Evie Shockley

The way she read reminded me of the feeling I get when I try really hard to listen to the sound of rain. It was calming and rhythmic, and stereotypical in the sense that she was whispering the whole time. What I ended up liking was the shock value. Her content was getting a little dull after a few minutes of her Cinderella story and then she started spewing the most inappropriate phrases! I was taken aback – I didn’t not expect those sentences to come from her mouth! And they were funny- more or less.

Bear Gets Knifed

Bear was walking home from the gym in pain. She had a slight limp from the blister on the balls of her feet and she was suffering. She rounded the corner to her spider infested suburban house, exhausted and terribly overheated. She touched her hand to the doorknob. It was locked. Fuck, she thought. She could envision her house keys lying on the couch cushion right behind the door. She was locked out and her roommate wouldn’t be home for another two and a half hours. Bear did the only thing she knew; she used the keypad on her car door and unlocked the trunk. It had an open trunk so if she put the back seats down she could stretch out and take a nap until her roommate rescued her. And that’s what she did, but she had to keep the trunk wide open or the car would heat up beyond a reasonable temperature.

She awoke suddenly to an unfamiliar voice. “Hey Pappi!” the heavy Spanish voice said, “h’what are you doing in de trunk?” Bear sat up, disoriented and afraid. “H’oh my gad,” the voice laughed, “Is’a girl. What you doing in de car, chica?” Bear instinctively tried to grab the leather strap to close the trunk door from the inside but her reflexes were slow from just waking up. Her heart beat so hard in her chest it hurt. Meanwhile, the Spaniard came closer to her car in a serpentine fashion, she couldn’t figure out what direction he meant to come at her from. What time is it, she thought, why isn’t my roommate back yet?

Bear had just grabbed the leather strap but the strength she needed to pull the door closed was worked out of her hours before, damn that fucking class, and she fell out of the trunk. “Was’a matta, chica” the voice said, now considerably closer to Bear. She was nervous and scared; she’d never fought before. Bear stood up; she was wired and every neuron was firing. She could see everything so clearly. The sun was setting, the neighbors windows were open, people were swimming in the nearby pool, the Spaniard was definitely moving close, too close, and his tattoos covered his neck and arms. The night was warm but the breeze was cold. Bear shivered, she saw the Spaniard brandish a dull switchblade.

“I like yo car, chica,” he said, waving the tip of the blade towards her face. He cocked his head as if he were looking through a sniper-scope and continued to wave his knife in Bear’s face. Without warning, the Spaniard lunged at Bear and jabbed the knife into her side, splintering between two ribs and perforating her right lung. Bear didn’t begin to gasp for another few seconds before she dropped to the floor. She felt so tired all of a sudden. Grow up in Harlem and die in a fucking suburb, she thought as she saw the distant footsteps of her roommate rounding the corner. She had a bewildered face as she was nearly side-swiped by a car nearly identical to her roommate’s car, except that there was a man driving this one.

Bite 'Em Down

When I was a little girl I used to bite my nails. I used to bite them hardcore. I never half-assed homework assignments and I never half-assed biting my nails. It was all too common that I’d wake up with blood on my pillow or face from my bleeding nail beds. I couldn’t open plastic wrapped items such as DVD’s or Snapple bottles and I certainly couldn’t handle citrus fruit, no matter how much I loved to lick lemons. Sometimes my jagged edged tips would catch on a piece of fabric and rip through my cuticle, causing me to collapse to the ground. Despite the bewildering pain shooting from my fingertips through my hand and half way up my arm, my fingers would be back in my mouth dancing the tango with my incisors.

I bit my nails so much I etched notches in my front teeth and my mom said that if I didn’t stop biting my nails my front teeth would look like little carpenters saw’s and my beautiful smile would be ruined. I’d be chipping away while listening, holding my neck in a painful and awkward position to get the best piece of keratin to rip from my digits. The feeling of relief when that bit of nail would rip off was like ecstasy. I could breathe easier.

I remember the day I stopped. Someone called me unattractive. I was devastated. I decided I was going to stop but not before I bit my nails the shortest they had ever been. I wore ten band aids on my fingers for a week after that. My brother had come home from college with his girlfriend and I couldn’t wait to tell him the good news. “Look!” I said, “Look how long my nails are!” My brother looked at my hands, “Its about damned time you quit that filthy habit.” I knew how he meant it but it was not the response I was looking for. His girlfriend saved him by piping in. “Oh, really?” she asked excitedly. “My sisters and I used to bit out nails when we were kids. When did you stop biting?” She had a hold of my hands when I said excitedly, “two weeks!” “Oh,” she said. Why was no one impressed!

Cut to six years later and I am a reformed nail biter; ninety-nine percent of the time. “Mom,” I say in a heavy voice. “Look what I did.” My eyes were still red and raw from crying and my words still held the remnants of a whimper. My breath was labored and my saliva was thick, causing me to swallow hard.

My mom looked at my hands and crooned. “Oh, honey.” She took my hands and shone more light on them. “What did you do, you’re nails were healthy and long.”

“Habits die hard,” I choked. “But I don’t remember biting being this painful.” I shut my eyes.

Vomit Hair and Failure

I hear my answering machine beep as I walk in through my front door. It’s late and I’m exhausted. I contemplate ignoring the message so I can take a nice, hot bath and remove the smell of dog vomit from my hair; a perk of not getting into veterinary school. I stiffen as I get a second round of vomit smell as I remove my ponytail, letting my hair fall to my face. I stare at the machine. It’s only one message, so I play it.

“Hey, we’ve done something terribly wrong and need your help. We can’t talk about it over the phone. Please meet us at the spot where we made our pact back in high school. You know the place.” Beep.

“I wish I hadn’t played that,” I say out loud. Nervously, I grab my coat, again, and car keys and walk out the door.

Ladmer had made herself scarce the past two weeks, and was that Benson in the background? It’s raining so I drive slowly. They got themselves into trouble; they could wait another five minutes. Besides, my parent’s house was a few blocks away; they could have walked here all on their own…like adults.

I pull into my driveway. My car now smells faintly of Chester, the worlds dumbest-overweight-chocolate-eating golden retriever. Awesome.

I step out of the car and take a long drag of cold air; it burns. I shuffle to my old front door and ring the bell; I’m not as agile as I was back in high school so I’m not going to scale my own damn fence. And if Ladmer and Benson think I’m going to climb that cicada infested death trap then they’re sadly mistaken. It’s nearly eleven and I just worked a 12 hour shift. They can-

My mother answers the door, “Oh hi honey!”

“Hi mom,” I said while being hugged, and suffocated by my mother’s curls.

“What are you doing here?”

I don’t say anything.

“Oh, one of those days huh?” She says, raising an eyebrow. “They’re out back aren’t they?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll get a pot of coffee up. And tell those girls not to track mud into the house. They’re not sixteen anymore and I ain’t funny,” she says as her words trail into the kitchen.

I walk to the sliding glass doors, twist open the lock and pull on the door. It won’t budge. I nearly lose my head before I see a two foot stick on the track – that’s world class home security, Long Island style.

I step outside and click the patio light. Nothing, not even a flicker. I wish I was taking my bath. If this turns out to be anything like the “emergency” where Benson got silly putty stuck in her hair or the time when Ladmer decided to become a gymnast and jump out of my window onto a makeshift trampoline, then I’m out of here. What is wrong with this damn light?!

I punch the switch in last effort and then BAM! There is screaming, so much screaming and big movie-set lights shining directly on me. I can’t see who is in front of me and can’t tell who is touching my ass but he’s about to lose a finger.

“Ouch!” someone yells. No more overzealous toucher, but I still can’t see.

More lights shine over the backyard and I can see all my old friends and some family members (who know better) jumping over my mother’s makeshift vegetable garden. My mom is behind me, hold a cake shaped like a dog with a bandage around its legs.

“HAPPY NOT GETTING INTO VET SCHOOL!” was shouted, then strobe lights began…doing what strobe lights do. Music was blasting and Ladmer ran over to give me a beer.

She looks at me as I take a swig and says, “And you said we couldn’t celebrate failure.”

Sterile

They come in sterile white boxes

50 pairs of dental examination gloves

They smell sour and rotten

They are the same off-white latex gloves that my dad has worn for years

Fine powder rises up in a mist when he snaps them against his hand

They are smooth against one another, like rubbing two pieces of satin

But they leave rough, cracked cuticles in their wake

I chewed one once; they’re tasteless. The only flavor is that of your hand

They’re fun to blow up but the sound when they burst is alarming. It always makes my heart race

I blow them up anyway. I like to bounce them on my finger tips like birthday balloons

Their stretch has a limit – too often I have slapped my skin with ricocheting rubber

They pull at your lips before they are wetted

Then they slip over your teeth and gums like a blade over ice

Sonnet

The salmon girl had slanting eyes,

And a projection for a nose:

But still she was hot to all the guys,

Or so the story goes:

In Sunday mass she'd strike a toke,

And then she'd get really dumb:

Always the butt of a funny joke,

And always leaving crumbs:

But if you ask, "what girl is this?"

For this I have no answer,

She shakes around her dwarfish fist:

And sticks around like cancer,

But what is this bully to do

When all she has to tease, is you.

I chose the Shakespearean sonnet because I like the flow and beat of it. I don't know how it complements the image or idea; I guess it is all encompassing. I didn't stray from the form, I kept the ababcdcdefefgg format.

Speaker

I came with certain expectations of "The Green Manifesto" that David Gessner did not live up to. I thought his book was going to be technical and informative... like a manifesto. It did not resonate with me. I had a lot on my mind and didn't pay too close attention. Not to mention it was 8 o'clock at night on a Monday - that's not the most conducive environment. That mean's that there are only two types of audience members, those that chose to be there and those that are required to be there.

That said, I most likely won't read his book. I like fiction novels or Biographical A-Day-In-The-Life books about Veterinarians or Animal Medicine.