Writing Samples

Prose:

Final Call

A struggling actress reflects on her life on the final night of filming a long-running sitcom.

"There was still a half hour before cameras started rolling, at least forty-five minutes before she was needed on set, and approximately five hours before she could go home, yet Lyn already felt like the lights were melting her goddam makeup off. Lyn had always loathed the lights. Loved the spotlight, but hated the lights, that’s the sort of poetic irony that her life seemed to be permanently steeped in.

Lyn watched from the left wing as the tech crew scrambled about checking cords. The doors to the studio hadn’t been opened to the public yet, but the atmosphere in the room was enough to let her know that admittance was fast approaching. There was tension in the air that she hadn't felt since season one’s taping, back when everything was new and they hadn’t yet found their footing. It had been nearly a decade since then, and somehow Grant still managed to inspire new anxieties. Because of course, it had been Grant’s idea– between his increasingly ambitious directorial visions and the connections only nepotism could achieve– no one else could demand a live-studio recording on a whim, certainly not so last second. The word was that Grant had pleaded with the producers, swore up and down that it would drive up ratings. According to him, it was some publicity stunt to encourage support for the series' finale. Grant had spent most of the previous week parading around set, rambling to anyone who would listen, about what he was calling “the last hoorah.” Personally, Lyn failed to see how a live studio recording was going to redeem anything, let alone ratings. If anything she reasoned it was taking away ratings if all their most loyal viewers would be in-house rather than watching from their living rooms. But no one had asked Lyn her opinion so she hadn’t bothered to point this out.

Currently, it seemed Grant had cornered a technician attempting to check the teleprompter, animatedly gesturing as he spoke, giving– what she could only assume was– a speech about how tonight “was going to harbor so much support from the fans!” In the fantasy Grant had created, a spin-off was still on the table.

“On your right.” Lyn was pulled from her thoughts as a camera operator pushed past her, camera in toe. She was just taking up space out here. Her skin itched for a cigarette anyway. With a last glance at the empty audience, she turned from the stage."

Notes To The Stranger In My House

A failing relationship is slowly prompt together by notes.

"The note hangs on the fridge. "Down to one beer." Claudia frowns at it. And whose fault is that, asshole. It's not like Claudia would touch any of that lite shit.

Claudia glances down the hall from her place in the kitchen. The guest bedroom door, now Eden's makeshift room is closed. Eden's door is always closed these days. Claudia was starting to find the grain of its wood more familiar than Eden. They dance around each other, cohabitating in a shared space passing each other like ships in the night. Eden is out till the sun has practically risen, and Claudia leaves for work at eight. Claudia tries not to dwell on the fact that the separation really only exacerbated a preexisting routine.

It was Eden who had started the notes. After every bad night, argument, ending of their relationship, and inevitable reconciliation, she walks on eggshells around Claudia; terrified that if she even so much as raises her voice Claudia would shatter. A ridiculous notion. Claudia had gotten this far in life, she wasn't about to shatter now. Regardless Eden's voice had simply seemed to peter out one day. She never realized how much of a constant it was until she was faced with silence. The notes were really starting to grate on her nerves, but she supposes the notes do lead to less yelling.

Sometimes— when Eden has the decency to return before the rest of the world starts getting up for work— the bang of the front door closing rouses Claudia from her sleep. At least that's what she grumbles to herself into the darkness of their room. On those nights Eden usually crashes on the couch, the sound of the TV muffled by the door. Lord knows what she's watching; cable television past dinner was downright awful, but whatever it is makes Eden laugh. Not loudly, just enough for Claudia to hear if she concentrates. She sleeps better those nights. The note on the fridge leers at her, Eden's scrawl mocking her. She tears the note from the fridge, crumpling it as she shoves it into her pocket.

When Eden returns that night, she opens the fridge to a new case of beer with a note attached that reads, “Make it last.” And Eden smiles."

Poetry:

Ophelia

To be or not to be,

that was your question.

The mere utterance, a plea,

or perhaps closer to a confession.

You spoke those words to the night,

plainly singing out your fears.

Your silhouette haloed by moon’s light,

silently shaking with unshed tears.

And though it is blasphemy,

the death you intone

fails to sound like a calamity.

A pain echoed unshown.

To your question, I lament,

how beautiful must dreams be to eclipse torment?

Lestat de Lioncourt

Your flagrant sentiment crowds our already

over-populated halls, clinging desperately in vain

to the plaster, decorating the unsteady

frame of this slowly burning domain.

And even as foreign blood stains your lips,

gore trailing behind us in our wake,

your thoughts have you trapped affix

that staircase, reliving that sadistic ache.

You claim I have cursed you to devilry,

but I’m no more of a cage than your shame.

Ceaseless are your nags at my revelry,

but, my darling, we are the same.

And there is a crevasse growing between us, the distance

swelling, until I fear, what we had will be non-existent.