Ideas and Notes, Input Appreciated

Okay so this is some notes i wrote about a Character macy that im creating under the premise I did in class: a girl who is under a lot of pressure, gives way to her OCD--- creepy, but i think i may really have something here.

so here are some first draft attempts and some notes. I was hoping some of this could be a group effort.

^_^

Macy ascended the stairs, the weight of her bags coaxing her backwards. She never seemed to notice that she was tired, weary as she was. Somewhere along the way routine numbed out exhaustion and was further curtained by the success that always followed her diligence. When she reached her room opened the door, entering her pristine hiding place. She closed the door very deliberately and let her bags slide of her shoulders by her desk. It was six thirty, and Macy had just got home from pre-season lacrosse. Sitting down at her piano, she began to play, as she did for an hour every night before starting homework. Back straight, fingers slightly curved, she began to play a piece by Handel, which she though rather boring, but she played anyway, for that was what she did every day at 6:30.

Perhaps she was right though, Macy was a girl of extreme talent. There isn’t a piece of classical piano music that she couldn’t master. She may have been beyond the classics.

***a few weeks later as the pressure builds

Macy’s collared uniform shirt was half tucked in; her skirt lay uneven on her waist. There were circles under her eyes and her usually tight bun drooped towards the nape of her neck. With a slight careen in her step Macy pulled open the door and closed it behind her; keeping her hand on the knob for a few seconds to reassure herself.

She pulled out the piano bench sat. Staring at the keys, it took a minute for her know what to play. A counterfeit smile curved upon her face as she reached for a music book that she had not opened for sometime.

Turning to Gaspard de la Nuit by Maurice Ravel, she began.

She seemed to draw the breath from the piano itself. Her fingers flew and leapt around C major, as if to entice. Her hands seemed to be one fantastic trick of the light. Slouched over the keys, Macy played in the night. Her fingers were no longer a part of her body, but a line of waltzing spiders attacking the ivory. Macy felt nothing.

Notes:

Starts playing Handel

Later in story plays Maurice ravel

Rooms gets cluttered

Dreams about door

Nightmare about college

advice would be appreciated!

Thrid Quater poem 2, retreat paragraph style poem

Cattail hands reaching in the valley of death. Arms link; rope bridges to repentance. Sobs heave abandoning rhythm; Sounds like the book of life. Mighty thunder from above blinds us from the swamp beneath our feet, who wander here below. One too many shadows blink and flicker, there to trick, there to lie. In the valley of twisted truth, of every days' deceit, far beneath the heavens, I fear no evil. You walk with me through those who walk together for You.

at the beach without you

You fell through my fingers as

sand.

I had you for a

sweet sun
kissed

wave-beaten

second.

The you fell through

the cracks

of the Jetty.

In the cold,

barefooted,

long-sleeved

hop from

rock

to rock.

We sit and

stare

and stir.

Seaweed- wrapping,

twisting,

gripping-

Had a better

slippery grip

on you,

And our slippery

steps,

with slippery feet

took dry cracked

caution

at the beach

without you-

Did you know I fell?

Really Long Rant Poem Thing That I Just Had to Get off my Chest

I fell asleep to flowered wallpaper,

I fell asleep on that twin bed

to the music of a big room

the music of

of her flute,

my sisters piano downstairs.

I never slept

when the parking lot,

outside my window was plowed.

The sheet of white innocence

iced in yellow light.

I never slept

when the heaters creaked, when

the big house stretched her limbs.

I always danced

down the long long

halls,

under that chandelier,

bathed in childhood.

Oblivious to my very own bliss.

I always stared,

at that reservoir

across the road.

I always sat on my dandelion hill

or I sat in my tree,

I let the lilacs

the strawberries,

the daffodils,

the violets

raise me.

In a sunflower house,

in the tall grass,

Ive never known anything else.

I never knew,

the sun falls so differently

burns you differently

when you're somewhere else.

I never knew

there were people somewhere that

didn't know how to get to dandelion hill

and that didn't know how long I spent

in that tree,

in that garden.

They didn't fall asleep to my floral walls

and didn't know that all those details

were so important to me.

And one beautiful day we were gone,

and so were all the people

who did know.

Unrequited

I bet it was a night that said

Stay here with me

forever.

I bet her eyes looked nice

on that lake.

I bet you fell in love

on the water.

Like I always dreamed.

I know shes beautiful

everyone knows it.

I bet shes broken some hearts.

I bet the summer air

and her starlit dances

compelled you

to fall the way you did.

To fall the way she did.

I would have too.

I bet its just time and place.

I bet you and I were never meant to

criss cross

our paths.

I bet

You and her

had the moonlight

knit your hearts together.

The whole world on your side

for this,

someone to appreciate you,

to appreciate each other.
I bet you're

meant to be.

I bet your heart

just about exploded that night.

So far away from home,

and so close to it

for the first time.

They say we will have our day

but I bet that if we did

I'd see that summer in your eyes,

but she cant dance with both of us

and I bet she can dance a long time.

I bet she loves you alright

makes you happy,

and I bet your satisfied.

I bet you played her guitar,

I bet she thought of you all night

you fell fast didnt you?

She did,

I would have,

I did.

Jose

Jose you were hide and seek

and peek a boo

You were a lap for me

always on my side.

You were that big blue quilt

and I don't forget

how I woke you up

those nightmare nights

and how you didn't even hesitate,

to let me under the covers,

And tell me about those princesses.

And that old house feels like a castle these days,

And on the rainy days

You and I were shut inside.

That fort in the living room

the cushions,

the blankets.

The elegant couches,

completely perplexed at the playfulness.

You never made those forts the right way

But that never mattered to me at all.

Jose you were on the football team

and all those cheerleaders you brought home

who mattered to you,

who smiled at me, as I stood on the bleachers of your school,

because they knew I was yours,

I remember all their names, Jose.

You were on the field Jose,

and I sat and watched

and told everyone around

"see him, number 52?"

that you were mine.

and they smiled right back at me.

And now, even today, like always before

when you wrap your arms around me

and I see our skin tones clash so dramatically

Do you know what I think?

Nothing.

Mail For Mr. Fuller

Martha Maroney delivered mail to 45 Old Tower drive six days a week. Well, she delivered mail to half of Salem, but 45 Old Tower drive was the only house that gave her butterflies every time she stopped there; all because of Terrance M. Fuller.

She had been delivering mail for almost forty years now, and every single day she enjoyed the sight of old Mr. Fuller, waiting in the window of his baby blue raised ranch, watching for the mail. She could see his friendly smile, that lingered just beyond those hideous green shutters. She loved the way he put both hands on his cane while waiting for her, and she loved even more the way he lifted a few pale wrinkly fingers in salute as she drove away. Sometimes, if she drove slow she could see him hobbling out to the mailbox in her rear view mirror.

You could say Martha and Mr. Fuller had a special sort of relationship, seeing, and only seeing, each other six days a week. But secretly, she longed to introduce herself to him. Every time she thought of actually trying to talk to him, she looked down at her unattractive Post Office jumper, and reluctantly drove away.

Perhaps she knew more about him than she ought to. She knew he had a subscription to a golfing magazine. She knew he had the same little brown car for far too long. She knew he loved to wear tacky crocheted sweaters, even in the summer. She knew companies often misspelled his first name, leaving out the second R when sending him a letter. She knew there used to be a Mrs. Fuller, but one day about 15 years ago, her car left and people stopped sending her mail to 45 Old Tower drive. She knew he was lonely, because the even at Christmas, he hardly received any cards. She had only look at her own wrinkly ring lacking fingers to be reminded of what loneliness feels like.

One cloudless Saturday summer morning, Martha turned onto Old Tower drive as she always did, smiling to herself as she made her way down the street. Still smiling as she passed Mrs. Turner on her front step, hands on her hips. She tood stood in her bathrobe with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth, as usual.

She heard the ambulance before she saw it. Pulling up to the curb in front of his house, she sat in her truck stunned, for almost 30 minutes even after the ambulance wailed away. When she finally came back to reality, she realized there were tears dropping onto Mr. Fuller's mail. She gingerly put his mail in his mailbox, and drove away wondering if those were the last letters he would ever receive.