Bad Writing Contest!

Once upon a time I had to audition for a movie. The movie was true grit. it was really cool. My whole school was excited for me. I got headshots taken at this guy's house and it was fun. Then I got to choose a headshot and I wrote a resume' and then I sent it in that same day to the people. And then the next day I was watching jurassic park and my mom was on the phone and talking all loud and i was like shut up mom i'm watching tv and then she got off the phone and was like leah you got an audition!!!!1!11! AND I WAS LIKE OH MY GOD THATS SO cool. so then i got a script and practiced it for a while and then one day i had to go in and audition and all the girls in the waiting room were looking at me all mean but that was okay because i was eating a jimmy john's samwich. and then i did my audition in a room and the lady was nice but i wasnt good enuf so they never called me bacckk but that's okay because its like whatever to me anyways.
                                                 THE END!!!11!!!!1!!:):):):):);)

Field Trip Story

   Nora lived in an old schoolhouse. It was six cracking, musty, unheated rooms inhabited mostly by her father's restaurant. Many years ago, her grandpa had decided it would be a great idea if this dusty, spider-infested shack was a place to eat burgers and fries. Her father took the job after him, and now Nora was stuck living ten miles away from town, making tuna melts for truckers at three in the morning.
   The only part of the house that Nora really loved was the bowling alley. That had been her grandmother's idea. "We all know that nobody here can make food worth shit, anyways, Amos," Nora had remembered her saying one day with a mouthful of cigarette smoke. "The least we can do is give those poor customers a goddamn game."
   And so Nora's grandpa made the bowling alley. It was old but terribly charming in Nora's opinion. There were three lanes, all with cracked floors and tarnished pins. After school, Nora would bring her school books into the room and do her homework in there for hours. Her grandma would join her, sitting in a rocking chair and knitting finger puppets.
   The room had accumulated many saved and broken objects over the years, until it had become less of a bowling alley and more of a storage shed. There was a sunset-colored bongo drum that Nora's grandma had received from Grandpa for a birthday present one year, and which she now tipped upside-down and used as a stool. There was an ancient playground horse which her father had ripped up from the former schoolyard one night when he was drunk. All old, silly, useless things that Nora wished they could find a different place for.
   So it was not at all an unusual day, at least not to begin with, when Nora's life turned around. She was in the bowling alley, lying on one of the lanes and studying biology. She was in her favorite blue Northface fleece, drinking a Kool-Aid Jammer, her hair piled into a bun not meant to be seen by anybody else. Her grandma was sitting in her rocker, chain smoking and knitting a scarf.
   "I remember when that old flagpole outside had a flag on it."
   "An American flag?" Nora asked, not really paying attention.
   "No, not an American flag. I believe...I believe it was the anarchy symbol."
   Nora looked up. "Really?"
   Her grandmother nodded. "Believe it or not, your grandpa and I used to be quite the rebels. In the fifties, this place was a hangout for all the beatniks."
   "Wow."
   "And in the sixties...why, I couldn't even tell you what we did in here then."
    Nora blushed.
   "I actually wouldn't lie on that floor if I were you, Nora, dear."
    After that day, Nora never looked at her grandmother the same way. When she died two years later, Nora cried, of course, as any sensitive teenager would. But then, she went through all the junk in the bowling alley. The drum, the horse, broken guitars, worn black berets, a copious amount of ancient, half-smoked joints on the floor which Nora had always assumed were cigarettes. Until finally she found what she was looking for.
   One misty morning, before her mother woke up and starting screaming at her, before her father woke up to another massive hangover, before the grisly smell of burning fat filled the air...Nora hoisted the flag again.

Grown-up Activities

She was too young for him. But every time she passed him in the library, she was drawn. She had been dying for something new, something that wasn't so juvenile. She took him to her room one night after her parents were asleep. It was no use. She was in love.


Nabokov took her innocence.

Toothbrush full first draft

Toothbrush

          When I was in eighth and ninth grade, I had two toothbrushes. One I used to brush my teeth, and the other I found one day buried under empty cans of shaving cream and broken combs in a drawer of the guest bathroom. I took it to my room and hid it in the cupboard under my sink, tucked safely in a clear plastic cup I had gotten from the Ordway Theater. I threw the toothbrush away a little while ago because I couldn’t bear to look at it anymore. Which in retrospect is pretty stupid. It was just a toothbrush. It was a faded blue color and had some split and broken bristles. It was the really cheap kind that you buy at a Super America in Wisconsin because you forgot to pack one in your suitcase when you were going up to your cabin in Minong for Fourth of July weekend.

    After several months of struggling not to use it anymore, I finally took it down to the big brown trashcan in the garage one night. The concrete floor was freezing because I hadn’t bothered to put any shoes on. I was cold and I usually hated being in the garage alone, especially at night. Who knows what psycho rapist clowns could be lurking behind my father’s old recumbent bike and the giant plastic snowman we put on the porch for Christmastime? Nevertheless, that moment, throwing the toothbrush away, was one of the biggest reliefs of my life. Because for nearly a year, that toothbrush was the representation of a lifetime of self-loathing.

    The first time I used the toothbrush was in May of 2010. It was getting very warm, and all the girls at my school were doing this thing where they would tie their shirts above their midriffs at recess. Even my friends, who were certainly not the preppy blonde tennis players that St Paul Academy was known for, were lifting their t-shirts over their belly buttons and tanning on the big grassy hill overlooking the football field. I had always been very self-conscious in middle school. I felt out of place next to the stick thin girls with their spray tans and blonde highlights and butt-hugging short-shorts. So when this belly-bearing trend spread among the eighth graders, I was suddenly overcome with powerful anxiety. If I didn’t do it, I would look like a baby in my knee-length Capri pants and long-sleeved Old Navy shirt. But if I did join them, I would no doubt be even more mortified. Everyone would see my jiggling baby belly protruding over the waistline of my jeans. The insecurity built and built, until suddenly, I had stopped eating. This kept me going for a while, until the pressure to be perfect had completely taken my mind over. I felt like the action I was taking wasn’t providing the immediate results I needed. That’s when I got the toothbrush.

    Finding that I didn’t have enough courage to stick my finger down my throat, I opted to use an implement to ease up the task. A toothbrush seemed like the most logical and least messy option. I waited until after dinner that night, to make sure I had accumulated enough food to expel a decent amount from my system. When I had made sure both my parents were downstairs and therefore out of earshot, I went up to my room and turned on my radio full blast as an extra precaution. Then I entered my bathroom, a small room I could enter from my bedroom, and knelt down awkwardly on the floor mat in front of the toilet. It felt strange, like I was getting down to pray. I had prayed a few times before, but always about silly things, like getting the big part in a play or acing a test the next day. I was never big on religion. So doing this felt different, solemn. I carefully inserted the toothbrush into my mouth, butt end first, and committed my first purge, the first of many to come.

    After I had finished, I rinsed the toothbrush off and hid it away. I flushed the evidence of what I had done and washed my mouth out with tap water from a Dixie cup. It was all a very organized ceremony, very step-by-step. I felt a lot better afterwards and slept soundly that night. After a few weeks of doing this, I had lost some weight and felt comfortable tying my shirt up with the other girls. I felt like I had found a solution to everything.

     Of course, it wasn’t a sustainable system. The crying jags, drastic weight fluctuations and long periods of depression and guilt that followed should have been enough of an indicator that what I was doing was wrong. But I kept doing it, through the summer and well into the next year. The occasions became less frequent, once or twice a month instead of every day, as my hair had begun falling out along with other unpleasant symptoms. I told my parents in the winter; mostly because I had already told my friends and they pressured me into it. They took me to therapy, which was generally ineffective. I lied and said that it was so effective that I never felt the need to vomit anymore. I did though, saving it for special occasions; bad days and periods and the like. I wasn’t cured, and the toothbrush remained in my cupboard. 

    By the summer of 2011, the purging had faded to an infrequent handful of occasions. I felt like that was good enough. As long as it kept me thin when I needed it, I accepted it as a perfectly healthy lifestyle. People throw up, I reasoned. Why should it make a difference if I just do it on purpose sometimes? I had gotten loads of support from my friends, and I was in what I thought was a pretty good place. But one night, I was at the wedding of my cousin Christopher and everything fell apart. 

    I had been having a really good night. I had been eating pretty normally, only limiting myself a bit, and enjoying myself at the reception, dancing like an idiot with my aunts and cousins. I was, however, sick with a slight cough. I went to the bathroom and had a minor coughing fit on the toilet, then came out, unsuspecting and content. The next day, my mother told me that my cousin Cassie’s girlfriend had heard me vomiting at the wedding and that she was going to take me to the Emily Program to get help. I was hysteric and furious. Out of all the times I had thrown up without my parents knowing, they pick the one misunderstanding to take drastic action? I tried desperately to explain it to them, and I could tell that they wanted to believe me, but to be fair, there was a lot of proof against me. 

    I was taken to the Emily Program the next day and something amazing happened. For the first time ever, I was completely honest about what had been happening to me. I felt like there was no need to lie about it this time, and frankly, I was tired of hiding it. The therapists I talked to actually listened to me and believed what I was saying. I didn’t feel like I needed to pretend I was happy. I realized how unhappy I had actually been this past year. And for the first time, I truly believed that maybe, just maybe, I could get rid of this habit completely.

    It didn’t happen instantly. I went through several months of anxiety attacks, relapses and near relapses and prescribed medication. But I got better. The purging became inconstant, then very rare, and finally, in an unceremonious way, stopped for good. I haven’t knelt over my toilet since November. The feelings are still there, of course. There are times when I feel fat and ugly and worthless. But it’s better than feeling like that all the time. I don’t think I’m going to go anywhere but up from where I am now. I have amazing friends and a beautiful house. I have an excellent father and a wonderful mother and a sister and dog that love me and my own room and a closet full of pretty dresses and only one toothbrush. 

Personal Narrative first two paragraphs

Toothbrush

          When I was in eighth and ninth grade, I had two toothbrushes. One I used to brush my teeth, and the other I found one day buried under empty cans of shaving cream and broken combs in a drawer of the guest bathroom. I took it to my room and hid it in the cupboard under my sink, tucked safely in a clear plastic cup I had gotten from the Ordway Theater. I threw the toothbrush away a little while ago because I couldn’t bear to look at it anymore. Which in retrospect is pretty stupid. It was just a toothbrush. It was a faded blue color and had some split and broken bristles. It was the really cheap kind that you buy at a Super America in Wisconsin because you forgot to pack one in your suitcase when you were going up to your cabin in Minong for Fourth of July weekend.

     After several months of struggling not to use it anymore, I finally took it down to the big brown trashcan in the garage one night. The concrete floor was freezing because I hadn’t bothered to put any shoes on. I was cold and I usually hated being in the garage alone, especially at night. Who knows what psycho rapist clowns could be lurking behind my father’s old recumbent bike and the giant plastic snowman we put on the porch for Christmastime? Nevertheless, that moment, throwing the toothbrush away, was one of the biggest reliefs of my life. Because for nearly a year, that toothbrush was the representation of a lifetime of self-loathing. 

6 Word Memoir

Vomiting daily didn't make me better

A Letter to my Humbert draft two

Bad man
Rough hands
A beard like Santa Claus
But Santa doesn't like little girls, does he?
Not like that
Not like you


Black eyes
Black as dirt under the fingernails of a madman
Sitting in his corner, playing with his dollies
Frothing
Popping off their heads
And flicking them into his tall, inescapable tiddle cup
This is just a game to you. 


Don't look at me
don't touch me
o god no don't
pleasepleaseplease
don't stand so close
don't laugh when you do it
when you take me
drain me out
suck me dry
you can do what you want
but please
don't laugh

Sinking down
Down, down, down in that chair
Hoping maybe you won't see
That today I am a wounded deer
Wearing that shirt you like
Because you told me to
I've outgrown it
The sleeves are too short
And I have to pull it back down all day
Because it rides up the front til my baby fat shows

I was twelve years old.



Which maybe isn't wrong to you. 


After all, Dante fell in love with his Beatrice when she was eight.


But guess what, fucker?


This isn't love.


This is just sick.


Not old enough to know why
But I was old enough to understand
That you were bad, bad, bad


Pleasedon'tpleasestop
Pleasepleaseyoucan't
WhywhyyoutoldmeIwasyourfavorite
So why 
Are you
Hurting me?
HelphelphelphelpPLEASE.


Books clutched to my chest, but you stared right through
Bad man, bad, bad
No mister
That's not allowed
Science is the only thing
that you're licensed to teach me

Don't look at me again
don't touch me again
i won't be your nymphet today
hop hop lenore
off to class
you're the reason I hate being touched now
I was helpless then
But now
I'll never be yours