Category Archives: creative fiction

November Discoveries

Posted on December 2, 2011 | 11 Comments

November, I’ll be honest, was the longest short month of my entire semester. Not because of schoolwork, but because I watched people around me recover from at least five deaths, hold onto wishes and hopes that might not pan out, and just generally feel lonely. I’m hoping to bring them (and you all) a list to cheer your spirits.

Let’s begin.

So Worth Loving. The organization will write that phrase all over your favorite, well-worn t-shirt if you mail it to them. I’ve been a follower since the summer, but just this week they launched their official website and they now have their own merch, so if you’re not ready to give up your favorite item of clothing, you can buy something else.

Figment Fiction Short Story Contest. Figment’s a YA writing community & forum (that my 14-year-old cousin and I fell in love with last December when we decided I needed to work there). The company’s paired up with Seventeen Magazine & Scholastic for a short story contest and you only have to write 500 words. In fact, no exceeding that limit or you’re DQ’ed. I entered and am hoping to be among the top 60 finalists, but obviously if you’re a girl between 13 and 21 you best get your pen and paper and write your heart out for the contest, too.

Kerry’s Victoria Secret post. I am not a VS basher, by any means, and my roommates actually ran in my room asking me to go to VS while I was reading this, but I think it’s something that needs to be said. And I think Kerry’s got a way with words. I’ll preface it with this: you are not a model and we love you for that. You have curves and you should not starve yourself–your body is your fuel.

50 People, One Question – New York. OK, this video’s legit three years old, but I just discovered it and found myself wanting to seek out these individuals and tell them how charming and real and honest they were for the camera. This project asks each stranger the same question: “What do you hope to happen by the end of the day?” The answers are almost as colorful as the beautiful souls on screen.

More Love Letters

12 Days of Love Letter Writing. Hosted by the fabulous More Love Letters, the project’s going on from Monday to December 17. One mini package (or giant, if you all get in on it) of love letters for each recipient will bring some warmth and comfort during this month and I’m giddy over the chance to write a letter for one of the days (so be on the lookout for that, too).

A Year in New York. This video is beautiful and I cannot say anything other than that. If you love the city, you will love tracking through it from the eyes of this filmmaker.

Thank you, I won’t let you down. This post from Danielle LaPorte broke my heart and put it back together. It’s inspired by a clip from an X-Factor audition and the girl in the video just shines with personality, voice, sass and, most of all, gratitude. This is what talent’s all about, guys.

Coming Soon: I’ve developed a super secret list of seven wonderful women who—in 140 characters or less—have taught me a thing or two about life, love and growing up. December’s posts (beginning on Monday) will be dedicated to unveiling each lesson, one at a time, and the woman behind it. Prepare for total inspiration.

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Posted in body haters, body lovers, Change Makers, creative fiction, Discoveries, love letters to young girls, writing

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“Do not return to sender. Under any circumstances.”

Posted on September 9, 2011 | 1 Comment

I imagine there must be a whole storage unit somewhere in the desert dedicated to Unusable Things.

A stack of journals from your adolescent self, the one who believed in flying by the seat of her pants in all situations. An empty heart-shaped picture frame. Dried up rose petals. A rope necklace with a silver heart, a woven bracelet from an exotic place.

They stack up over time, piling into cluttered corners until every cubic inch of that climate-controlled facility is taken up by the Things that Break Hearts.

I could write a book and fill it with what each object means, each story hidden beneath the crooks of that seamless metal heart charm, every broken promise lying inside the back cover of that picture frame.

It would be enough to shock the world, knowing the way we hold onto things we’ll never use again because of the way its been tainted.

The can opener you used the first time you made him tomato soup on the stove. The pens he leant you when you were too cheap to buy your own at Staples for a dollar. The ear buds you meant to return but just forgot. The t-shirt that got kicked under your bed and never saw the light of day again.

All the objects, innocently enough, tried to be ordinary household items.

But we’re moving out, packing our necessities into boxes, when that shirt sees the light of the day for the first time in years. And it still smells like him: sweet sweat and a hint of cologne.

We can’t make a can of soup or look too closely at that scar on our wrist from the time he accidentally missed the colander and poured scalding water onto our arm.

So we do what we do best: we pack up those unusable things and ship them off.

Where do the plates that aren’t just plates go? The heart-shaped picture frames that were meant for only two smiling faces?

What about the shirts we can’t bear to bring to Goodwill or the half-eaten bag of M&Ms pushed to the back of the pantry?

How do we collect the little moments and pile them into the backs of our cars and drive them off a cliff when they seem so innocent and average?

Maybe we don’t.

Maybe we purchase a storage unit in the middle of sunny Arizona and ship them all out there with a note that says, “Do not return to sender. Under any circumstances.”

Maybe we pray our aunt who lives on the other side of the country has an empty shelf in her china closet waiting for all the things we couldn’t bear to keep.

Maybe.

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Posted in breakups, creative fiction, imagine this world

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The Girl Who Saved The Postal Service

Posted on September 7, 2011 | 3 Comments
packaged letters bundle

via weheartit.com

The moment she heard the news, she ran outside and got into her car.

She drove the thirteen miles to the nearest Target, slammed the driver’s side door shut, and raced inside.

Grabbed a red plastic basket — she was going to need it.

It wasn’t until she reached the stationery section that she broke down and cried.

A young mother with an antsy toddler in the front seat of plastic carts slowed her steps to raise an eyebrow at the girl on hands and knees, scooping packs of blank note cards into her basket.

She filled it to the brim with all the supplies she needed to fight the system: packs of pens, blank invitations and thank-you notes, note cards and envelopes.

The cashier at the checkout counter, a sweet old man with the smile the size of Kentucky, scanned each item and placed them gingerly in the bag.

“You heard what they’re saying on the television, right?” he said. “About the postal service?”

“I heard.” She bounced up and down on her heels, rubbed her hands over her biceps. “Uh huh. I heard.”

“It’s not gonna shut down right now,” he assured her. “Been around since the country’s founding and it’s not going anywhere.”

She ignored this.

“I figure if I send at least fifty letters to fifty people, and those fifty people send fifty letters, that’s already thousands of letters in the mail. That’s already thousands of people having a conversation.”

“You kids these days.” He laughed and handed her a receipt. “You think you can just do something small and it’s going to matter to the higher-ups. The government’s a big mess. A big self-centered mess.”

“I don’t think so,” she said. “All those government people, they all have family too.”

He handed her one of the bags.

“So they want to keep in touch with their families. They want to get a handwritten note still on their birthdays.”

“Honey,” he said. “My family stopped sending me birthday cards almost 50 years ago.”

“What’s your name?”

She reached into her bag and pulled out a sticky note pad and a pen.

He tapped his nametag. Carl. New Team Member etched underneath.

“Well, Carl New Team Member, I’m going to add you to my list.”

“Don’t do me any favors,” he said.

“I’m not. I think you know 50 people who want a letter. I think you can save the postal service.”

And then she exited the store, hauling her bags to the car.

It was raining outside when she got back to her house. She darted to the front door, juggled her house keys and slipped inside.

Then she sat down, wrote straight through the night.

When her wrist ached and her eyes closed, she thought about the generation after her. The generation dedicated to text messages deleted every two years when they traded in for new phones. She thought about her own pile of letters, crumpled and stained at the bottom of her desk drawer.

She could smell the parchment, feel the pages beneath her fingertips. She didn’t know what would happen if she didn’t have that.

She waited until the sun came up before she walked the mile to her driveway and stuffed the mailbox full. She raised the red flag on the side and waited, dazed, worried the mailman wouldn’t come. 

–

Hannah Brencher believes the world needs more love letters. Don’t let this beautiful project die because Congress won’t bail out the postal service. Write a handwritten note today.

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Posted in Change Makers, creative fiction, imagine this world, writing

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You’ll find her standing barefoot on a milk crate.

Posted on August 26, 2011 | 4 Comments

It’ll start simple.

She’ll fall in love with something. Maybe a boy. Maybe a song. Maybe a musician who doesn’t even know her face in the crowd while she sways from side to side with her lighter in the air.

Whatever it is, it’ll break her.

Pieces of the girl whose eyes were too big for the world will fall like shattered glass on a hardwood floor.

The problem being that glass dust traps inside the ridges between the slats of wood and every time her bare feet dance across the front hallway, they’ll brush against it.

Until the balls of her feet bleed red like the sun setting on a hot summer day.

She’ll hop around on one foot and try to blot the little red dots collecting on her skin but even when it stops, even when it clots, the scar remains.

It’s hard to forget that.

So she starts jumping from slat to slat like a child playing a game where her mother’s life depends upon it. Step on a crack and break your mother’s back.

She’s not perfect, but she’ll try to be.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” she’ll say. “I’m sorry I couldn’t skip over all the pieces that hurt and move right into healing.”

But it’s not her fault.

It’s not her fault the scabs keep reopening and the floor gets dirtied and the blood stains the wood for the better part of her life in that house.

Because every time she walks past it, every time she rushes to answer that door when the bell rings, she’ll remember where she started.

And one day, it’ll give her the strength to move on.

Take that bloodied mess and turn it into new life.

One day, someone will hand that girl a megaphone.

And if you hand a girl a megaphone, she’s going to want to change the world.

So she starts with the reason she fell in love, working backwards until she figures it out. What she knows, what she felt, and the biggie: she’s not alone.

That’s the main ingredient.

Loneliness will almost kill her but she’ll stop that in its tracks and spin it around. She’ll figure out that a whole host of other girls are walking this earth with scars on their feet and their hearts and holes where their smiles used to reside.

She’ll find a place where the word home becomes a feeling instead of a place, a feeling to come back to when someone sits on the other side of that conversation and listens and knows that yes, you are not alone.

You are not alone.

You. Are not. Alone.

Listen, please listen, to the girl with the megaphone.

You’ll find her standing barefoot on a milk crate. Feet bloodied and caked in dirt and telling the story of a thousand injuries inflicted when she jumped without looking.

Listen to her and ask if she wants to go for a cup of coffee.

She just wants to change the world, after all.

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Posted in Change Makers, creative fiction, imagine this world, love letters to young girls

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Home only exists until Google Maps updates it’s satellite imagines and some employee realizes you’re Gone.

Posted on August 22, 2011 | Leave a comment

If a Genie granted me three wishes, I’d hand two back and hold onto the last one.

“I mean, I know there’s probably plenty of people out there who could use the other two,” I’d tell him. “And I only really need this one small favor. It’s nothing. Just a chance, really.”

He’ll wait for the disclaimer because that’s what we all do; we wait to hear the catch tacked on to the end of the car commercial or the sweepstakes or the small little favor our neighborhood babysitter did for us when a family emergency cropped up.

Somewhere along the line, we were told that nothing ever stands alone. Not anymore.

Maybe that’s why I’m standing in front of Robin Williams disguised as a blue character from a G-rated cartoon, asking him for the impossible:

“Can you turn me into Never Never Land?”

“Sorry, Charlie. That’s Mary Poppins who does the whole jump into a better life thing. I can’t just toss you like a tennis ball from one Disney movie to another. Come back some other time.”

It’s the hardest lesson I ever had to learn and it keeps cropping up. I hold my breath and count to 100 and cross my fingers that the pain will just vanish.

I figure if I muffle my breakdown with a pillow, maybe the people on the other side of that door won’t hear it. And then, maybe if they can’t hear the sound of someone ripping me away from the notion that I can stay forever in this moment, it won’t be real. It won’t feel real.

I’m still wishing it worked that way and I’m 21 years old. I wished it when I was 7 and I wish it now. Instead, I’m left grasping for this imaginary land where nobody wants to grow up sooner than they have to. Nobody wants to break anybody else’s heart by living in another state always and forever.

Until Home becomes a dot on a map.

Guess what?

Home only exists until Google Maps updates it’s satellite images and some employee realizes you’re Gone.

Maybe I should pull out the Yellow Pages and figure out who I need to pay off to keep Home just where I want it.

That two-door Civic in the driveway with the moon roof and the Billabong bumper sticker?

It’s not there anymore.

I might tell myself you were at work when they snapped the picture. You were just shaking cinnamon sugar on hot, fresh pretzels so somebody else could get her sweet fix for the day. I understand.

But eventually that little Jedi mind trick of mine isn’t going to work. I’ll smack myself in the forehead when you quit serving lemonades and pretzel dogs and that car’s still not on the aerial view.

That’s when it’ll hit me: People make decisions based on something other than you. Someone other than you.

And it’s not because they don’t love you or miss you. Something else just caught their eyes for a while.

Everyone feels like the teddy bear nobody wanted to buy at some point in his or her life, but it never occurs to the teddy bear that the little girl who took him home felt like that once, too.

If we remember that, it might make the growing up part just a little bit easier.

In the meantime, you better call Google headquarters and ask to keep the car parked in the driveway. Just for a little while longer.

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Posted in college, creative fiction

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