Stories

Hey, it's nice to know that some of you are still around. It felt a little like a ghost town when I posted back in October. I've been working on a few things. I'm doing radio production stuff now and have been voicing some short personal essays lately, which is even more terrifying at times than writing it all out. Anyway, here are a couple of things I've done in the last couple of weeks if anyone is interested:

First Love and 27 Other Firsts

Whitney

 Kamila, If you are still looking for memoir/creative non-fiction stories the Cowbird site (where I posted the two stories above) might be a good place to go looking. There's a good variety of stories there, most are not terribly long.

Call for Papers!

Yes...still here.
I'm living in Albuquerque, New Mexico and teaching Middle School Language Arts at an Islamic Private school.
Which brings me to the favor. As Muslims their reading material is fairly limited...especially when it comes to creative non-fiction. Not a lot of the stuff I'm finding on the internet is Muslim clean. :) So, if you guys are willing to post some of your writing samples here that I could share with them, that would be great. Serious or humorous, I'd love to read it to the kids when teaching them about the memoir and creative non-fiction.

Thanks.
Kamila

Hello.

This blog has been quiet for a couple of years now. Thought I would stop by and say hello. Is anybody still out there?

Life with Life

I wrote this as a recent post on my personal blog, but I figured it was creative enough to share with you guys. I'm trying to tap into my "writerly" side again and this is just one swing at it. Enjoy!

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Maya Angelou is known to have said, “Life loves to be taken by the lapel and told, ‘I am with you, kid. Let’s go.’” Now, I’m not meaning to suggest that our dear friend Maya is a liar… but I’m wondering about the extent to which this is true. Come to think of it, some of the best times in my life have been when I’m willing to run around barefoot and harvest the day with reckless abandon. I have this fantastic image of Life and me having a go at the park and flying kites. Mine would be purple (because it’s my favorite color) and Life’s would be red (because red seems as though it should be Life’s favorite color if it isn’t already). I might take a moment to pause and ask Life, “Why are you so difficult sometimes?”

Life would just look at me with the earnestness of a child, not saying anything.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean it…” I would stammer. “Hey, last one to the tree is a rotten egg!”

I don’t think Life would have a lapel, though. He’d probably be wearing a black t-shirt—black because it’s either the most beautiful or the most devastating color. After a lunch of PB&J’s with sun chips, Life and I would head back home. He would want to take the “scenic route,” over all the bridges and through dense thickets of forestation. Whenever I’d be tempted to complain and ask why we hadn’t just taken the highway, Life would say some cheesy thing like, “It’s not about the destination, but the journey itself.” (A line he learned from my cousin Keith after we spent two hours bushwhacking to finally arrive at a lone outhouse off a beach in northern Michigan when we were twelve.)

But you know? Keith and Life kind of have a point. It’s like when you’re a little kid and you keep whining to your parents, “Are we there yet?” not even considering that the state of being in transit can be wonderful. As I’ve gotten older, I have come to find that I love road-tripping, or driving just to drive. There is something about being in your car, listening to your favorite music, and watching the scenery whizz by as a world-montage, the stage for those thoughts you can only have in the quiet moments. As a lover of literature, it’s hard for me to admit this but… there are some things that just aren’t meant to be vocalized. Like the way I feel when I see the sun set behind the mountains as I’m driving back to my apartment from Springville and a beautiful Eric Whitacre chord seems to aurally paint the majesty I’m witnessing.

So, you know, Life being as wise and adventurous as we’ve learned he is… not sure he’d approve of the fact that I took an evening off from work just to sleep and hide from him. In fact, Life approves of very little I’ve been doing lately. We used to be best friends, you know. When we were little. Back then, we’d have the greatest of adventures. But now? Now we always seem to have these awkward encounters. I wish I weren’t so afraid of him. I wish I could just tell him how I feel and ask him why things have to be so… hard. He’s never liked that question. For being such a wise guy, Life can be really bad at sharing his feelings. Maybe the best thing to do is go stargazing. Life always seems to open up when I just allow him to be silent and look at the stars.

And imagine my luck: the Leonid Meteor Shower is tonight.

ever guard us

Lord, accept our true devotion
Let thy Spirit whisper peace
Swell our hearts with fond emotion,
And our joy in thee increase.

Never leave us, never leave us
Help us, Lord, to win the race.
Never leave us, never leave us
Help us, Lord, to win the race.

Help us all to do thy bidding
And our daily wants supply
Give thy Holy Spirit's guiding
'Til we reach the goal on high.

Ever guard us, ever guard us
'Til we gain the victory.
Ever guard us, ever guard us
'Til we gain the victory.

May we, with the future dawning,
Day by day from sin be free
That on resurrection morning
We may rise at peace with thee.

Ever praising, ever praising
Throughout all eternity.
Ever praising, ever praising
Throughout all eternity.

We sang a beautiful arrangement of this hymn as our audience participation song at the BYU Choir Showcase this weekend. As the house lights went on and the crowd stood up, I could feel power as we all sang together.

If you ever want to feel less alone, sing a song like this. Better yet, sing it with hundreds of other voices echoing yours. After all, we're in it together. We're all running the same race.

A Pear on a Window Sill

It was nice to get away from the melodramatic. Enjoy!
Love, Kamila Kasparian

Once there was a green pear who lived on a window sill. She was young and hard. She had just been plucked from a great tree just outside of Syracuse. Now, she was in an apartment in Trenton. She knew she would eventually end up in a kitchen rather then living orchard her whole life, but she never could’ve imagined the nasty mustard-yellow peeling paint. The pear could not understand why she was being subjected to live next to such riffraff. After all, she was a perfect green color and the walls were poopy-diaper-yellow-gold. On top of the table below the window she saw a group of bright yellow bananas. They were just as irritating to her as the yellow wall. Of course there are bananas here. Possibly from somewhere like Brazil. How dreadful.
“I am a Pear of New York!” she thought. “I should not be placed in the midst of such unsightly company.”
She rolled her rounded bottom slowly to the edge of the window sill so that she might see something other than her yellowing companions. She could barely see the street from her little spot on the window. It was just as nasty as the wall...covered in brown dirt and gray spider webs. She rocked back and forth against the window until she rubbed the dirt away. Her perfect pear shape was covered in grime.
What she saw when she looked down was a group of girls carrying pink and blue handbags. Each one was wearing a pencil skirt and had boobs so small she couldn’t see them from her window on the third floor. They had no shape. Their ankles looked like small branch she had grown up on. Their legs would probably break as easy as sticks do. She decided to pay no more attention to them. Not one of them had her shape. They were skinny and pale. She pitied them and was grateful she was perfectly pear-shaped.
Early the next morning a man came into the kitchen and poured a bowl of cereal. Then looking as though something was wrong with it, he took the pear off the window sill and gave her a squeeze. She barely budged. He wiped the dirt off her stomach and put her back.
She was shocked. Was she not the most perfect and delicious pear? Sure she was a little unripe, but wasn’t her pale green flesh appealing enough to eat! She always imagined she would be eaten quickly. She had looked forward to the day she would be consumed since she understood what her mission and greatest accomplishment would be! She had a lifelong dream of becoming someone's most delicious snack.
After he left, she scooted back toward the window hoping to see something that would take her mind off her supposed inadequacy. The first thing to pass her window was black and furry with four little legs and a lot of bark. She could hardly hear herself think with all the unnecessary noise! She saw what the little dog was barking at, and was shocked for it was only a red little fire hydrant. What a reason to get his black hair tussled.
Following the dog was just as irritating of a creature. A feline. She seemed to slink along between trash cans searching for food. From one trash can she pulled out a disgusting yellow banana peal and sniffed at it for a while until she turned her prowling eyes to a carton of yogurt. In her efforts to knock it over and devour the inside, the chunks of old yogurt splattered on her back. Good thing such revolting creatures didn’t live in New York. What a travesty that would’ve been.
After it got dark, she had nothing to distract her from the frustration she had felt that morning after being squeezed, handled and then rejected. She could feel and see her flesh and she knew it wasn’t as green or taught as it was that morning. She also noticed before the sun went down that she had more freckles on her stomach than she remembered having.
The same scenario ensued the next morning. She was not appealing to the man she hoped to please with her creamy tart taste. She was still too hard. Over bowl of cereal, the man cut the nasty bananas. He smiled with every bite. She watched his face and she watched the bananas more. They looked too squishy. She could hear them being chewed and pushed between his teeth. They were a pale yellow color on the rim but in the middle they were gray, just like the grime she had managed to get on herself. The man left the house looking quite full, though she hoped he had greatly disliked the bananas. Instead of being eaten like the bananas she was left on the window sill for another day of window watching.
The bright sun shone through her window making her feel hot and uncomfortable. She felt even squishier today...though not quite as squishy as the bananas on the table looked. They had more spots that she did, and they had been eaten before her! She hated this place. They didn’t understand perfection. In the reflection of the window she saw something that horrified her beyond the sickness she felt as the bananas were being eaten. She saw that her freckles had turned into little brown spots and were beginning to cover her entire body. She didn’t feel as green anymore, but on the verge of some other color. She gazed out the window past her changing reflection and saw a woman in a beautiful green dress eating a banana. That was it. She turned away from the window and closed her eyes for the rest of the day.
The next morning, she awoke with a start to being grabbed by the man eating breakfast. She was squeezed firmly and bent under his grip. He pulled out a knife and began to cut her soft flesh. She couldn’t describe the ecstasy that filled her small body when she realized that she was finally going to be eaten. He cut her into perfect bite-sized pieces and draped them over the bowl of granola.
The remaining bananas saw the man take one bite of the pear and granola, wrinkle his face in disgust and throw the whole bowl into the sink.

Bust

This is a little story I recently posted on my own blog. I thought I would post here as well. My apologies to those who ended up in my group last semester and had to hear my other story about a car breaking down on the way to a concert.

May 23, 2009. I woke up to a rooster's crow for the first time in my life. It was 5:09 AM. The front of my sleeping bag and the half of my pillow not covered by my face were damp with dew. I was lying in a field behind an LDS chapel in Kennewick, Washington. It was too early to be awake, but the Sun did not seem to care about my need for sleep.

The previous day had been carefully planned out. Chris and I left his apartment in Provo just after seven in the morning for a 12 hour drive to Quincy, Washington where we would be attending a 3-day music festival over Memorial Day Weekend. Chris had talked about going since the beginning of the year. After seeing pictures and hearing reviews from his trip to Lollapalooza in Chicago last summer, I was determined to find a way to go to the Sasquatch Festival this year in Washington. The car was stocked up with our camping gear and food. We began to drive north accompanied by good music and interesting conversation. Perhaps when Chris got pulled over north of Salt Lake, that should have been a sign of things to come. Nothing resulted from Chris' conversation with the officer. He had not seen the car's temporary registration posted in the back window. Frustrated in his first attempt, he pushed forward on a different front.

"How much have you had to drink?" he asked Chris, peering over his official looking pen and notepad.

"Umm, none," Chris said.

"Okay, because your eyes are a little red."

"Yeah, that's because of my contacts."

Fully satisfied, the officer handed Chris his license and walked back to his car. Chris' eyes were not red. The officer must have been embarrassed that he pulled us over for no reason. How much have you had to drink? At 9:00 AM? Really?

I wanted to say, "Uh, yes, officer, we are very dedicated to our drinking. We got up at six, got our drink on for an hour, then sped up here so you could pull us over at nine." I kept quiet.

Everything was back on schedule until we pulled off the freeway in Boise to fill up with gas. The car briefly stuttered and lurched and then lost fuel pressure. We made it to a gas station and after a few minutes we continued west without incident. Hours later the car began to shake violently just outside of North Powder, Oregon. North Powder is the type of town where you are surprised to find anything. As we drove down the main stretch I became discouraged at our chances of locating a mechanic. We went into the town's grocery store which had the appearance of an under-stocked 7-11, but with an entire aisle dedicated to a variety of wines; we were definitely out of Utah. The store's cashier pointed us to a mechanic about a block away. In North Powder, everything was a block away. The mechanic suggested a problem with the fuel line, possibly a clogged fuel filter, and recommended a 22 mile drive to a shop in La Grande. We got back on the freeway and chugged along until we were 100 feet from the our exit. The car lurched and then stalled.

"I'm a AAA member," I said. "My parents gave it to me this past Christmas. I'm not sure how it works, but I think I can call for a tow."

I made a couple of calls and a half hour later Mike, the tow guy, dropped the car, Chris, and me in La Grande at All Imports Auto: Foreign and Domestic. They changed the fuel filter and warned that there were problems with the fuel pump and possibly the transmission. We did not have a day or two to hang around La Grande while they made these repairs. The music festival began the next day at noon. To stay in La Grande would mean missing much of the first day and possibly more. We decided to push on and hope for the best. A few miles down the road, the car began to demonstrate the same symptoms but then functioned normally for the next two hours until the car began stalling again. We exited into Kennewick, Washington and rolled into a McDonald's parking lot.

(Here's the Google street view of our McD's parking lot)

"Well, what now?" I asked. We sat in silence. I began to call through my phone's contacts list to see if anyone had a good suggestion.

After 15 minutes, we went inside. As Paige has made her way across Europe this summer she has frequently Skype-d me via McDonald's free wifi connections. I did not know what our new plans would be, but I figured an internet connection would help. I bought an obligatory small Coke, just so I didn't feel bad sitting in the restaurant. Only after I sat down did I learn that this particular McDonald's charged $2.95 for two hours of wifi service. I was ready to pay, but Chris thought we could do better. We moved across the street to Hastings Books. There was a cafe inside and a number of hip-looking young people with their laptops.

"We're in a bookstore and I don't even want to buy a book. That's how frustrated I am right now," Chris said.

We tried to reach anyone we knew with any possible connection to anyone in Kennewick. We had our camping gear with us. All we needed was a lawn to crash on. We failed to find anyone who knew anyone and began formulating our new plan. We would get Chris' car into a shop the next morning, rent a car for the weekend, then come back on Tuesday to drop off the rental and pick up Chris' car. I reserved a rental while Chris got up and began browsing bookshelves. We left Hastings Books a little while later.

"I looked in a few do-it-yourself books, and for all the fuel line repairs they more or less said take the car to a garage," Chris said as we walked across the parking lot.

"Did it say, 'Mess this one up and your car will explode'?" I asked.

The next day's plans were set. However, the car was still in the McDonald's parking lot and we still had nowhere to sleep for the night. We found the address of a local LDS church building about a half mile away. Chris coaxed his car back to life. It bumbled down the road which grew darker as we approached the church. We pulled into the parking lot behind the church when the car stalled again. It rested for the night where it stopped rolling. We found a dark field of grass behind the church. We pulled out our sleeping bags and sneaked to the back side of the pavilion that stood between the parking lot and the field.

(This is the field behind the chapel, pre-pavilion days. Courtesy of Google Maps.)

The view of the starry sky was breathtaking. I thanked God for letting us sleep on his lawn. Every sound, however, sent my heart racing and caused me to look around and make sure we had not been discovered. I finally turned onto my stomach so I could keep an eye on the parking lot behind us. A rooster crowed repeatedly as I tried to fall asleep.

The rooster crowed again. This time rosy-fingered dawn was creeping above the horizon. I had no idea what time it was. It was cold but I got up anyway. I explored a little bit. I plugged my phone into a post of the pavilian which happened to be wired. My phone had also died in the McDonald's parking lot. My phone's screen told me it was 5:09. It was too early to start calling around for a garage. It was too early to go pick up the rental car. It was too early for much of anything really, but too light to go back to sleep.

Unsent letter

Alright, my turn to post. This is an unsent letter that is extremely fresh. I hope it's not too over the top. I've never tried to write my anger for readers, only for myself. I'm sure you will be able to tell what it's about.

Dear S----,

I knew you were going to do it. Yesterday you broke up with me. You're terrified, and I'm sick of it. Every time we get close, you push me away, and each time we try again, we get closer. It only makes the separation worse. We're finished. I don't want you coming back. You said you need to date other girls because you have no clue who you are. I informed you of that, but I don't want you using me to figure yourself out. You really are lost. Your feelings are on a roller coaster, and I don't want to be a part of them anymore. We're at different points in our lives. I know what I want. You don't. I'm tired of waiting for you. I'm always waiting. This time I'm not. I know you'll come back, but don't expect me to welcome you with open arms. They will be resistant and harsh. I'm always the one that gets hurt by your indecisive behavior. I don't want to be tossed around anymore by your whimsical feelings. I don't want you to even think about dating me again. I've given you so many chances already. Burn that paper I wrote about you. Don't touch me anymore. I'm not going to be your in-between-dates-girl so you can string me along, or your backup, or your friend with benefits. 

Sometimes I think it would be better if we didn't even talk. You said that dating other people will help us to get to know each other better. You're a liar. You have no clue what you are talking about. I can't be around you. I didn't tell you this, and I never will. I loved you. I always did. Remember how I would look at you, and you would smile, nuzzle noses with me, and ask, "what?" then I would smile even more at you and say, "nothing,"? Remember that? That was me telling you then. I would tell you all the time, but you're such an idiot that you never knew. Maybe you did and never returned it. I wish I never told you. 

When we broke up, I thought we could still be friends, but what good is a friend if you can't trust them because they throw around your emotions? I saw you today, and you acted like everything was great. You sat with me to talk, and you chatted like we were the best of friends again. You squeezed my knee and I pushed your hand away. 

"Don't touch me," I said. 

Who are you? Did you ever really care for me? I have put my emotional wall up again. My fortress. You will need to work damn hard to bring it down this time. I'm not going to let you in as easily anymore, if ever. I haven't shed a tear over you; you're not worth the effort or the headache. The parts of my heart that you've touched are dead. I no longer feel them. I will be happier pretending you never existed.

I couldn't think of a clever closing. And yes, I'm okay. And yes Professor, you have permission to kick his a-- if you ever see him around ha ha. Thanks for taking the time to read everyone! Sorry, I didn't mean to be a downer on our awesome blog.

Bonjour from France!

I just thought I'd use my bragging rights a little to let everyone know that I am typing this from a small apartment on la Rue de Miromesnil in Paris, France. Yes, it's wonderful. Yes, it's beautiful. Yes, I'm laughing at those of you who are stuck in the United States (particularly Provo). But more importantly, I'm inviting you to keep up with events here on my blog. If that interests you at all. You can click on the link below where we have our personal blogs listed. Thanks to everyone who's been participating with this blog. It's good to stay in touch.

my life as a communicator

for my communications class we had to write a paper describing how we got involved with the world of journalism. i wrote this paper, and although it isn't completely "in scene," it was a memoir in its own way. my teacher wanted us to write about what makes us unique (so he could get to know us better) so i thought it was appropriate to tell him about my love for serial killers, cannibals, vampires and the like. i'm sorry if any of you get sick of reading about my gothic obsession, but i feel like most of what has happened in my life is a result of my strange interests. anyway, enjoy!

also, look for me on BYU TV (channel 11) every monday and wednesday at noon! i'm a reporter.

I have been a journalist my whole life—a reporter, a researcher, an interviewer, a writer. However, studying journalism never occurred to me until my last years of high school. It wasn't until then that I knew I belonged in a newsroom. In fact, the newsroom is one of the very few places I actually fit in.

Ever since I was young, I have loved strange things. As a child I would read supernatural fiction and watch gothic horror movies. When girls my age were listening to the Spice Girls, I was reading Dracula for the twenty-first time. I loved to write and make movies then show off the finished products to my parents. I loved filling myself with information and acting as a source of knowledge for my friends, but I didn't know how to apply my skills.

Growing up, I never knew exactly where I belonged. I tried drama, student government, dance and other activities. No matter where I involved myself, I always found that I had different interests than my peers. I read about cannibals and evil cult killers instead of watching the latest episode of Friends. I knew I needed to find my rightful place in the world.

When I joined the school newspaper staff my junior year of high school, I had less than high hopes. I was sure that journalism would be just another subject I would never relate to. Most of the students on the staff took the class to get an easy A. They would make up their quotes and write fake stories. I found myself working as hard as they were lazy; I interviewed countless students and did more work than most of the page editors. The next year I became editor-in-chief of the newspaper.

My senior year I was offered an internship at the local newspaper. I can still remember that first day in the newsroom. I walked into the building, greeted the receptionist and asked for Jon Mallard—my mentor. She asked me to sit down while she paged him. I sat in a blue plastic chair and listened to the sounds of phones, computers and typing all around me. News anchors were talking from televisions mounted on the walls. Everyone was busy. People were walking in between desks, printing large amounts of paper, and making copies. It was exactly how I wished the students on my small high school staff would work: seriously.

I felt small and insignificant in the busy news room. Everyone was preoccupied with their own projects and paid no attention to me. A man walked up to me and introduced himself as Jon Mallard. He led me to his work area and showed me a desk where I would be able to work.

My own desk.

More than anything else, that desk made me feel like I belonged. I thought of myself at school, reading books about serial killers and constantly writing. I certainly didn't have my own designated desk there.

Just then, Jon's cell phone rang. It was the X-Files theme song. I loved X-Files.

It was then that I knew I was a journalist. While the world outside was slowly moving along, the newsroom was hustling and I had a desk in the middle of all the action. People who shared my interests—people who loved to write and learn and watch X-Files—were all working together in one building. I could say newspaper jargon like slug or beat, and my colleagues wouldn't think of garden bugs or physical violence. For the first time in my life, I was in my rightful place.

Once I started writing I never stopped. I filled journals and notebooks with stories. I had so many ideas in my head; I knew I would explode unless I released them onto paper. Journalism was the perfect motivation to channel my writing abilities into application.

Soon, all my hard work paid off. Seeing my first story printed in the paper made me feel proud and accomplished. There it was—my name, Camille Whiteley—at the top of an article I had written. It was squished between two larger stories and looked unimportant considering mine was merely a column long. It didn't matter that my story was half the length. I didn't care it was hiding in the lower, left corner of a page that might be overlooked. All I knew was my name appeared on the page with all the other journalist's names. No one cared I was obsessed with Jack the Ripper and read The Witching Hour late into the night. I was still a member of the newspaper staff, and without me, that small column would have been blank.

*´¨)
¸.·´¸.·*´¨) ¸.·*¨)
(¸.·´ (¸.·´ Camille
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