ENGL 399 Writing Assignment #2

first-person account of a body part

The canals swirl, in and down and around, going deeper and deeper. The cusp of the channels, rising in a bowl shape, surrounds the depths, protecting the more delicate pathways. Waves crash in a world where up and down is sideways and diagonal. All furrows lead to the center, beckoning the waves to swirl down, down, until they have disappeared in translation in the core of the earth. Some escape, some come swooshing back to the surface, but most pummel into the base at the core. Boom. Boom. Boom.

Every once in a while, in a very long while, the waves quiet. They collect in far corners, away from the center, smoothly washing over beaches as the moon pulls the tide towards himself. Ripples barely mar the clear mirror of the night sky. But the canal rarely dries up entirely. In times of drought, eddies still whisper and sigh across the floor. Tiny ghosts of waves lap against the edges, reminding all that they are still there, that they are loath to leave.  

Other times flash floods strike, rain filling the canyons. The sudden rush of water overwhelms. The ground shudders as the uproar increases. It becomes too much. The ground groans, the earth shuts down, and the canyon closes off. The waves are cut off from the surface but they die slowly, echoing with diminished force inside the vaulted grotto until sheer exhaustion forces them to hush.    

And even when the canal turns cold and refuses to welcome any other sensation, the waves never stop.

ENGL 399 Writing Assignment #1

first-person, present-tense account of something you do regularly

I'm leaning against the sink, hips meeting the edge of the counter as my legs form a right triangle with the cabinet and the floor. I'm still blinking against the cruel fluorescence as green eyes meet their equal in the smeary glass. My gaze flits to the mirror version of my arm, the rubber-band bicep flexing just noticeably as my hand moves up and down with the hairbrush, back and forth with the toothbrush. The faded green-and-gray stripes of my thin cotton shirt swing softly. My mom used to wear that shirt, but it ended up in one of her daughter's drawers.  Like with so many things she gives us, we don't question her generosity.

The green toothpaste, matching my shirt, foams white around my teeth, a spurt escaping from the corner of my lips and trailing down my chin. It lands in the sink, the first casualty from this morning's clash. The brush strokes continue, rapid, until the fronts, backs, tops and bottoms of each tooth have been questioned and cross-examined.

I pause.

Then I cross my eyes to see my tongue as I stick it out. I don't think I appreciate my tongue enough. It is a multi-purpose tool, like the lawnmowers sold by fake-tanned salesmen on the shopping network that can also polish your silver or fold your laundry (the lawnmowers, not the salesmen). But like every good tool, even the tongue requires occasional upkeep, and I try to brush it. Done.

The uneven stream of water from the tap rinses the toothbrush, which I then tap dry. Tap, tap. It finds its home nestled amidst the other sleeping toothbrushes. My mouth tastes vaguely clean.

I sag against the counter. 

This is a combination of two experiences: waking up and groggily facing the light in the bathroom, and brushing my teeth in my pajamas. Bits of other memories are integrated: a dirty mirror, musing about the importance of the tongue. This makes me uncomfortable: is it the truth, or it is a collage of parts that makes an unrelated whole? What do you think?