Friday, December 20, 2013

Saratoga Tales

Ahoy, feast your eyes! Before you is a fantastically brilliant (and absurd) piece written by myself and the lovely Gloria, in the style of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales. Enjoy.

*UPDATE: This tale has garnered a Silver Key in the Scholastic Art&Writing Contest! Funny story–I contracted the stomach flu the day I submitted it (the day of the deadline LOL) and never sent in the teacher forms and so on, so I thought my entries were never submitted... but hey! Woohoo! 

General Prologue

Here begins the Booke of The Tales of Saratoga: When autumn unfurled upon the sanguine Saratoga folke, and crispy yellow leaves drifted down like flakes of dandruff, and bulbous, warty gourds filled the farmer’s market, the local finishing academy decided to host a school-wide night hike to Bald Mountain. The teachers sought chaperones, and I happened to be in town researching moss growth in Bigge Basin. The Literature teacher, familiar with my trustworthy soul, requested that I supervise the excursion. Thus, I had the profound pleasure of examining each and every one of these unique Saratogans, and I shall begin with the Bizarre Buffoons.
There were two of these mademoiselles, who were quite chatty and exuberant indeed. They were constantly of excellent disposition, as they had large imaginations with which to keep themselves occupied. They were quite literally ‘attached at the (chubby) hip,’ piercing the fresh air with giggly, unintelligible conversation, one having low intonation and the other high pitch. Indeed, they were an indulgent pair when it came to nosh, and kept food diaries to record their gobbling habits. They plowed and chowed through many a food joint, insatiable as they were. The only anguish either had known was the slight emptiness of a gut. Following their food pillaging, they flubbed about on the ground, full to the brim with good grub. The buffoons were known as Edith and Gladys.
Next came three marvelous Scrubs who kept a pointed distance from the bizarre buffoons. These boys were pale as the winter moon from lack of outdoor activity, and very much single. However, they were by no means ‘eligible bachelors,’ for their intellectual ambitions rendered them asexual. They had gloriously sonorous voices, honed by years of speech and debate. One could easily spot the three among the hikers by their drooping gaits. Regarded as surly and aloof, the Scrubs shrouded themselves in misty mystery. They were named Pongo Chen, Pingie Pwu, and Hansel Su.
A flock of Taiwanese mommies, known simply as the Zumba Clan, served as caboose to the procession. There were six of them, all sprightly and spry, full of jiggles and joy. Frequently found baking, quilting, and pestering their posterity, these beloved mothers amused themselves with dainty pastimes. They dressed strangely stylishly and sported swishy bobs, reminiscent of schoolgirl-hood. Each of them had a clueless, uptight husband of the squinty variety. These delightful ladies were, in turn, referred to as “____’s Mama.”
There were several Small Citizens of Saratoga High, fawned over by the entire female population. They were stolid and tranquil folk, unbearably adorable, though they were understandably resentful of their short statures. All of them wished to grow a foot or so taller. Thus, they tended not to enjoy the attention they received from females and attempted to avoid any topic on height, exhibiting notable discomfort whenever complimented for their cuteness. They were called Peter, Paul, and Saul.
A trio of Pudgy Pianists dragged their feet in perfect rhythm, humming Hummel and mewling Mozart, slowing the parade. The more bounteous the bottom, the more dedicated the pianist, after all. At school, they prioritized piano over people, scuttling off to the music building during passing for a couple moments of frantic practice. Stoic, ascetic, and masochistic, they considered themselves true “Exemplars of -ic,” and as a result were subtly snobbish toward their non-musical classmates. I knew them as Nikolai Chowsky, Boris Krushchev, and Yekaterina Yov.
The Alternatives consecrated themselves from the general school population as delegates of ‘different’. They dressed differently, thought differently (à la Apple), behaved differently – they were artists, and they knew it. Indeed, they were every bit as talented as they led people to believe, but their philosophical physiognomies often drove people away (perhaps an intended effect). They called themselves Burning Ermine, Twiggy, and Star Blanket.
Floating along and diffusing Victoria’s Secret body spray were three Fluffy Girls – girlfriend types, one might say. They were always clean and dressed in pastels, very soft and smooth to the touch. They were like docile, content white kittens, basking in boyfriend-bestowed affection. Though they orbited in a beau-centric universe, one could not be vexed by these lovely misses, who were sweet toward all who surrounded them. They were named Milano Cookeigh, Lily Lin, and Mary Sue Muffet.
The History Ballers I save for last, for in history lies the secrets of statecraft. They possessed vast knowledge in many areas – medieval Europe, ancient Rome, Persia, fine arts, East Asia – though their expertise extended beyond history. They dominated Physic, Alchemy, and Abacus by day, and hit the buzzers at night. Despite slight social ineptitude, the Ballers (and other Bowl folke from the realms of Quiz, Science, and Ethics) commanded respect for their tasteful treatment of trivia. They were simply History Ballers, subliminally serious and seriously sublime. And that was that.
On the great night-trek to Bald Mountain, these myriad specimens quibbled and quarreled in earnest. Sometimes, diversity can be a bit of a drawback. I proposed that they tell stories to celebrate their differences and see through one another’s eyes, for once. They went forth with my idea, strangely enough.
Prologue of the Bizarre Buffoons
Edith and Gladys volunteered to go first, bursting to impart the fruits of their identical imaginative trajectory. “We are very mindfully aware of our flaws,” they said knowingly. “Indeed, we feast voraciously on every bit of grub we encounter, and abuse adverbs, but we regret our behavior. We are attempting to control our stomachs, but it is a gradual task, you see.” The History Ballers and fluffy girls smiled amiably at the buffoons and gestured for them to proceed, while the scrubs - wary of their unusual proximity to these odd girls - excused themselves to the restroom. “We tell this story to exacerbate our troubles and remind ourselves to keep on the road to recovery. Let us begin.”
Here begins the tale of the Bizarre Buffoons: “Partake in the genius of the Bizarre Buffoons (or buffons, like muffins). This is the anthem of us anomalies–the neither/nors, the Bridget Joneses, the ravenous crumb-droppers, and the Prattling Non-Peaceholders. The tragedy begins thus:
One octagonal October day, Maestro Boyt’s cherished orchestra students, Judel Wee and Glodel Bee, decided to go off-campus for lunch. The portly pair burst forth from the rehearsal room (which reeked of sweat and cookie dough) and shuffled into Judel’s polar bear-colored shuttle.
Belting music from Les Mizzles all the way, Judel and Glodel cruised down Saratoga Aditusque toward the esteemed eatery 5Guize. The gluttonous pair were hungry as Hungarian Horntails, and upon entering 5Guize charged straight for the free-peanut barrels (which happened to be in the shape of 3D rectangular prisms). They inhaled piles of perfectly toasted peanuts without shedding the shells, and left a trail of peanut carcasses in their wake. Very cleverly, Judel snitched an extra cardboard boat (also of rectangular prismic form) for future sampling (she was ever so clever, once again).
Fleeing the 5Guize bell-hoppers, Judel and Glodel sought sanctuary in nearby Sprouts Supermarche. The bulk section dazzled them. Glodel, in the manner of Eve to Adam, convinced Judel of the legality of taste-testing (or so she thought). Judel deftly pocketed a peanut butter cup, as manipulated by Glodel. They both misappropriated several multi-colored Alpine mints. Scuttling over to the frozen food aisle, the pair came across antipasti cart. It was chock full of olives, white beans, and marinated mozzarella (called bocconcini), all laid out like jewels on display.
The bocconcini swam in an olive-oil bath, adorned with roasted red peppers and flecks of rich pesto. The charming white globes, so pure and pearlescent, beckoned Glodel and Judel. They could not break away–the lovely aroma of red pepper cornered and caressed them–they simply had to sample–they could not dilly-dally a moment longer!
Without waiting for the mocha mothers and pasty employees to evacuate adjacent aisles, the pair pounced. Swiftly, Judel extracted the pilfered peanut-boats. With a sweep of the tongs, Glodel procured two snack-sized spheres from the vat and deposited them into the cardboard chariot (which, again, happened to be a 3D rectangular prism).
Victoriously, they popped the bocconcini into their mouthies. As their fangs sunk into the soft flesh, they felt... Sparks. Nicholas Sparks. Familiar food-induced tingles, almost romantic in nature, erupted throughout their jiggly bodies. These decadent sensations catalyzed their serious sin: they took three more without a drop of gustatory guilt.
Glodel, referencing the nearby romaine, nudged Judel: ‘Lettuce fly, comrade!’ The thieves extracted yet another three bocconcini for the road and sprung out of Sprouts Supermarche. They tucked themselves into the polar bear-colored shuttle, and (oh what fun!) sped down Saratoga Aditusque, gobbling all the way (ha-ha-ha)!
Alas, Judel’s eyes were not on the road. As she turned into the school’s parking lot, the pair battled piggishly for the final cheese. Judel was just about to pop it into her mouth when Glodel used her stolen tongs to knock it out of her buddy’s flubby grip. Judel, in fierce reflexive reaction, floored the gas pedal and whipped the wheel violently to the left.
The polar bear-colored car careened past the office, soared up the quad steps, and crashed dramatically into the sweaty-smelling rehearsal room. Cinderblock crumbled like cookies. The great Chinese gong rolled out from the rubble and danced like a top on the quad. As its spinning expired with a final crash, the Snack Sneaks breathed their last breath.
A tiny ball of mozzarella, slightly melted, was discovered at the scene.”
The two buffoons exchanged piteous glances. “Let this be a lesson to you all – do not drive under the influence. Also, dairy has questionable side effects. Above all, control your id! Id temperare.” Their mouths tugged up symmetrically and simultaneously in ponderous humor. “This tale does bear some semblance to reality.”


A note to the reader: We (the true writers of this Saratoga Tale) tried to make it as obvious as possible, but just in case, it is important to note that the weirdness and redundancy of the two buffoons’ tale is intentional. The strange sentences are meant to reflect the buffoonery of Edith and Gladys, as they would likely tell their tale in such a way.

Thursday, December 12, 2013

Unloading Part 2

I would like to take a moment to lament my plight of having received my first rejection letter. While I'm grateful that this was not my dream school, I did truly think that I would fit in at this school. My best work was–thankfully–not in this particular application, but I know I did the best I could with the specific essay prompts provided.
However, there are so many factors that go into the college admissions process, and... well, there is not much else we can do but forge on in such times! After all... "I can't make [the college] love me."

P.S. I can honestly say that, as someone who has been in a relationship before, that being rejected from college is so much worse than being rejected by a guy! So people suffering from break-ups: it could be worse. Don't you worry. Haha.

Sunday, December 8, 2013


I had a dream last night. I dreamed that the boy I love sat at a piano bench.
Lyrics and notes flowed off long fingers.
But just the fingers of one hand.
I had a dream last night that the other hand rested on a suit pant-clad leg. On top of that hand was another–another's. Smooth, painted purple fingernails adorned the feminine appendages. Curled around his. When I saw her face–it wasn't mine–I woke.

This morning I woke to a sagging face, a sluggish body, a welling despair. To eyelids crusted together by the serums of my body.
This morning I picked away the sleep, rubbing my eyes roughly. And the image of hands intertwined stamped on my brain.
The cavity in my chest pulsed erratically.

This afternoon I was rejected. Not by the boy I loved, but by the future I'd thought I had.
This afternoon I was rejected. Not by the boy I loved, but by expectations.

How many times had I heard it? 
You'll get in. You're good enough to get in. No–you better make it in. 
How many times had I heard it?
You'll get in. There is no other option. What does it say about you if you don't–no. There is no room for that possibility. 

Today I was rejected by life. Today I truly wished I didn't have to breathe and consume and think and breathe again and–live. 

I wished I could reject life. 

A curdled brain, an empty cave of a chest, shaking. What use was I? 

And I wished I could have had the dream instead.

Note: After receiving a tentative call from a friend asking if I was okay, I realized I should make clear that this never happened! I didn't have the dream and I haven't been rejected from college (...yet?). Heh.