Jul 18, 2017

Posted by in Creative Writing | 0 Comments

Pineapples [Prose] Creative Writing 101 – Journal 4

Pineapples [Prose] Creative Writing 101 – Journal 4

Grade: A

Comments: “wonderfully sure tone and voice throughout– witty, and uses repetition to great effect” and “vivid and really captures the feeling of early memories, how vivid they are, and how our present perspective colors them when we look back”



When I think of that house, I think I’m four. When I think of the next house, I think I’m seven. I don’t think of the first house, there’s nothing to think of.

When I’m four, there’s patched and peeling pineapple wallpaper in the kitchen. One of the doll dresses my older brother gave me for my birthday matched that wallpaper. In that kitchen there’s a large table. It’s old and wooden, probably oak, and it hurt me once. While gliding over across the floor like a graceful ballerina I stub my big toe under the leg, blood ruining my pink ballerina tights. The toenail falls off. I managed to injure that same toe in the exact same way under a friend’s refrigerator in a different kitchen 10 years later.

In my pineapple kitchen on my old oak table I learn to play solitaire. I play by myself as is appropriate. I slap the cards one at a time in a row, over and over, “Slap. Slap. Slap”, on-top of that lacquered surface. The dusty metal radio sits next to me, broken antenna dangling and pointing away from my face. A musical jingle plays out. 10 years later I know that jingle belongs to NPR. I don’t know that when I think I’m four. Behind the big table is a long counter. It’s high, too high for me, it probably would be perfect for Julia Child, but I don’t think that then. That orange laminated counter holds a large beautiful ham. The orange Julia Child sized counter is not too tall for our black and tan hound Finder to leap on top of. I think I’m four and my mother takes Finder to the pound. She says later that it’s not because of the ham. I think it’s because of the ham.

The black and white tiled floor holds a sea of mouse traps, one for every tile. I peer in from the hallway door and know that to enter the kitchen would mean destruction. When there aren’t mouse traps there’s open 2-liter bottles of Cola under the sink. I don’t look under there when I’m four; I don’t like to see the mouse corpses floating in several inches of water.

I’m four and I’m standing on the black and white tile, watching my mother make dinner on top of the orange counter in front of a yellow and green pineapple backdrop. I’m telling her about my best friend Lindy. Lindy lives in a barn. Lindy’s family died in a fire. I’m going to go run away to China with Lindy. I don’t. I think I’m four and my best friend is imaginary.

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