high of scoring my first date ever.
Looking back on it, there were several miscalculations I made that should have rung warning bells in my head. First: I should never have invited a potential partner to my house for a first date, especially when my family was home. This advice sounds suggestive, but it’s really not. It just means that my family, out of love, will never let me live down said events of my first date for the rest of my life. Next: Because my date involved a meal, I should have made sure we ate a dish my date was familiar with. The moment the phrase “It’s been a while since I’ve eaten Tikka Masala” fell from his lips, I should have put an end to the whole thing, but it’s a dish that my family eats fairly often. Instead, I simply reassured him that he’d like the flavors my dad uses for his special version, complete with cauliflower and a few spices he refuses to share out of secrecy. Finally: When planning the date, I should have realized it was important that both parties have their own licenses, and so they could drive themselves home without experiencing the embarrassment of calling their parents frantically from their potential partner’s bathroom, incapable of leaving, lest they puke all over the floor.
It was the beginning of December, so Christmas-mania had already vomited all over my house: tinsel lining staircases, holly hanging from the chandelier, sentimental ornaments and multi-colored twinkling lights covering the tree. After Ben arrived, we sprawled over couches in my living room. Well, I sprawled—Ben poised himself rigidly; ah, yes, date, my mind helpfully supplied. But how does one act on a date? Different from usual? The same? I was lost in a confusing whirlwind of thoughts before I realized Ben had asked me a question.
“Did you say you had animals?” he asked, looking for any excuse to break the silence. He’s right! I did! So of course, logically, the next step was for me to take off without a response, grab Zoya—my majestic, black-furred cat, who was probably a princess in one of her past lives and made sure we treated her as such—and hurry back to the living room where I had left Ben.
“Yeah,” I said breathlessly, “here she is!” And like magic, the tension melted.
As it turned out, Ben shared my love of fantasy books, and, much later on, ended up suggesting me the Game of Thrones series, which I would eventually come to know and love. We talked about the joys of kayaking, the most recent films we both were excited to see, and much more. By the time dinner rolled around, we had gotten through some of the more awkward conversation starters, and I was excited for him to meet my family. They’re my favorite people, and I love introducing them to my friends. We rushed into the kitchen, spooning ourselves plates full of Tikka Masala, and sat down at the table. Dinner was delectable, and I served myself a second helping as we made small talk. I noticed Ben had eaten only half of his plate and was now pushing the food around his dish, but I dismissed this observation without a second thought.
After dinner, Ben and I reconvened in the living room where we decided to play a board game. That’s when disaster struck: Ben politely excused himself to use the bathroom down the hall. I sat alone, occupying myself by rereading the directions to a game I’ve played dozens of times. Minutes passed. I subtly glanced down the hall to see if the door was still closed; it was. I began to hum, and the melodies of my favorite Simon and Garfunkel songs filled the air as I passed more time. Finally, Ben returned, patting me on the shoulder as he took a seat across from me. I smiled, glancing up, only to realize that his face had gone ghost-white. I did a double-take, worried about the sudden change.
“Do you want some tums?” I asked him, and he gratefully accepted, then suggested that we postpone our game until he felt better. We lounged around on the couches for a while, refusing to break the awkward silence that had engulfed us. Every now and then, we would make eye contact and smile uncomfortably. I ignored the silence because I didn’t know what to do about the situation, and at that point, he was too ill to care.
Soon, he turned to face me. “I feel like electricity is running up and down my spine.”
Half of a second passed, then he jumped up and sprinted from the room, hightailing it to the bathroom, and slammed the door. Gagging noises filled the hallway. I was now in full panic mode. What do you do when your date is vomiting in the bathroom? I sure as hell didn’t know, and I began pacing, unsure how to offer help. Ten minutes turned into half an hour, and there was still no sign of Ben. Eventually, I gathered enough courage to knock on the door.
“Are you okay in there?” I asked.
“Um, yeah. I think I’m going to call my dad though,” he told me, his voice muffled through the door. I felt my cheeks burn in second-hand embarrassment for him and uncomfortably shuffled away. The poor guy was glued to the side of a toilet at an unfamiliar house in the middle of a date. Thankfully, his dad did eventually come to rescue him, but it took another fifteen minutes for the man to arrive, and by then, Ben was likely mentally scarred by this experience for life.
Although romance novels are not my preferred genre, I have read my fair share. Guy meets girl, they share a life-changing experience, they kiss, and they fall in love. The End. Happily Ever After. I read it again; somehow, I seem to have missed the part where the guy throws up in the bathroom while the girl freaks out, unsure how to help or what to do. Like many ideas, we tend to romanticize love, raising it to unattainable standards. Never once have I felt the urge to board a plane to visit my partner’s favorite author as part of their dying wish, like Hazel and Augustus do in The Fault in Our Stars. Instead, I fumble and sweat my way through uncomfortable encounters hoping that one day, I’ll finally meet someone.
Hazel Modlin is a senior English literature major at Edinboro University. When she's not in Edinboro, she resides in the suburbs of Pittsburgh, where she has two dogs and two cats. Her favorite activity is curling up with a good book, a cup of coffee, and a blanket. Her love for literature has inspired her to work as an editor once she's graduated!
Cold Tomato Soup
Madison Zediker
Edinboro University of Pennsylvania
Edinboro University of Pennsylvania
I unwrap the delicate pile of folded clothes that were prepared the night before, putting on my collared shirt, buttoned to the top, so I do not distract. I step into my skirt, hovering just below the knee so that I do not tempt. I roll up my white stockings over freshly shaven legs, thick and tightly knitted so I do not attract. I brush my hair out, freeing it from the knots my pillow made. I take my three silver pins and wrap my hair into a tight bun, making sure there are no stray hairs. I clasp my necklace around my neck and tuck the pendant into the shirt, sliding my feet into my black, buckled shoes and open my bedroom door. I am ready, washed, brushed, and presentable. I step onto the bus, examining all the faces that are before me, passing by rows and rows of look-a-likes until I find my seat.
I stare out the bus window, thinking about the last day of 6th grade. The glass is covered in fingerprints from the children that sat here before me. Before the bell rang and my last summer as a child could begin, my teacher said her goodbyes to us and ended her speech with a sentence that confused me for the next three months.
“Children, the next two years of your time here will be a little different than what you have become used to. You will still learn many subjects, laugh with your friends, and love God. But, you will be getting confirmed soon, and you need to be prepared to discuss the adult topics that the church faces.”
The phrase “adult” spins around in my head as I look at my classroom assignment one last time before the bus drives past our church and into the school’s parking lot. I step off the bus and into my new religious adulthood.
The bell rings as I tuck my skirt under my hands and take my seat. I examine the two boys sitting on both sides of me and I am pleased to see a familiar face.
“Hey, do you know what that means?” ask the familiar face.
He directs my attention to the whiteboard and points at a word written in a red marker. I give it a good look over. The word is foreign, but the sound in my head is familiar. I remember hearing it during a sermon once, but I was too confused to pay attention.
The second bell rings and all of us rise from our seats and stand up straight in unison, awaiting the arrival of our new teacher. She walks in and gives us a nod, the signal most teachers use when they want us at ease. We take our seats, pull out our pencils, and give our full attention.
After we said our morning prayers and blessings, we were ready for our first “adult” religion class. I didn’t see any workbooks anywhere in the classroom. All my other classmates must have noticed this as well judging by the confused and happy faces. How we all longed for the day we did not have religious workbooks.
I grab my pencil and place it carefully between my fingers, staring at the board and carefully writing each letter of the word on my paper, A-b-o-r-t-i-o-n. “Abortion,” I repeat to myself in my head. Satisfied with my handwriting, I return my eyes to my teacher as she makes her way over the light switch. Ms. Valenti pulls down her screen, turns on her projector, and our lesson begins. I sit through an hour of gruesome images, graphic videos, and complicated bible verses. The presentation ends with a picture of 22 women walking out of an abortion clinic.
“Students, our first assignment will be an essay. I would like you to write a 5 paragraph essay. One introduction, three body paragraphs, and one conclusion. Your essay should state and explain three reasons why women who get abortions have committed murder.”
Murder: this word is familiar to me already. With the projector still on its last slide, 22 faces stare back at me. I can not look away from these 22 women. They do not look like the murderers I am familiar with; they do not have the anger of Abel or the bloodlust of Herod. They just look like women. They look like me. A pit in my stomach begins to grow as I notice I was the only one not writing. My trance is broken by Ms. Valenti.
“No one is allowed to leave this classroom for lunch until a paper is in my hand,” she says in a sing-song voice that makes the pit grow faster.
I sit frozen in my seat as the tip of my pencil hovers over the paper. I study the blank lines, trying to form any coherent thought in my brain. Everything I learned about grammar escapes me as I try to remember how to start a sentence.
Fear overcomes my body as I look up from my paper to find all my fellow students are missing. I analyze the look of shame on my teacher’s face and I begin to taste salt from my eyes as tears drip down to my lips. Ms. Valenti gets up from her desk and begins to walk towards me.
“Here,” a stack of papers appears before me. “These are the slide notes, use them as a guide.”
My stomach growls as I read each slide until I memorize every word. I sniff my nose and wipe away the evidence of my meltdown. I begin to transcribe what I memorized and an hour later, I punctuate my last sentence.
I walk back to my desk and collect my books, my stomach pleading for me to walk faster. I hold on to the railing as I make my way down the ramp to the cafeteria. A tray of cold tomato soup has already been prepared for me. They trust their methods. I stare into the bowl, feeling guilt slowly tighten around my chest, wishing the soup was warm enough to relieve me.
The bus drops me off at my starting point for the day. I run past my mom and do not stop running until my bed is holding me. I am too mad at her to notice the look of confusion on her face. I punch my pillows and scream into the sheets until I wear myself out, too confused by that day’s lesson to understand why I am upset. A layer of guilt starts to harden around my lungs as I think about the 22 faces I called murderers. All of the horrible things I had put to paper swirl in my head until I was so dizzy my tomato soup makes itself known. I scan my room, looking for a sharp escape that could relieve me when I see a pen on my desk.
I vomit my guilt onto a piece of notebook paper. I write all the questions that have been holding my mind captive and answer them the best I can. My paper is a crime scene investigation: my mind trying to connect those 22 faces to murder with a red string. No matter the paths my brain takes, I can not make a connection. I write my last thoughts down as my alarm clock rings.
I walk down the hall to my classroom, my heart pounding with every step. I have the questions, I have the answers, and I have the evidence. I am ready to plead my case. I step into the empty classroom and plant my feet in front of Ms. Valenti.
“Here,” I make my stack of papers appear before her.
For a minute, she sits there in shock, staring at me and awaiting an explanation. I can not move my mouth to give her one. I just want her to read. She flips through my paper, scanning my work. She gets to the last page and reads the last sentence. She slowly picks herself up from her chair and I impulsively jump back. Without any acknowledgment, without any words, without any explanation, she walks to the corner of the classroom. She turns on a machine and my heart begins to crack as I watch all of my words shred in half. My guilt releases back into the air with every cut. I am crying, screaming, throwing everything I can get my hands on. When reality hits me, I stand where I have been, planted to the floor.
I unwrap the pile of clothes that were thrown on the floor the night before. I put on my collared shirt, one button left undone so I can breathe. I step into my skirt, hovering just below the knee, and cinched tight around the waist with a hairpin so I can hold my pocket notepad. I roll up my white stockings over my freshly shaved legs, thick and tightly knitted so they can conceal my pen. I brush my hair out, freeing it from the knots my pillow made. I take the remaining two silver pins and wrap my hair into a tight bun, making sure there are no stray hairs. I clasp my necklace around my neck and tuck the pendant into the shirt, sliding my feet into my black, buckled shoes and open my bedroom door. I am ready to write everything I see because I intend to survive.
I stare out the bus window, thinking about the last day of 6th grade. The glass is covered in fingerprints from the children that sat here before me. Before the bell rang and my last summer as a child could begin, my teacher said her goodbyes to us and ended her speech with a sentence that confused me for the next three months.
“Children, the next two years of your time here will be a little different than what you have become used to. You will still learn many subjects, laugh with your friends, and love God. But, you will be getting confirmed soon, and you need to be prepared to discuss the adult topics that the church faces.”
The phrase “adult” spins around in my head as I look at my classroom assignment one last time before the bus drives past our church and into the school’s parking lot. I step off the bus and into my new religious adulthood.
The bell rings as I tuck my skirt under my hands and take my seat. I examine the two boys sitting on both sides of me and I am pleased to see a familiar face.
“Hey, do you know what that means?” ask the familiar face.
He directs my attention to the whiteboard and points at a word written in a red marker. I give it a good look over. The word is foreign, but the sound in my head is familiar. I remember hearing it during a sermon once, but I was too confused to pay attention.
The second bell rings and all of us rise from our seats and stand up straight in unison, awaiting the arrival of our new teacher. She walks in and gives us a nod, the signal most teachers use when they want us at ease. We take our seats, pull out our pencils, and give our full attention.
After we said our morning prayers and blessings, we were ready for our first “adult” religion class. I didn’t see any workbooks anywhere in the classroom. All my other classmates must have noticed this as well judging by the confused and happy faces. How we all longed for the day we did not have religious workbooks.
I grab my pencil and place it carefully between my fingers, staring at the board and carefully writing each letter of the word on my paper, A-b-o-r-t-i-o-n. “Abortion,” I repeat to myself in my head. Satisfied with my handwriting, I return my eyes to my teacher as she makes her way over the light switch. Ms. Valenti pulls down her screen, turns on her projector, and our lesson begins. I sit through an hour of gruesome images, graphic videos, and complicated bible verses. The presentation ends with a picture of 22 women walking out of an abortion clinic.
“Students, our first assignment will be an essay. I would like you to write a 5 paragraph essay. One introduction, three body paragraphs, and one conclusion. Your essay should state and explain three reasons why women who get abortions have committed murder.”
Murder: this word is familiar to me already. With the projector still on its last slide, 22 faces stare back at me. I can not look away from these 22 women. They do not look like the murderers I am familiar with; they do not have the anger of Abel or the bloodlust of Herod. They just look like women. They look like me. A pit in my stomach begins to grow as I notice I was the only one not writing. My trance is broken by Ms. Valenti.
“No one is allowed to leave this classroom for lunch until a paper is in my hand,” she says in a sing-song voice that makes the pit grow faster.
I sit frozen in my seat as the tip of my pencil hovers over the paper. I study the blank lines, trying to form any coherent thought in my brain. Everything I learned about grammar escapes me as I try to remember how to start a sentence.
Fear overcomes my body as I look up from my paper to find all my fellow students are missing. I analyze the look of shame on my teacher’s face and I begin to taste salt from my eyes as tears drip down to my lips. Ms. Valenti gets up from her desk and begins to walk towards me.
“Here,” a stack of papers appears before me. “These are the slide notes, use them as a guide.”
My stomach growls as I read each slide until I memorize every word. I sniff my nose and wipe away the evidence of my meltdown. I begin to transcribe what I memorized and an hour later, I punctuate my last sentence.
I walk back to my desk and collect my books, my stomach pleading for me to walk faster. I hold on to the railing as I make my way down the ramp to the cafeteria. A tray of cold tomato soup has already been prepared for me. They trust their methods. I stare into the bowl, feeling guilt slowly tighten around my chest, wishing the soup was warm enough to relieve me.
The bus drops me off at my starting point for the day. I run past my mom and do not stop running until my bed is holding me. I am too mad at her to notice the look of confusion on her face. I punch my pillows and scream into the sheets until I wear myself out, too confused by that day’s lesson to understand why I am upset. A layer of guilt starts to harden around my lungs as I think about the 22 faces I called murderers. All of the horrible things I had put to paper swirl in my head until I was so dizzy my tomato soup makes itself known. I scan my room, looking for a sharp escape that could relieve me when I see a pen on my desk.
I vomit my guilt onto a piece of notebook paper. I write all the questions that have been holding my mind captive and answer them the best I can. My paper is a crime scene investigation: my mind trying to connect those 22 faces to murder with a red string. No matter the paths my brain takes, I can not make a connection. I write my last thoughts down as my alarm clock rings.
I walk down the hall to my classroom, my heart pounding with every step. I have the questions, I have the answers, and I have the evidence. I am ready to plead my case. I step into the empty classroom and plant my feet in front of Ms. Valenti.
“Here,” I make my stack of papers appear before her.
For a minute, she sits there in shock, staring at me and awaiting an explanation. I can not move my mouth to give her one. I just want her to read. She flips through my paper, scanning my work. She gets to the last page and reads the last sentence. She slowly picks herself up from her chair and I impulsively jump back. Without any acknowledgment, without any words, without any explanation, she walks to the corner of the classroom. She turns on a machine and my heart begins to crack as I watch all of my words shred in half. My guilt releases back into the air with every cut. I am crying, screaming, throwing everything I can get my hands on. When reality hits me, I stand where I have been, planted to the floor.
I unwrap the pile of clothes that were thrown on the floor the night before. I put on my collared shirt, one button left undone so I can breathe. I step into my skirt, hovering just below the knee, and cinched tight around the waist with a hairpin so I can hold my pocket notepad. I roll up my white stockings over my freshly shaved legs, thick and tightly knitted so they can conceal my pen. I brush my hair out, freeing it from the knots my pillow made. I take the remaining two silver pins and wrap my hair into a tight bun, making sure there are no stray hairs. I clasp my necklace around my neck and tuck the pendant into the shirt, sliding my feet into my black, buckled shoes and open my bedroom door. I am ready to write everything I see because I intend to survive.
Madison Zediker is a Junior English major at Edinboro University. “Cold Tomato Soup” was the first essay she wrote as an English major and it holds a special place in her heart. The assignment was to write an essay about "why I write." This memory came rushing into her head as soon as she heard the prompt, and she could not stop writing.