Reconstruction of Memory - Tylier Driscoll


My elbow lied on the armrest, with my jaw in my hand. As I glared out of the window, I let my eyelids float along my eyes. I felt tired, but I couldn’t go to sleep because the bus was too cold, so I sat in silence and watched my reflection cascade over the mountaintops. When did I get so old? It feels like just yesterday I was living with those I used to call my family. My family and I were kinda like a beat-up car. It’s funny now, but we were so beat up that we were constantly in need of repairs. Everytime the mechanic fixed us there was always something else, we were always in need of an oil change.

This one time, I had to be about 15 and I did not want to live with my parents anymore. I hated it. Living with them felt like living alone because there was no support.

“I’m hungry,” I said to my mom who was tucked away on the living room couch.

“Well go find something to eat then” she said casually, as if we had food in the house to sift through.

“We only have these arbitrary ingredients, I can’t make anything out of these.” I responded, hoping that she’d throw me a bone and feed me.

“Well we have bread, and a toaster. So figure something out.” This was my mom at her most helpful. I looked at her from our tiny kitchen and I saw that she’s sank into the couch even further than she has before, she’s not getting up. Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her get up from that couch before.

“We don’t have anymore bread, I ate it all. You’ve been telling me that for the past three days.” Then she said something along the lines of, “Well, look for something else then. You need to learn independence, start feedin’ yourself. I’m not gonna be here all the time, start lookin out for yourself,” she continued.  “‘Cause at the end of the day it’s kill or be killed.” She answered.



Authors Note:

I chose to emulate Kesey’s use and structure of dialogue for the memory reconstruction so each sentence pushed the story along in a significant way. I also emulated Kesey’s writing style because of the metaphors and symbolism that he presents in OFOTCN. My main goal was to use a central symbol/metaphor to support the memory so I used the concept of a broken down car to signify the main speaker’s relationship with their family. I took the reflectiveness from Atwood’s work and applied it to my own so that my character has distance from the thought of their family.


Reconstruction of Memory - The Word

What was the word for it? It ended in an “ia”, like every term describing something does. The term that describes a feeling. The feeling you get of understanding that when you’re on a bus, everyone on the bus has an imagination as vivid as yours, with a life as detailed and crazy (or not) as yours. There’s a word for it but I always seem to forget it when I need to remember it.  

What a conversation starter that would be.


Bright lights. Bright lights and white halls. Bright lights and white halls and white tiled floors. Prison. At least the walls were covered in colorful drawings done by what I assume to be the prisoners. Walking even further in, and taking a right, the walls changed color from white to orange. I don’t think it was a good idea to wear my bright neon green jumpsuit. I would surely get picked on and my stuff would get stolen. But that morning I was feeling confident, as if the world couldn’t touch me.


Funny enough, I didn’t have an escort so I felt a slight sense of freedom. But that small feeling quickly left, fleeting my grasp as I continued on through the hallway. I passed rooms full of the other inmates. The rooms seemed to be all the same, rows and tables of people, getting fed information. I was expected to report to one of these rooms pretty soon now.


As I neared the end of the hallway, I came across a small metal door. Opening the small metal door revealed a small room with a singular chair in it. In the chair sat a small man that resembled a leprechaun. A thought came to mind; that I should ask him where he keeps his pot of gold, but I quickly dismissed the idea because this could be a potential leader. I noticed the leprechaun man was wearing knee socks. I don’t think I was in any position to judge this man for what he wore. After all, I was wearing a neon green jumpsuit. What caused this man to wear those knee socks? There was a series of events that made him, after all. There must have been something crazy going on in his life. And there’s a word for what I’m realizing. What’s the word again...


Authors Note:

All throughout this short essay, I use one of Kesey's important tactics. During many of the scenes in “One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest”, he writes from the main character’s point of view. Except for one thing. He writes fiction as reality. Kesey does this because to the character, the fiction is their reality and it is what they experience. I did this because as I was writing, I was writing about my first day at school. It then turned into a “memory” depicting a walk through a prison. Aside from that, I use repetition, specifically the repetition of the first phrase, in the beginning and at the end of the story. The creative piece is the song I was listening to (at least the “radio station”) on the first day of school as well as what was in my head that first day. I thought that it would be interesting to put the reader in my shoes with it.

Reconstruction of Memory// Growing Up- Cynthia To

Our old house was small but it always fit us. Our living room was the main hub that everyone frequented and it was the main room before we entered and left.  As a family of four in a small South Philly row home, we were always together for the good and the bad. The good, playing house under the desk that my big sister rarely studied at. The okay, getting chased up the stairs and down the hallway when I broke one of my sister’s paper robot collections. And the bad, which were usually from my sister to my parents - now that I think of it. I remember specifically the first bad time I had in the house and it wasn’t because of me. I was young enough to understand but not old enough to fully understand.

This time, the TV was on but no one was watching. The TV volume was muted but it sounded like there was a fight scene happening. The voices were loud but familiar. Looking up, I saw my sister arms bent at her side and in an angry SuperWoman stance and my parents standing over her. They were fuming. I stood behind them, staring at my sister yelling back at my parents. She was nine and we never did that as kids. We don’t talk back to our parents like we need to enforce nine year old made rules. But I guess Ellen didn’t learn that yet. My parents said “well if you don’t like the rules, you can get out!” What?! Get out? I remember standing there, crying without even noticing at first. This girl is my only sister - how can they just tell her to get out? I felt the tears and the heavy breathing kick in and everything was muffled as the snot filled my nose and ears. I couldn’t make of the last thing they were yelling about but the next thing I knew was Ellen was getting picked up and I dropped our taling toy dragon.

As he hit the ground, he said “I love boisenberries,” but that didn’t stop them! That would have stopped me! My dad put her outside and watched her through the screen, door half cracked to isolate her. I remember crying even harder. They just threw away my sister! My only best friend. What was I going to do? I didn’t have the power to let her back in, right?  I paced around scared and started packing some food, clothes, and shoes. She was barefoot on the door mat! That’s not allowed. After packing, my five year old body pushed the door back to let her in. My parents were shocked. They're faces were focused on what I would do next so I let her in. I was a big girl making big moves for my big sister.


After she stayed outside of the house for a few minutes, I opened the door to let her in. We both started crying and hugging each other. We cherished every moment from there on. That was really a traumatic experience for a little kid to experience even though they were not the one in trouble but got to see. To this day, my parents have never done that again. When I look back, I see that this teaching moment brought us together.



Author's Note: I decided to write about this memory because this was one of the memories that stood out to me because sometimes punishment can help make a better bond. Even though what my parents did for a punishment was harsh, it allowed me to see something good out of it, that people shouldn’t take things as for granted and actually cherished the moment they have with one another. Growing up, I always liked hearing old stories about my family’s past and being able to learn from their struggles and experiences, which is why I had the aunt tell the stories to her niece. In my writing, I was inspired by Margret Atwoods' writing style when she makes Offred questions herself and describes the little details that happen. For the Visual Companion, I chose this video because correlate how Asian family punish their children with tough love.

Reconstruction of Memory - "Family Friendly"

Author's Note: 

Growing up in a divided family dynamic, I often had to adapt in order to keep conflict from arising. My biological mother was glued to graphic TV news segments, and my father enjoyed automobiles and airplanes. Those dynamics clashed at my first airshow, where I literally left the show in fear. However, I found my calling in aviation, and am now found at every airshow within the Philadelphia area. In this excerpt, I used an anecdote from my childhood, and mashed it with a functional family dynamic I’ve always admired.

"Family Friendly"



I can’t believe it. Yesterday, my oldest, Jaden left home for his final year at Penn. He is well on track towards attaining a Bachelor’s in Political Science. Let alone with a 4.0 GPA. As a parent, I wanted to expose my children to history and current events at a young age. Thus, every weekend throughout Jaden’s last weekend home, you can find Jaden, me, and the rest of the family on adventures to different protests, demonstrations, or historical sites. This not only provided for some of the best, funniest, most adorable memories, it is probably the very reason Jaden is doing what he is.


When Jaden was about six, I heard that the local Naval Air Station was hosting an airshow. Well, I thought that was cool, considering we’ll get to see some of the resources our military has at its disposal. It shouldn’t be too intense to take the kids there; airshows are fairly safe, and family friendly. At least that’s what the show was being advertised as. So the family and I decided to make the trip.


After the skydivers landed with the American flag, a group of fighter jets took off. It was so precious watching Jaden, my youngest see his first fighter jet. His eyes lit up, as what he keeps seeing on the news is now in front of his own eyes. After about 5 minutes, the fighter jets started circling around the field, imitating vultures scoping their prey. Soon, one of the fighters dove in, and fiery pyrotechnics blasted from the ground.


“Oh my god, we’re all going to die. Run, Run,” Jaden screamed. It was hard to take him seriously. “Dad, come here. Run! Run!” he added. But looking at his panicked face, you could tell he was legitimately scared. Embarrassment took me over, as I had just selfishly and blindly taken my two under 6-year-old kids to an airshow. I had just committed the original sin of parenting, and I felt like I need to be put on time out.


That memory has stood the test of time, with myself not being able to live it down. While I may not have been the perfect parent, I still cherish every memory made with the smartest young man I’ve met. I hope that Jaden leaves his impression on the world.


Reconstruction of memory - Dani Fiorenza

It started in July. Last day of Hashomer Hatzair (Jewish movement) summer camp we were together, lying in the sleeping bag, on the grass. I wish I could come back to that night. Even if we were best friends I knew I was attracted by her, maybe not that much at first.
10 days later we had another trip. We were like boyfriend and girlfriend. For those 6 days I was the happiest person in the world, I love travelling and I was abroad, with many of my best friends and with the person I used to love. I savored every moment. When I got home, it felt like I had barely been gone came pretty fast, maybe because I loved being with her and my friends of course, the time flew. We were on the plane and we were enjoying spending our last moments together, without thinking what could have happened in the future, I was leaving to US for a year, and we weren’t worried about that. In that moment I thought that this relationship was going to last long time. When the moment to say goodbye came we wanted kiss for the last time but our parents were waiting for us. We hugged but we knew it wasn’t enough so before I left I ran back saying “I forgot to say goodbye to a person”. I saw her in the eyes, I kissed her and I said “I love you” which was a “big” word for a teenager but I thought about it a lot before saying it. I’ll never forget that moment, all the people around us didn’t exist anymore, it was just Us. I wish it was endless and I would love to go back in time. She gave me her favorite ring and I give her my favorite sweater. I started wearing it everyday, no matter what. Even if we were far away the ring symbolized me that she was always with me.
I never had this kind of feelings for a person and even if I’m a teenager I would say that I was in love with her. “You are too young to say that you love someone”, this is the classic example imposed by society but if I’m too young to love someone how would you describe the feeling that there’s no other girl in your mind? How would you describe the feeling that she is the best you could have? They were strong feelings which I never had for anyone else and it was the first time I said the words “I love you” with total honesty. There will be other love stories, probably this is my first one and maybe I’ll remember it for the rest of my life, time will tell. 

Author’s Note
This written production was inspired by a true story without modifications so basically the whole truth. This was only one part of the relationship that I have with her. Before dating we were best friends and seen the distance she couldn’t be in a relationship with me anymore so we broke up 2 months ago. I was feeling very bad, the time helped me but I wasn’t and I’m not mad at her, we are now starting recover the friendship we had before.
24cba8ea-48fd-4a30-9470-739bcc9a3429
24cba8ea-48fd-4a30-9470-739bcc9a3429

Reconstruction of Memory - Amaris Ortiz

I was only in seventh grade when my mom picked me up after school to go straight to the hospital. This time it seemed more serious than others, but I didn’t fully understand the circumstances. Not even a few days later, my oldest brother, Jesse, got a call from our family members that were at the hospital. I remember responding to him as he yelled my name with an attitude. I was annoyed by him rushing me to come to his room, without thinking of a reason why he would want me to run.


My mom wanted my two brothers and I to come say bye to my grandpa. I didn’t begin to cry. Instead, I grabbed a tastykake and got in the car with my aunt, who would drive us to the hospital. She tried to talk to us about our day and have a casual conversation, and I still wasn’t fully aware of what I had to say when I got to the hospital. Looking into the hospital room, I saw a few of my aunts and uncles standing around the hospital bed where my grandpa was laying down. They stepped aside for my brother Seth and I to come in. My brother must’ve went first because I remember being in the room when he started to speak. Whenever I recount what happened that day, I hear Seth’s voice in my head, “Uh grandpa… this is Seth… I love you.” I followed up just by telling him I loved him. I had never lost a loved one before, let alone have to figure out a way to say goodbye. When I turned back around to look at him after leaving the room, I felt like I was falling apart. The tears that were streaming down my face wouldn’t stop. Whether I went back inside to make another remark or stayed outside crying, there was nothing I could do or say that would change him being gone forever. Saying goodbye to someone makes you think about everything you could have done before that moment to appreciate them more, but it was just too late.


Song: Talking to the Moon - Bruno Mars

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lIaDtfplmyQ


Author's Note: I was influenced by Margaret Atwood’s style in the scene where Offred first found out that she didn’t have access to her accounts anymore. That moment was filled with confusion as well as shock and Atwood showed that when Offred didn’t begin to cry yet and was just thinking about what she would do from this point on. I think my writing has more of a connection to that of Margaret Atwood in the scenes we did a close reading of. Ken Kesey had more repetition and shorter sentences to show a different way of acting under pressure or feeling anxious.  


Reconstruction of Memory- Winfield

Tick Tick Tick Tick Tick.

System failure! System failure! Someone, please help! I’m begging you! I’m not ready for my life to be over. Please help!


Black clouds, time lost.


Keep flying the plane! Get the power plant back up, make sure the rudder is straight, do something! It can’t be over, it barely started.


Void fills, sound barrier breached.

Screams lost in tears. One heartbeat fills the plane. Lost, damaged, frightened. How are we going to secure it?


Downward spiral, fiery inferno.


Engine failure. Reconnect, rewire, redirect. Please do something. Help me, please! I’m scared. Don’t let it be over! Can you get it back running? Please, say you can. Please! I’m begging you.


Beaten, weak, suffering.


First officer is down. The rudder is tilted far left we’re all going down


Light streams, numbness engulfs.


Save the passengers! Save them, please I’m begging you!  The world freezes no sound to be heard. We’re going down. I’m afraid it’s ending, and my worlds falling apart.


The landing gear has failed, please help!


System failure! System failure!

The powers out for only a few seconds, light begins to flicker through the room as if it’s lost its the strength to turn on. Somethings wrong, a wisp of tears leans against my face. I know this isn’t a dream, it’s a nightmare. The flickering light becomes a tunnel. The slow ticking immerses, a face appears. Dr. Davis looks at me lost and says “I’m sorry sir, your wife body wasn’t strong enough, her system failed. She’s dead and so is your child. I’m sorry. I did everything I could to help.”


I've lost my life, I’ve lost my wife. My child is gone. I’m alone. I sit on the side of bed replaying the daily nightmare. The world doesn’t seem real. Her spot is precisely how she left it. Bed unkempt, lavender slippers adjacent the closet still with the little dust-bunny she never picked off. It’s been months but I lose her again every night. Every time I creep over to kiss her good-night I slip into her non-existent presences once more. Every use of the restroom when I run out of paper and call her with no answer in return. She’s promised to always be there. And she isn’t here now.


Audio / Visual companion -



Song:

Cheetah Girls- It’s Over

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vLsO5TdKtJQ

Four voices perfectly blending
Right from the start
Ooh, I'm afraid that's ending
And my world is fallin' apart
It's over and I feel so alone
This is a sadness I've never known
How did I let the sweetest of dreams slip away?
And I'm afraid the hurt is here to stay
Promises made, not meant to be broken
From a long time ago
Ooh, so many words still unspoken
Tell me how was I to know?
It's over, never thought it would be
Why in the world did this happen to me
How could I let the sweetest of dreams slip away?
And I'm afraid the hurt is here to stay
I go round and round and round in my head
Wanting to take back whatever I said
No one was right, we all made mistakes
I'm ready to do whatever it takes, please
Don't let it be over
No, this is not how it ends
I need my sisters, my family, my friends
Don't wanna let the sweetest of dreams slip away
'Cause if it's over then the hurt is here to stay
Don't let it be over
Please, don't let it be over
Please, don't let it be over
Author's Note

So I chose to do Kesey’s formatting of writing to impact the way I wrote the piece Kesey’s writing of memories Bromden In “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” was sometimes vague and lacking detailed descriptions of the smaller stuff. Sometimes Cheif memories seem to come fast and happened to be a bit confusing and needed to be pieced together. I took a bit of a left in his style of writing by making my story seem to be a bit more faster and confusing. I didn't want the story to flow like Ken Kesley, I wanted the rhythm to be hard to keep up with until it slowed to a point. Stylistically I also choose to veer left making the beginning a dream sequence.

Caroline Pitone - Memory Reconstruction

Adventures and flames. It was 6 pm on a weekday night. It was the summer time. The sun was beginning to set and the air was dry yet hydrating at the same time. We were at an abandoned house along the Schuylkill. As we were about to climb into it, we heard the rumbling vibration coming from the train tracks behind us. It was time. ¨Let’s go¨, Daniel said. We all dropped our bags and locked up our fixed gear bikes against the rusty fence. We climbed the fence and hopped over it to the other side, accumulating rust all over our palms, and leaving us with a metallic smell. We all waited for the trains to come, I had a gut feeling this time wasn’t a good time for this activity, I was right. We all hopped on one by one. There were 5 of us. We were cruising on the train, going slow and steady. We would wave to the runners and the bicyclists going by, and they would stare back confused. I was confused too. I noticed the train had started to increase in speed. It became evident that it was going faster than we had hoped. I looked around at my surroundings and everything began to run past my eyes as if I was in a car going 90 on the highway. I looked around and saw no sign of people. I turned around and there came Daniel, ¨we have to get off!¨, he quickly scurried, leaving me to figure this out for myself. My cart was in between another, and there were gears all down by my left, one wrong move would have been me falling to my death.

Obtaining the courage to cross the other side felt impossible. Avoid the gears, and hop off, I repeated to myself, but time was cutting short. I had to get off soon before the train began to intensify in speed. I crossed over, panicked, and looked down at the end of the train, there stood Daniel, waving. I loaded my arms onto the ladder and tested the speed with my feet against the ground. My foot kicked back from under me, at this point the train would only be getting faster. My body hit the ground of gravel, and the pebbles and stones rubbed against my skin, tearing some parts open. Looking down and no longer seeing my legs makes me grateful yet regret every part of it. I have yet to learn.

Authors Note: 

While writing about this memory, I considered a lot of Margaret Atwood's use of interpretive language in her novel The Handmaid's Tale. I purposefully did not write to be super descriptive. Instead, I wanted to allow the reader to make guesses and proposals to what I could have meant. While creating this writing, I used past tense and times, along with colors, showing that it was a very significant piece of the characters life. While keeping the matter of not being too descriptive, I kept the sentences short, while getting straight to the point of the story.

Marcin Czapla Memory Reconstruction

  I slid the key into the door and turned it, hearing that reassuring click that meant it had been unlocked. A long and stressful day has once again brought me to the comfort of my warm and cozy home. However as I entered my house I wasn’t greeted by my mother in the usual cheerful way. There was an eerie mood inside, one I hadn’t felt often before. The Television was off, no Polish dramas were playing, and my mother wasn’t on the brown couch we’ve had since moving in. As I came into the dining room I could see my mom sitting at the kitchen table, tears running down her face. I had never seen her like this before, my mother was the strongest person I knew. She could barely hold onto the phone in her hand. My brother and I looked at each other. Grandpop is dead, he’s gone she said with a tremble in her voice. I dropped my bag which, I had been holding with one arm and immediately embraced her, my brother following forthwith. I could feel her tears hit the back of my neck.

       I hadn’t said anything, I didn’t know what to say. I remember feeling sadness, the purest form of it that had ever resided in me. I wanted to cry, I felt my eyes watering, but I couldn’t, not now. I knew I had to stay strong for her, as she had been for me in the past. He’s in a better place now mom, I told her, but it wouldn’t change anything. How did it happen I asked. He died in his sleep, she answered. Thank you, she said to my brother and I. I knew we hadn’t done much, there wasn’t anything we could do other then be there for her, but still there was so much gratitude in her eyes. My eyes watered again. I remember thinking what I would do if I ever lost her, how I could continue living knowing I’d never get to talk to her again. Do you want me to make you tea, I asked her. I had to distract myself. Yes, thank you Marcin, she answered and so I went to put water in the kettle. As I poured water in the brass kettle, I remembered doing the same back in Poland when I went to visit my grandparents, I remember what my grandpop had told me back then. One day when I won’t be on this Earth anymore, it will be your responsibility to help your mom for me he said. The first tear fell. It hit the kettle and slid down into the sink. I went to turn on the stove.

       I don’t like to remember this memory, as the loss of a loved one is never something pleasant to remind yourself of. It is easier to try and forget, but forgetting is not an option. Sharing this memory will force me to remember, I have to accept what has happened and honor my grandfather’s memory. The present I live in is one without my grandfather in it, all that’s left is his memory and legacy, unlike the memories I have of the past, a past with him in my life.


Authors Note:


Similar to the style of narration presented in the Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood, in my reconstruction there is a past tense in which I narrate the memory, but there is also a present tense where I reflect upon it and I why it is important to me. In Offred’s narrative we see her describe the emotions she feels towards memories she shares with the readers. I chose to write about this topic because of how it has affected me emotionally and molded me into the person I am today. I saw this topic as very relatable, as we have all gone through something similar or will go through it one day.



IMG_5466
IMG_5466

Eric Valenti Memory Reconstruction

I used to love to swim. I always feared drowning though. I used to swim at or great uncles lake house.


My twin sister, Marzia, loved the lake. She was taller, a dark olive skin tone and slender. You could never be able to tell that we were twins or that we were related at all. I was shorter than her, a little heavier and far fairer than she was. We were both thirteen. She had breasts and I didn’t. She wore bikinis and I wore one pieces.

Swimming at the lake meant seeing our relatives. My great uncle lived at this lake house. He was a quiet old man. Never married, wealthy and respected by everyone for his wealth. All I liked about him was the lake.


“How’s the water Jess?” my dad said

“It’s nice. I swear I could spend hours in there. Where can I get dried off?”

“Your sister getting dried off in the back so use Uncle Frank’s front bathroom.”


I went to the front bathroom and noticed the door didn’t close completely, it seemed broken. I closed it as far as I could and began to get undressed. The door creaked. Heavy footsteps hit the floor slowly and I struggled to pull the suit back up but before I could a cold hand went on my chest. It was my uncle. He grabbed at basically nothing. It was just fat on my chest and I didn’t say or do anything. He was behind me and I just stood there. Pool water still dripped off of me and for those 5 minutes, it felt like I couldn’t get a word out. Lighter footsteps could be heard from the other room and my uncle left quickly and went outside talking to my Father. My sister entered asking if I was hungry and she could tell something was wrong but didn’t ask. I never told anyone.  I didn’t know if I should tell anyone because I didn’t know if it was wrong. didn’t have what I thought men like him wanted to grab. Why couldn’t he have just grabbed my sister? Maybe someone would've cared.

_____________________________________________________________________

Author's note:

This event is based on my life and an event that took place a long time ago. The characters were obviously made up and the scenario is different slightly. I wanted to write a flashback like a memory from the main character that appears to be positive but turns dark towards the end reminiscent of Kesey’s writing of Chief’s flashbacks during the electrotherapy. The end of the memory is also quite like Chief’s long paragraph writing in Cuckoos Nest. The reason a picture of a lake house was chosen for the meaning it has in the story. The lake house was somewhere that was tranquil and meant a lot to the character because it meant that she could swim but now the lake house merely makes her feel like she’s drowning, hence why the second image is darkened.


Screenshot 2018-12-16 at 7.54.40 PM
Screenshot 2018-12-16 at 7.54.40 PM

"You're so well behaved." — Nile Ward

"You're so well behaved." I felt like I've heard this so many times, I don't even realize these are even words any more. I was one of few black kids in my class that went to a mostly white school; all white teachers for the whole nine years.


That one sentence... In the first few months of second grade, I distinctly remember my parents having to talk to my teacher, not because of my grades or bad behavior. In fact, he was trying to make it seem that I was the worst student ever when... I wasn't. It seemed like he was poking at me to find something that he knew I'd snap about. Like the time we had indoor recess… or art class – I don't know. Whatever it was, I was always first in line to get a piece of paper and utensils for transcribing my imagination from brain to paper. But then that teacher, adamant to break me, told me that I would have to complete some writing sheet. Apparently, I missed that assignment –  but I just did it, while he stood over me for the whole ten minutes it took me to complete it, while everyone else got to draw and build towers and such. He asked me why I thought the answer was right for each problem where a word was misspelled or the punctuation was wrong. I answered "because we learned this in writing class." I handed him the completed sheet.


He snatched it out of my hand while staring intently over his glasses at me, smirking, and I felt nervous, like I'd done something wrong. He read over it about five times. He told me that I'd passed. About time you'd say that. It was the same sheet he gave us three days ago in writing class that I remembered doing!


"Darn," he must've thought. "Still didn't break." I never would. He probably realized this after winter break – he did a complete 180 flip, complimenting my hard work and my "great behavior." Still unaware of his motives, I just said thanks.


Of course, I later realized what he was doing this for, and why all of my teachers told me "you're so well behaved." Sure, this isn't necessarily a bad thing, but, scratch the surface, and – surprise! Mostly white school – so seeing a black kid probably was shocking. Especially when that kid smashes the stereotype of "getting in trouble all of the time."


AUTHOR'S NOTE

For the most part, I tried to make this sound like the character were telling the story rather than it being written down. To an extent, I drew some inspiration from Margaret Atwood's writing style – specifically the voice and the character trying to remember what happened. For example, Atwood has Offred asking herself where she was or what she was doing. I did the same, where my character asked which class this situation took place. But for the most part, I wanted this to sound natural, partly to give it more dimension, but also because the basic setup of the story is personal.



affirmative-action
affirmative-action

Reconstruction of Memory, I Disremember You

Author’s Note:
Margaret Atwood influenced this style of writing which incorporates a mixture of two tenses. Past tense is used when the character is reflecting on the memory with the consistency of present tense when that character is describing the memory tied to her emotions. This shows the importance of that memory even in the character’s present time.  Atwood and Ken Kesey also use short sentences in their writing that get straight to the point — a style I used. This is important in conveying the character’s sentiments but also highlights the main focus points of their memory.


I Disremember You

The sun peeped through the curtains of my room. I feel slight discomfort, almost like I’m forgetting something. The feeling of searching for it without knowing.

The sound of laughter grows between two people.

At age six he taught us to climb trees, exclaimed my mother, barefoot!

Age six repeated in my head. How can she possibly remember such memories? People forget everything before the age three. I don’t have a single full memory even after three.

Mother stood on top of the garden that extended to the lively forest. A fig tree stood tall in front of her wanting to hide the scene. I shifted to the right, there a better view. She knelt down placing her head against the brick surface. She wore a cream-colored sweater, slightly loose jeans and black heeled boots. Her signature look.

I recognize how much has changed as the surrounding environment aged her.

Her locks loosely resting against her back. I wondered if she prepped it at the salon before seeing him. She always had it done. I don’t think today. Yet, it still falls ever so silky. I hear a painful scream escape her mouth.

My mind suddenly became blank. There is no more of that memory left in me. Did I climb over to comfort her?


Do you remember him?

Yes, I do but no I, unfortunately, don’t.

Yes, I tell them.

Days pass as the tissues surrounding her continued to build a tower. The room was nearly empty. White walls enveloped her. How did she spend her days in this terrible room that consumed her all? Her cries echoing from one wall to another. An endless cycle. My father grabbed my hand pulling me to the door. My eyes remained on her figure girdled by thin paper, sheer white sheets, grief, and tears.

The only memories I had closest to him were through her. Today, her eyes still glossy at the mention of his name — only now there’s a glimpse of acceptance. She tells me he did good things for me. If only I remembered the way she did.


FullSizeRender
FullSizeRender

Reconstruction of Memory: Jason Chen

Bad luck, again. It came out of nowhere, I think it was just a small bump, it was nothing to worry about. But the doctor said otherwise. The words came out of his mouth, benign tumor and surgery. Thoughts came rushing through my head. I remember thinking of that day, running down the field as fast as I can go to catch the disc. But to avoid hurting a freshman I jumped to the side, messed up the footing as I landed and there I was in agony on the ground with turf in my mouth. All I could think about was the pain. I couldn’t move a single part of my body because the shock was too great. To this day I don’t even remember clearly how it happened. What side of my foot did I land on? It happened quickly, too quickly. And there I was unable to walk, and my ankle looked like a inflated balloon.

I couldn’t remember the number of doctor’s visits I had, but I do recall many doctors telling me that it’s most likely just a sprain. Just a sprain? That’s a minor injury I believed. But of course that was just a opinion, the MRI results clearly said otherwise. With the next visit, the doctor that was going to perform my surgery came into the room with a big fat smile that it almost scared me. He told me that I fracture my fibula and dislocated my peroneal tendon. Surgery was required to put my tendon back in place. I wanted to be able to walk, run and live a normal life so I had to get this surgery. With countless tug of wars to try convincing my mother to do the surgery, There I was being prepped to be taken into the OR. My memories are blurry to this day, but I remember the surgical assistant talk to me as I watched the anesthesia slowly drop down the IV into me and my eyes slowly give out. I woke up feeling like all my insides wanted to come flying out of my mouth. It was painful, but I did it and it was over with. But here I am sitting in another room being told I have a benign tumor. I needed another surgery to remove it, and there I was sitting in the hospital with a tube in my neck.

Author's Note

In my reconstruction of a memory I tried to use the techniques that Margaret Atwood and Ken Kesey has used. The small section that we analyzed from Atwood had questions that was brought up to show that the memory wasn't clear. It made it more realistic because the memory actually was not clear. And the technique I took from Kesey is how the scene was something being remembered and how something triggered that memory. For this, it was based on a person experience and what triggered that memory was having a surgery for a second time.

injury
injury

Reconstruction of Memory- Angel

  

    I always get this way when I'm lost. I'm so tired of having to relive this moment forever. When I was I think just four years old, I had lived with my parents.  Parents, who am I kidding? They weren't ever really parents to me. There was the one time that my mother tried to make me feel like I was her child by offering me her needle full of what would ultimately kill her in the end. “What a mother,” I always thought. As for my “father” he was never in the “house”.  He was always out selling somewhere, usually on the corner of 3rd and Benson. Or was it 6th and Benson? I don't know, all I know is that it was next to the house with the red awning. Eventually, I was placed in the foster care system. I had no place to go and no one to really turn to. Except for Angel. Angel had always been there for me. She helps me through my toughest days but causes me so much pain at the same time. It’s so hard to let her go. The other day, I found myself talking to her. She helped me make everything I was worried about go away.  I was taken to my happy place. Everyone tells me she's bad for me and that I need to get my life together, but I'm lost without her just like I was lost without my “parents". I've finally found someone to rely on. Why would I want to leave that?


It doesn't matter because I’m never going to leave her!


It's time to talk to Angel again.  As I reach into my pocket to get her, I hear someone talking to me.


“Yes?” I say as I lift my head to look up.


“Hey Junkie, you can't stay here! This is public property you need to go somewhere else!” he screams at me from down the street. 


Authors Note:

    Throughout the story I used past tense words to show that the narrator was having a flashback within that flashback I described an early childhood moment because that is what shapes human beings. I chose to mention the narrator's feelings toward her parents to show she has never had anyone to rely on and this is how she had developed this relationship to Angel. Angel is not a person but is described as one to hide it from the reader until the end of the story. I decided to have the narrator describe Angel as a person to show the connection between her and Angel (the drug she uses). I chose to write this story this way because I wanted the reader to follow the memory and then when coming to the end of the story realize how the story connects to what the narrator is going through in current time.



Screenshot 2018-12-12 at 12.26.26 PM
Screenshot 2018-12-12 at 12.26.26 PM

Reconstruction of Memory - Kaitlyn Petroski

I pull up to a stop light, looking to my left, I notice my old middle school. The sight of the building floods me with memories. Most people think fondly of when they were just children with no responsibilities, with no care in the world. I don’t. I wasn’t a particularly happy kid, but it was at its worst in middle school. There aren’t many good memories, but some were livable.

Walking through the hallway was a dangerous game, there was always someone there to make it more difficult than necessary. I don’t remember much of this day, but I was walking back from art class, holding a folder of drawings. A foot stuck out, the folder went flying, and I went down. I couldn’t tell who did it. I was stunned, I couldn’t believe what happened.

I looked up and saw someone looking at me, he wasn’t laughing, just looking. What was his name? It hit me that a popular kid just saw me trip. I shielded my face and looked down, refusing to lift my eyes. I figured if I can’t see him, he can’t see me, right?

A pair of shoes stepped into my view and the person attached to them crouched down to gather my papers. When I finally looked up, he smiled at me and held out a hand to help me up. That had never happened to me before. I was the disposable kid. When someone saw me fall they just kept walking, but not him.

I’m sure he doesn’t remember that day, he probably doesn't remember me at all and that’s okay. That was the happiest I felt that whole year, just the simple fact that someone else noticed. The small moment of kindness defines him in my mind, thinking back about it, I realize that everybody has a different version of you in their mind. Even though I didn’t think anybody cared back then, I know know that at least one person did, even if it was just for a moment.

A honking horn behind me pulls me out of my thoughts and I start driving again.

Author's Note

In my reconstruction of memory I tried to emulate the writing styles and techniques of Margaret Atwood and Ken Kesey. Atwood’s tendency to distance the character from the events and illustrate an apathy in the character, while establishing the character’s emotional attachment is something that I really tried to focus on in this piece. In One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest, Kesey utilizes the narrator’s skewed view of the world to tell the story, I tried to incorporate this by showing the missing details in my character’s memory.


Reconstruction of Memory

I remember my friend Brad so clearly. Well, I don’t know if I should call him my friend. I have friends that treat me poorly not really sure if our friends because they always say that I suck but maybe they are just looking out for me. I have received this treatment for years and now I am getting used to it. My friends don’t get to see what I do at home, My mom has been training me and I have actually been approved. I recall how tough my mom was as my trainer, she really wouldn't let me have a life, I would only see my friend when I was at hockey.  “ skate, work harder Tucker” said mom, I still have her voice my head pushing me to work harder. I constantly received this kind of treatment from everyone but I remember my mom always helped me push through and I did so by working hard and having the determination to do well because I want to prove him wrong. I have kept work and as they hate on me I keep getting better by the minute because I kept getting better and extending expectations. “I have something I need to prove and I will make it and show them all" The best happens in tryouts I did very well and took the spot away from my friend The spot on the team was a bittersweet moment because yes I was able to make the hockey  team, I also felt bad because I stole Brad's spot and he had no team to play for meaning his hockey career is over and also felt good because he doubted me and I proved him wrong. The amazing things happened kept happening I kept getting better and Kept Making teams at higher levels. I ended up committed to Play hockey out of Northeastern in Boston and then going on to be drafted to play professional hockey for the Boston Bruins. I never thought that I would become this good but this  shows if you work hard you will prove people wrong.

Author's note:  I personally love and enjoy playing hockey that’s why I  decided included the hockey aspect in my memory reconstruction.  In my memory reconstruction, I decided to include a real-life event before attending high school I had friends who doubted me getting into the high schools I wanted too attended but I got into all my schools and my friends didn’t get into the schools they wanted. I felt bad because yes they didn’t get into the schools they wanted but it also felt good because they doubted me and I proved them wrong by getting into all the schools.

Unknown
Unknown

Reconstruction of Memory - Vivian Pham


Anna will never be able to erase this memory, kicking it aside like it doesn’t bother her is her best solution. She lives her everyday life being happy over walking throughout the streets, that makes her skin crawl and her head drop to look down at the floor. She says hi to strangers pretending like she isn’t terrified of anything happening to her. She wants to be better, she actually does want to be genuinely happy, she doesn’t understand why she can’t but she always hears in her head, “I forbid.”

She was 17 years old, she felt like she was going down the right path,

“I love you.”

“I love you too. I hope you go wherever I go” He said.

She was head over heels, she felt the happiest with him, they would spend the last 2 years of high school just being within each other’s comfort. Her family never supported her when it came to him, they didn’t trust him and believed that he was going to be a bad influence. Anna was enraged, she would come home every night and lock herself in her room, not feeling happy or safe under her family’s roof. She could never forget this conversation, little did she knew, it was going to be the conversation that changed her life forever.

“Hey Ann.” Her dad walks into her room.

“Hi.” Ann said, looking down at her phone.

“We need to talk about your friend.” He says.

“My boyfriend? The person I love?” Ann says, putting down her phone.

“Your friend. I forbid you from seeing him.”

Anna gets up. “You will not forbid me from doing anything.” In a matter of a few minutes, Anna had her important items packed and she was out the door to be with her supposed love of her life. She never looked back and never cried.

Five years have passed since that day, that one day, now she shuts down, she sits in a small apartment, the walls are stained yellow, she sits lonely on a short bed. She looks around and does not feel happy, her belongings don’t feel like home, nothing she has feels like home. She finally understands why she’s not happy, she tries so hard to cover up and hide the most life defining moment and denies all of her emotions.

“Forbid”

The one word that drove Anna over the edge, the stuffing of her suitcase in rage and force. Her footsteps heavy as she leaves her room forever, remembering how many nights she spent angry, despising everything her family stood for. She moved on and believed this was her only way to be happy, little did she know, her being afraid of her own thoughts costed her a life  that was not full of regret.


Author’s note:

In this reconstruction of memory, this was a story that highlights a memory that I have experienced and feel like a lot of teenagers have felt during one point in their lives. It’s hard to identify and stay in tune with the emotions, when anger takes over one person. This story is about a girl who regrets something she has done, but one wrong move and she goes wrong.  To convey this memory effectively I wanted to reveal the character’s emotions to the memory using Kesey’s technique on being super descriptive and using descriptive language to tie the character’s emotions with the scene of memory. As well as revealing the character’s relationship to this memory and its significance using Atwood’s technique by repeating a certain moment or word that’ll point to its significance.


An image represents Anna in a spherical ball with holes it in, the air is leaking out of the ball and she is holding her breath, to symbolize that reality is hitting her, this memory is still stuck in her head, it’s not her choice to forget, this memory is not allowing for her to forget. She tries to build up this strong force around her and the image shows pieces of tape just attempting to patch up the holes and the damage.


IMG_9088
IMG_9088

Reconstruction of Memory - Becca Snyder

We reached the room and crashed on the twin sized bed. Our clothes were ripped apart and there was dirt lining our faces. All I could think about was that bridge. I remember her telling us there wouldn’t be a problem. My head was buried in the pillows, the only thing I could imagine was the pulling, and the lights.


That night the town was lit up for festivities. This is where we were at first, lighting sparklers and giving life to the abandoned halls. Barbara told us of this day. This was the one day that there was light on this street. Other days were overshadowed with broken street lamps and empty buildings. Barbara looked up to the dark mountain, pointed, and said that was our goal. So we followed, not knowing where or when we’d be back, or if the light would persist. This uncertainty was frightening. The road we walked on was winding and losing its way. A light was on. It revealed a towering spiral staircase. We weren’t to step on it, once someone steps on it, it buries into the ground with its crumbling rust. The other side was steep and daunting. So we went up, holding on to the stone of the Neretva water treatment plant, hoping the moisture wouldn’t result in a long fall. My hands were trembling with this fear, Barbara said it would be okay, but the trembling wouldn’t stop. There were screams from above telling us to continue, screams we couldn’t recognize, so we went up until there was a cage, hoping to ignore the loud noises surrounding us. The cage was in the shape of a cube with rusting green paint giving it color. The darkness didn’t reveal any inhabitants, and no noise that would hint to these screams. So it was safe to climb over, holding on to the small openings it gave, furthering our exploration closer to the screams. Again, we went higher until we could see the other side of the bridge. Barbara looked at me, “That’s where we’re going.” Her finger directed us to the other side, with large square gaps in the center. There were letters all over it, in different colors and sizes. I guess it was the words of those who were there before us, warning of the trek. The screams seemed to be of the same genre. Warnings. Warnings Barbara wouldn’t take. She swore it was still safe. None were in our language, so none proved useful. Looking to the forest there was darkness, looking to the town there was a circle of fire, glowing. I wished we went back, when the light was still there. The holes were big and under them was a heavy stream of water coming from the treatment center. Splashes rose like there was life under, some world we were interfering with. Our legs fell over the ledges and felt the nips from the waves pushing them different ways. Our legs crashed into each other. Our legs felt the movement of the monster. Our legs were the ones who knew.

I felt a grab pull me under the stream, it grabbed on to Barbara too. We were under, looking for oxygen to give us life. What was pulling us under? Our limbs crashed into eachother as our clothes were being shredded and faces brushed the mud below. We kept going and going down the stream. How long were we under? I don’t know. There was light on the other side, I could see it, but my focus was on breathing. In and out. In and out. My face peaked the water, I saw the light. Barbara pulled me out of the water all at once. My eyes went black.


That was all I remember. I wish I remembered more, how my clothes got shredded, who was the monster doing that? Now I’m safe. I’m on the twin bed. I’m safe.


Author's Note
For this reconstruction of memory I took stylistic techniques from both Atwood and Kesey. An important element of Atwood’s narration is that Offred recalls forgetting parts of her memory. She asks questions like “How old was I?” and creatively illustrates her memories leaving her head. She also described the desperation for wanting to keep her memories. I incorporated this into my writing where I have my character ask questions about what she forgets, she says things like, “What was pulling us under?” and “How long were we under?” My character also describes frustration in forgetting parts of the memory in her present reflection about the memory, “I wish I remembered more.” Atwood also uses repetition in her narration of memories to display a more realistic action of remembering. I use this multiple times in this reconstruction, “In and out. In and out,” and the repetitive phrase of “Our” in the beginning on consecutive sentences. As far as referencing Kesey’s writing, he used the technique of Bromden talking about what others told him in those moments. In my piece, my character often references and challenges was Barbara told her. This is her way of internalizing conversations in the moment.
800px-Akvaduk04399
800px-Akvaduk04399

Scene of Memory - Andrew Rodebaugh

I was in my bedroom in middle school if I remember correctly. That’s when it came for the first time. I was really falling behind in school. It likes that.

Crawling around in my room. A monster... I guess you could call it that. It’s a quiet creature. It’s large but yet hard to see. And makes a statement without making much noise.

I guess that’s why I was the only one who noticed it. The fear it caused me was not the fear that makes you scream or fear for something or someone. But just the fear that shuts you down and makes you cry. That’s all I could think of doing.

I told my parents and they were upset. Not at it but at me for being silly.

My father yelled at me “Excuses and lies. Ever since you got that C. But out of all your lies this one takes the cake.”

“There's a lot going-” I was interrupted.

“Bull crap. Absolute bull crap.”

I look over and creeping around was it again. Knocking around objects and making a ruckus. No one noticed but I was scared. I remember running to my room and slamming it. Of course, my parents thought it was because of them but I was hiding from my fears. The door gave me protection from it. Whenever it came I went to my room to hide from my fears. Until I was banned from my room causing it to follow me around my everyday life. I had no safe space in my room to wait till it left.

People started to notice that I was not the same. The ruckus caused by it was blamed on me and caused me to slip. Doing worse and I had no support.

I wanted to get rid of it. Get it out of my life once and for all. There were solutions to getting rid of it but I was blocked access from them. They didn’t see the reason why I needed them because the problems caused by it was me.

Now because of that time I am stuck where I am now. It grew bigger and started to hurt me. There is no way I can stop it now. Because of me.


Authors Note:


This piece is something I put a lot of time thinking about how to convey my memories of the lack of support and the pain caused by my “monsters.” It is a depiction of my depression and anxiety that has followed me around. My first draft was a conversation between a therapist and the main character but, it was suggested that I make it more of a monologue. The image is one I found online that I think represented the "controlling nature" of depression.



01f468023952392a902ecbd16538f98e
01f468023952392a902ecbd16538f98e

KGK Memory Reconstruction

IMG-5556
IMG-5556
Kimberly Gucciardi-Kriegh
Ms. Pahomov
College English
12/16/18

December 17th, 2018. Colorful birthday candles sit on top of my favorite double chocolate cake. I look up from the smoke that sings the remembrance of the flame and see all the smiling faces. How did I make this much progress?
December 17th, 2017. I had a vanilla cake from Shoprite. Only one candle for my 16th birthday. We watched a movie I remember hating, so insignificant I don’t remember which one. My little cousins screamed from all the sugar. Went to bed that night and tried to recover from the disappointment by watching Netflix. I didn’t feel better. 
Last March I was failing junior year. That May, my only escape from stress was laying in my pajamas. Every day I ate Rice Krispies for breakfast and soup for lunch. My birthday came and no friends were at my party because I didn’t have any worth inviting. I wasn’t sure I was worth being friends with. 
December 17th, 2016. There were “friends” staring at their phone and making fun of my old furniture. My parents tried to build up my self-esteem by inviting family members I never met, to make me feel I had a crowd cheering for me. In the end, I put up a facade, holding up applause signs to fake happiness and please strangers. 
April 2016, I constantly felt awkward, ugly, and uncomfortable. September, my family got a dog, that was the only highlight of the year. 

This year was celestial. I saw something I had never seen before. The look of genuine love on guests’ faces was shocking to me. I thought this look didn’t exist, something I made up. The guest list included my mom’s side of the family I actually like and some new kids at my school that are now my best friends. 
This year I found joy in the small things; repainting my room, watering plants, coupons at my favorite store, watching the sunrise on train rides, and meeting new people. 
Tonight, I will end my night in a bubble bath, a big bowl of ice cream, and listening to my favorite songs. The perfect day needs a perfect ending. It took me so much energy to get where I am. Something that couldn’t be measured in miles, inches, or pounds. 

Authors Note-
These events are not based on my life, only some small things I like to do or typical “teenager” things. Since the next step is coming close to all my friends, classmates, and I, I have been very inspired regarding how far we have come and how much we have grown. I chose to use shorter sentence structure and more poetic descriptions to mimic the way Margaret Atwood creates scenes in The Handmaid’s Tale. I incorporated lots of different events from the main characters life to mimic when Bromden was being electrically shocked and had lots of memories flood back from different points in his life. The image I made is based off the story I wrote and te events that occured between the years. I did the first two in black and white and finally introduced color once the character's life became better.

Reconstruction of a Memory- Cat Long


Here I am, all dressed in an uncomfortable black outfit. The weather is fitting for the day. It’s raining, really heavily might I add. My father with a slightly stone cold face. Trying to pretend like he isn’t hurting right now. The surrounding people dressed in black, holding umbrellas and tissues. The man standing next to Dimitri is giving a speech, his words, along with the sobs of others began to grow fuzzy. He’s a cruel, cruel man. My cruel brother. Leaving me all alone.


Outside, I was forced outside. His shouts could be heard by the neighbors. Tears rolling down my face, as I crouched to the ground, hands covering my ears. My eyes were tightly shut. A curdling scream released. In the distance I could see my father frantically trying to call someone. Help.

“Bastard! This is your fault!” His voice was filled with hatred. It wasn’t… It wasn’t my fault! I had nothing to do with this! I need to help him… I was like trying to reach out, yet he wouldn’t grab my hand. I can’t hold onto him any longer. The window now shattered out of rage. My heart was beating fast, my breathing was labored. My eyes forced open, taking one good look at Dimitri. My eyes locked with his, never leaving the brown eyes that once shined. Dimitri wouldn’t listen, he kept screaming. Placing all blame on us. Guilt… It was eating at my stomach. I knew, I knew I shouldn’t be guilty. Yet, with him screaming at me. Taunting me. I couldn’t help it. Time went slower than normal. The screams stopped. My body shot up. Dimitri could no longer be seen from the window and I didn’t hear footsteps on the stairs. Dimitri… The only person I cared about. Feet running as fast as possible to the door. Not caring if I stepped on glass and bleed.

“Dimitri! Dimitri! Open the door! Please! Please, let me know you’re okay!” I dryly shouted, pounding on the door. Fresh tears running down my face once more. No answer.


Audio (I had 3 different ones)

I Dreamed a Dance- Next to Normal:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u8rRl2xxXK4&index=14&list=PL2DC20458721C6798


Light in the Dark- Next to Normal: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iLqz-k6hJZ4&index=18&list=PL2DC20458721C6798


She Used to Be Mine- Waitress:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A2-aUNmYNLM


Author's Note

So I chose to do a mix of both Kesey and Atwood. Atwood used actions to convey the emotions and hopelessness of Offred. Kesey’s way of writing memories for Chief Bromden was very vague or super detailed. Confusing and needed to be put together by little parts. I took a bit of information from one of the papers read during class during one of the workshops. It was mentioned that the writing should flow and words should have some form of meaning, even the beautiful ones. The hopeless feeling made known by actions and not so much by saying it up front.


Turmoil in Orlando

No I don’t believe it. What would Ramone be doing in front of my job in Orlando? Oh shoot, he looked at me. What do I do? Smile? Wave? Stupid. What if he doesn’t remember you? Or worse, what is he does?



“What the heck, Bash?” Ramone was yelling at me even though I was the one who just got hit with a football. I was distracted. What was I looking at? “Get your head in the game, the chip is this weekend. Prom can wait.”

That’s it. I was looking at the prom banner going up. I didn’t have a date yet and it was weighing me down. “Man shut up, ain't nobody worried about some dumb prom. Go long.”

“Sure. See the one in the pink shorts? That’s all me.”

“They’re all in pink shorts.” See, Jada, his new fling was on the cheerleading team. Fling is a nice way of putting it. He didn’t see her the way I did, couldn’t treat her the way I did. She and I never put a label on it so it wasn’t cheating, really, it was an agreement we made. Harmless. How were we to know it could cost Ramone everything? “I said go long,” I shooed him away and  blew Jada a kiss. He wasn’t supposed to see.

“Man, what the f--” That was the last thing he said before getting by a truck. He didn’t make it to the championship game. Or to prom. Last time I checked, he was still Philly. I ghosted Jada at prom, graduated and never looked back. How do I bring myself to speak to him now? My best friend who I placed in a wheelchair. I visited him once in the hospital, didn’t even go into his room. I couldn’t see him like that. I turned to leave but I guess he could feel the deceit in the air. He yelled after me, “Bash? Bash. SEBASTIAN!”



“What man? What do you want from me? “

“Chill man. It’s me Ramone. Don’t you recognize me?”

“Oh hey.” Of course, How could I ever forget?


Author's Note:
Thanks for reading! In this piece, I attempted to take a familiar feeling of uncertainty that comes from when we see someone we haven’t seen in a while and dramatize it. This story is about two friends with a tough past who meet obscurely and is something I think people can relate to. In reference to the mentor text, I incorporated pieces of inner, self conscious dialogue as well as had external surroundings play into the memory itself. For my Audio companion, I chose Adele’s ‘Hello’ because it encompasses the feeling of regret that Sebastian has throughout the story.


Reconstruction of a Memory- Matthew Milligan


Alone in my bedroom, I find myself swallowed by darkness. I want the lack of light to numb me, to shut out the noise of the raging world outside. The bed I lay in should feel soft, but the usually delicate sheets and warm blue comforter make me feel confined. Why is it that I cannot find comfort in the simple things that used to please me before? Perhaps it is the pit of loss currently hollowing out my stomach, growing deeper with each breath I take.


Death has ripped away someone I love. It had been a lingering shadow hovering over us for many months prior, slowly collecting its tax on life. How many more hospital trips would it have to take for it to finally be over? Sometimes waiting ends up being more tortuous than what everyone dreads. At least they can finally rest, and maybe we can too.


Wrestling against muddled thoughts of grief attempting to pin me to the bed, I rose to my feet. It felt like I was underwater, my bones full of cement. Too stubborn to turn on the lamp,  I search around in the pitch black topography created by blackout curtains nested in the windows for the items I desire.


Years of use have made the room a place I can navigate flawlessly with eyes closed. I find my nightstand with ease and grasp my hands around a candle, the smooth glass the wax resides in cold to the touch. I need something other than the dull glow of artificial light.


The second provision I must hunt for takes a little bit more effort, however, after a few minutes, I find the cheap lighter I bought at the corner store in my drawer amongst underwear and scattered change. It isn’t meant to light candles, but I must make do with what I have. Fumbling absentmindedly with the switch I send sparks into the empty air as I make my way towards the window.


Moving the veil aside I lay the candle upon the window ledge and stare at it, unlit, full of potential. My fingers coax a flame from the lighter and I bring it to the wick. A steady fire presents itself before me and I watch it intently. A faint glow illuminates the room, scaring the darkness away into corners. I made my way back to bed and lay down, watching the flickering illumination dance across the ceiling with the shadows still present in the room with me.

Author's Note:


Most of the stylistic influences in my short story come from Margaret Atwood. Though boredom plays a role in Offred being overly descriptive in her narration, I feel as though another part of it is her brain trying to distract itself from her current terrible situation. My main character is similarly suffering in the moment (Offred struggles with grief a lot) and I wanted them to cope in the same way. I also appreciated Offred's tendencies to interrupt her narration with questions to herself/the reader. I think doing so adds more to the description by showing how the character is reacting to the memory as the are remembering it, which is why I had my character do the same thing.

Reconstruction of a Memory- Brendan Hall

Screenshot 2018-12-13 at 7.56.24 PM
Screenshot 2018-12-13 at 7.56.24 PM

I tried to escape from a house to find a home. I kept looking over my shoulder the paranoia was getting to me, suddenly I heard a voice.

“Did you think you could hide forever?” I didn’t but it was worth was a shot.

“I’m your dad and you have to listen to what I tell ya. That’s the way it is. I don’t want you to be a loser like you loser mom’s side of the family. You’re a Jones not a Williams,” The same speech I heard dozens of times before. Of all the places he could be, he was here and found me, just my luck. I do the other thing I’ve ever done my whole life, run. I run because I refuse to be controlled. I refuse to allow someone to be antagonized their whole and put up with it, only to have their abuser wear the victim’s mask. I refuse to allow someone to lie about their former spouse having affair in order to manipulate their family. I refuse to be a Jones.

“Get back here!” he yelled when about ten feet back when I initially bursted into sprint. There’s no turning back. I ran until I didn’t see him anymore, and I kept running after that. I could never be sure I wasn’t just running away from family mistreatment anymore. I was running from the slight part of me that resembles him. I’m running from the man I’m afraid I’ll become. I’m running from the future I fear more than anything. I’m running from a man that’s been running from himself.

“You thought you could outrun me?” He came out of nowhere The anger in his face was enough to start a war itself. He cocked his arm all the way back and right before I’m hit that’s when I awake.

This reoccurring nightmare happened again. Even when he can’t control me I allowed myself to be scarred by him. Although this moment happened years ago I’m only able to remember it on a good day and on a bad day I relive it.


My reconstruction of a memory came from the style of Atwood and the content of Kesey. Atwood’s usage of figurative language influenced me to write phrases such as “I’m running from a man who’s running from himself”. While Chief’s flashback to his family life influenced me to write about the topic I chose. The hallucinations throughout One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest also made me want to have a nightmare to show subscious thoughts.

Reconstruction of Memory- Justin Stewart

Image result for flattened bike tire

I remember the time we tried riding down Rat Road. It was a hot summer day in 2017. I was with my two friend’s Billy Bob and Jake. We were riding our bikes throughout the neighborhood. Billy rode his aunt’s bike since his bike’s tires were flattened by a sharp nail a few months before. We were doing tricks and daring each other to do stunts. But one dare proved to have been to extreme for us.

“Come on Billy we’re going to Rat road.” Jake said.

“Rat road? Doesn’t that street have a bunch of shattered glass on the ground?” I asked

“Yeah, the reason why there is a bunch of glass on the ground is because there was a car accident there like last week.” Jake responded

I remember saying, “I don’t think that we should go there, if cars can’t go down that street, bikes shouldn’t either.”

“We’ll be fine, I’ll go down the street first” I said.


          Rat Road was a really steep hill, cars were banned from going down because it was a safety hazard. Still, I  went down first, he was moving fast but he got to the bottom safely. Jake went next. He wasn’t going as fast as I was but he was still going fast enough for it to be dangerous falling off your bike here would be very bad. But he also got to the end in one piece. Next, Billy Bob went down the hill. I remember seeing him shaking in fear. He said that he wasn’t really afraid of falling because he had on a helmet, elbow guards, and knee guards. But he was more afraid of breaking my aunt’s bike. He stood at the top of the hill for what seemed like five minutes and thought over if he should do this. If he backed out, then we would’ve thought that he wasn’t “man enough.” But if he did go down the hill, He’d have the high risk of destroying his aunt’s bike. He finally decided to go down the hill. He sped down even faster than I did. While he rode down the hill, I heard and seen his tire pop. I looked down and saw there were many shards of glass inside the tire, and he lost control.  The bike and flew off but luckily for him he didn’t have any severe injuries.


Author's Note:


This story is based off of a true story that I experienced. Billy Bob represents me as I was afraid to ride down the hill with my aunt’s that wasn’t called Rat road but that was the nickname we gave it. In reality, it was a steep hill but cars weren’t banned from going up and down the hill they just chose not to. For this story, I chose to use the style of Margaret Atwood as she uses repetition to make the story more believable. I also used some of Ken Kesey’s method by making the story very descriptive so the reader can feel what the Protagonist is feeling.