Dear Pen Pal Person...
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Dear Pen Pal Person...

This is a discussion on Dear Pen Pal Person... within the Creative Depression Writing forums, part of the Feeding the Fire category; May 11/06 Dear Paper Pen Pal Person I cut my hair today, chopped it short to my shoulders. I dyed ...

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Old 10-04-06, 06:05 PM   #1
Join Date: Aug 2006
Posts: 240
Default Dear Pen Pal Person...

May 11/06

Dear Paper Pen Pal Person

I cut my hair today, chopped it short to my shoulders. I dyed it to, a hot blonde pink. The light pink disagrees with my brown eyebrows and my brown eyes. Mr. Sidney won’t tell me who you are. In my mind you are this white paper, void and plain, with thin blue strips with no life. Don’t send me a letter back saying you can’t read this, I have already been through this once before. I can type, I can draw, I can Not handwrite. I said I had chicken in my genes and that my writing would only come out as chicken scratch, I faked a wrist sprain, a finger sprain…in the end I begged and pleaded for a keyboard. Instead he handed me this pencil and sent me in the hall to write. I wrote you a letter, you bet I did. I know you won’t believe me, but I wrote you a letter. I have found it’s easier to write if I’m angry and don’t know who I’m writing to. After writing it I read it over and spent the rest of the period ripping it into mini nail filer strips. After that I stuffed it all in my mouth, pushed it around the best I could and spit it out in the garbage can next to me. You see, what I had written in that letter…well I better not write it again in this one or what would have been the point in stripping and slobbering the last one? You might want to take into consideration that our teachers could be reading what we write, if you write back to me that is, or if you even took the time to read this, I won’t blame ya if ya didn’t. What else have they got to do? Prepare for their class? Watch an old re-run soap opera on the TV? If I were an old English teacher I wouldn’t hesitate a single second to let my eyes soak into the lives of my younger, bratty students. It would serve them right for writing all the things they did on the green chalk board…the spit balls I would find in my hair at the end of the day. I’m not saying that I do that, write insulting profanity on the chalk board or send spit balls flying across the room into my teacher’s hair (can I say…Yuck?). My tongue tastes like paper now, mental note, don’t use mouth to destroy evidence. You can use that advice if you want, I suggest you do. I think I have written enough for one day, or for one letter I hope. Oh yeah…I should probably tell ya like the “important stuff”! Like my age and grade and all that crap…I’m sure my name should be included as well. I am sixteen years old, in grade eleven with no boyfriend. I have never had a boyfriend. Anyways moving on… I am taking English, History, Art, and Math this semester. I live alone in a small house on Fleming Street with my dear and beloved mother, Bless her soul (note the sarcasm). And before I go to drop this letter in the mail box I will tell you where I wrote this and why. I am writing at my desk in my room, the sky dark and wet outside my window. My estimate is that it will rain in approximately two minutes give or take…a few seconds, I think. If it does rain I will run outside with only socks and my underwear on singing and dancing until the thunder pops so loud in my head that my ear drums snap and trickle blood or until lightening staggers down like a zipper and turns me into a charcoal ginger bread girl. Hmm…I think I like that, from now on I will be known as the Ginger Bread Girl. So if you ever see graffiti around the city with that signature, you know it is ME!! (I highly doubt you will ever catch me doing graffiti though). All of that dancing in the rain shit is true except about the socks and the underwear, I only dance in the rain with my clothes on and No socks (oh god what if you’re a guy and now your trying to think about how I look…in my underwear. If you are doing that STOP…or I will…uhhh…never mind). I am writing this because I do not want to fail my AP English class, and that is it.

PS. If your smart and take the time to write back to me I wont mind if you want to do my homework for me (this is not a joke!)

The Ginger Bread Girl (aka Katie the Kitten, no I am not going to tell you my last name…its bad enough I told you what street I live on)
May 13/06, Friday

Dear Pink Kitten

Tell me more…

The Cookie Monster
May 15/06, Sunday

….Dear Cookie monster

What the fuck?? Tell you more…that’s it?? Pink kitten?? After writing a page and waiting six days that’s all I get? You read my letter and all you write is tell you more?? I’ll tell you more. I came home today to find a strange man in my hall way. He was naked. He was urinating on our white wall. I stood in the doorway, key still in my hand, watching as his clear yellow urine slipped down the side of the wall spattering in a tiny spray at the corner of the wall and coffee cream carpet. My mother chose it, don’t blame me for her bad taste. A tall woman with Curly, Red dyed hair appeared in the kitchen doorway. Her arm swung around in front of her clutching a glass of deep red liquid that appeared to be wine. Pointing at the man urinating on Her wall, Her carpet, she parted her lips and spit out that very annoying, yet very familiar snotty, nasal sound which is known as her laughter. Sending my key flying in her direction I turned from the scene before her dark drunken nearly black eyes had time to leech onto me. I ran, stumbled, tripped on my shoe lace and eventually ended up sitting under a large tree in the park near our house, just down the street. I sat there in the dark as it started to rain, wet grass soaking into my jeans, hugging my work bag close to my chest. I got a head ache from all the memories repeating over and over in my mind like an old scary movie you hate to watch alone in the house at night. Tiny drops of rain from the tree branches above seeped though my hair and tickled my scalp. My Mother, every single fucking memory was a memory of her. I just wanted so much to recall a moment without her, I wanted a memory with my real mother. The sweet kind woman that had been there when I was scared, when I felt alone in the world, when I needed protection. The woman laughing in the hall is and has always been my mother by genetics. You see, I don’t call that a mother, someone that gives birth to you. A real mother is the one who raises you, teaches you, holds you even when you spark insults like a dying fire…she loves you. No matter what, your mother loves you, keeps you safe. My mother never has and will never do any of that. She was and still is too busy with strange men and intoxicating substances. Alcohol, drugs, eating disorders, nervous break downs…that was my mother, that IS my Mother. She was the center of attention none stop, her eyes could never leave her own reflection to take a chance and glance at mine. She was beautiful…she IS beautiful, even when she shrinks her body down…down to skin and bone. She always attracted the shit heads, divorced men, scum bag Married men, long ago high school drop outs. Men that were rough, horny pigs. Of sure they were lookers, prime time model contestants…they are always beautiful, she wouldn’t be caught with someone ugly under the influence or not. Her best friend, Ruth, was the one that took care of me, the one that Really Loved me. She was the one to stay home and change my diapers while my Mother was out sleeping around with all the guys at the current hot night club. I used to actually ADMIRE my mother for all that she was…for everything she did. What I saw was a magnet for good looking guys, someone with cool smooth talking friends. My mother had been something I couldn’t touch no matter how hard I tired. I was ten when I tried on her makeup, breaking her favorite new lipstick the day she got it. I remember how it felt to be slapped the first time, hard on the face, in front of all my friends. It tingled and stung, making my eyes bleed salty tears I couldn’t hold back. I don’t remember when I saw her for what she really was. What I do remember is when Ruth died. It wasn’t until the end that I found out about her sickness, her cancer. For half a year I did the best I could to keep a smile on my face. She told me to never stop smiling, because the only thing she had left to live for was my smile. She lived long enough to see my fourteenth birthday. For a present she gave me her Cross necklace, real gold with tiny diamonds in the middle. She told me it held a great deal of sentimental value to her, and that she had never dreamed of giving it away. Yet she did, she looped it around my neck and cried when she saw it resting on my chest, hanging from the glittery gold chain disappearing underneath my hair. I am in my room now, on my bed….door locked. I walked home, heavy and slow with sloppy wet jeans and my baggy baby blue sweater. I climbed a ladder we had in the back yard up into my window on the second floor, creating a numbness inside of me from the thoughts in my head. Vivid images of my foot slipping off the ladder, how it would feel when I hit the ground. Thoughts like that scare me…when something inside just gives up and…lets go. The images are signs, flashing warnings of the near collapse of my stretching strength. It had just been another night, another guy…another drink. Except I had Actually forgotten how…fucked up she could get…wait no, not forgotten just let it all fuzz away into something I couldn’t and didn’t really want to understand. Shit…I’ve written to much…said Way too much in this letter. Oh well I guess I’ll just send it anyways, I mean I don’t even know you, it’s probably good to talk about this stuff with someone else, even IF that person doesn’t really respond. Hey if ya don’t mind could ya actually write something in your next letter if ya send one?? I mean I understand an all if ya don’t got the time but I mean just write anything…k? Ok I won’t get my hopes up but I will get kind of mad if you don’t. Well write to ya later Cookie Monster!

~ Katie Cat
May 18/06, Wednesday

Dear Kitty Katie Cat

What about your father?

The Cookie Monster…with some milk
May 21/06, Saturday

Dear Crooked Monster

I ask nice and what do I get?? To hell with you…why should I answer YOUR questions when you can’t even comply to a simply request?? Eh Cookie boy?? Well actually I just assume you’re a guy, only a guy could be as rude to not write back. Then again I could be wrong, mind letting me know your gender? My father is nothing, he does not exist. Well not to me anyways…never met the bastard. Like I said my Mom has always slept around, I doubt if even She knows who my father is. Oh and I can already see this coming so I will just tell you now before you get the chance to ask. The one thing I DON’T get about my mother is me. Yup that’s right, I’m here, brought into this world my Her. And here I am living in her house…why keep me?? She could have sucked me out of her with a tiny tube in a doctors office, thrown me up for adoption, drop me off a bridge as an infant… ok the last one is a little drastic but I wouldn’t put it past her if she really thought she could get away with it. Sometimes I think it was Ruth that made her keep me, but Ruth is sensible and wouldn’t have- I mean was sensible…when she was alive. She wouldn’t have encouraged her best friend to have a baby at 17 with no father, no parental support…nothing. It’s a baffling thought that has gnawed its jagged fangs at my brain for as long as I can remember. On another note, I met a guy today. I know, I know…your thinking what’s the big deal? Well I don’t meet guys, well not…guys that I would actually find acceptable of my friendship. Ya, I’m kind of stuck up in that way but I have good reason for it. Guys are dicks. All they want are…well I think you know what dicks want. His name is Christian. He is only thirteen, skipped two grades and appeared in my art class today. He comes up to my shoulders with shaggy dirty blonde hair just touching his shoulders. He was very scruffy looking, wearing a ripped black t-shit and baggy jeans with white paint stains. The class became a circle of whispers. Jokes about the paint on his pants and his shaggy hair. Most of them were shocked that he was so small, so young and in our grade eleven “total mature art class”. Mature my fucking ass, their all a spoon full of toilet soup. His eyes, at first scared me, hard and spiteful frosty green orbs that glared at each and every one of us as he walked around to sit in the only empty seat, the one beside me. Well long story short it turns out that he is more mature and WAY more intelligent then all of my other classmates stuffed together with a rubber band. I love his eyes…I LOVE HIS EYES!! After conversing with him on a remotely realistic scale, I found him acceptable. After this shocking realization I pulled him aside after class and explained to him that I was going to be his friend, that no one else would ever propose what I was in that very moment and that it would all be over if he tried anything funny. To that he said that he was always trying on funny ideas in his head and he just simply couldn’t help himself. Ya I know I barely know the little freak but he has a comfort about him that makes me want to take a chance.

May 24/06, Tuesday

Dear Katie Girl

I am a platypus, no gender, no age…just a plain simply platypus that lazes around all day doing what platypus’s do best!!

Platypus the Cookie Monster
June 20/06, Sunday

Dear Cookie person…

Sorry I haven’t written in awhile…ok make that more then awhile. It’s really your own fault, going on about stupid platypuses, not ever really taking ME seriously. A lot has happened…almost too much to write. But it’s come to a point where I can not avoid writing to you any longer. I need it here, before my eyes, solid on paper to really sink in what has happened. Christian for one is gay. Ya I know real shocking. Well at least he thinks he is gay. I’m the only one he has told, so I guess he like…trusts me or something. Ok now that I got that out of the way…I’ll move on to more complicated things…like the guy claiming to be my Father. About two weeks ago I went out for slurpies with Chris (Christian). When we got back…well he was there. We walked in, kicked off our shoes and there on the couch was Another strange guy like always. This one was just a bit older then most of the guys my mother usually brings home. He wore this really fancy business suit as if he had a lot of money, and that could have very well been true. I told him to take a hike into the kitchen to wait for her in there. I usually wouldn’t try to start a fight with one of my mom’s groupies but this time it was different. I don’t know why…something just irked me about the guy, with his expensive suit and slicked back hair. His eyes widened at me like I was a freak monster that had just growled at him. He stood up and took a step towards me. I swore and glared at him, taking a step forward, not prepared to back down just then. Do you know what he did?? It was the Farthest thing from my mind…shit was I ever Not expecting that. He hugged me…strong, gentle, hold you tight in the middle of the night blanket hug. I was caught off guard and didn’t know what to do. Well Chris sure knew what to do, he pushed his arms away from me and told him to back off. He looked from Chris to me, then down at the floor. The guy was utterly and totally lost. You could tell by the way he just stood there trying to burn a hole in the floor with his eyes. Me and Chris took off up the stairs and into my room, not even bothering to talk about it. Minutes later we heard shouting then screaming. My mother was in a Verbal fight with some guy that hugged me. Oddly I didn’t feel creeped out, like any other Normal person would have. The noise eventually died down and I thought everything was back to what is known as normal for me. Well it didn’t. That night after Chris had gone home, mom fessed up. Mr. huggles was claiming to be my Father…he wanted a blood test. My mother on the other hand wanted to kill him in the most painful way ever known to mankind. She showed this by uttering foul muck out of her mouth about ripping toenails off with a knife, slicing skin strip by strip off the muscle. Her words sent me up to my room blearing music and sitting alone, in my closet, lights off. Well I guessed right and he turned out to be rich and came back the next day trying to talk me into a blood test. I screamed, slammed the door in his face, not wanting him to see the tears brimming to breaking point and slowly slip down the side of my face…creating tiny little wet drop marks on my shoes and jeans. He hasn’t shown up again, so I think he is gone…for good.

Pink Tiger
June 25/06 Friday

Dear…platypus freak

Have you stopped writing? Well you never really wrote in the first place…but at least I knew someone was there listening. Chris went on a camping trip on Wednesday and won’t be back until Monday morning. It kind of sucks to be in school all alone after you get used to having someone with you. Thrown into that dark cold metallic place, no windows with very little air. Something happened, yesterday. It made me remember why I’m saving up to get out of this hole that seems to never fill. My mother tried to drug me. Well it started off kind of fishy from the beginning see. She invited two guys home for some drinks. I thought it odd that there were two of them…but I just assumed she was…uhh…experimenting…something like that anyways. She called me down from my room asking me to do the dishes. I grumbled and stamped down the stairs in my baggy sweater and PJ pants. Walking into the kitchen I saw her drop a pill in one of the drinks. I thought nothing of it at the time, after all she had done drugs before, this must have just been a new way to get inside of you. At second glance I noticed there were four glasses and not three. I started to load the dish washer up when she pushed a glass across the counter in front of me. In that instant I knew something was wrong. The two guys, making me come down here at exactly that time, the fact that SHE poured ME something to drink. I stood there staring at her as she walked into the living room to where the guys were, giggling like school girls and whispering about something. The image of the pill dissolving in the pinkish liquid played over and over in my mind. I was stupid…and paid for my actions. I poured the glass down the drain and acted like I had drunk it. I wanted to prove to myself that she had not done what was so blatantly clear to me that she had. Finishing up the dishes I walked into the living room expecting, well testing to see what she would say. I expected her to yell and slap me out of the room. Nope, she told me to sit down and hang out with them…by that time fireworks were shooting in my head, exploding in my ears, screaming for me to run. Who did I have to run to…not Chris he was away…no-one...that’s who. I eyed her uneasily and sat on the seat furthest from the couch that they sat on. Everything is kind of fuzzy from what happened then. I remember screaming for them not to touch me when they poked me in the sides, started to tug at my sweater. I started to cry, in front of all of them, accusing my mother of trying to slip me a date rape pill, rushing towards her ripping at her hair and clawing with my nails. Her eyes went from shock to fear, then to anger. She pushed me back, sending my legs into the table and flipping me back over the top of the table, my head searing with pain after I got up. I ran. Into the night, no where to go. Did I mention in my last letter that my mom told me that guy’s name, the one that hugged me? I don’t think I did. Well I found his name in the phone book at a drug store three blocks away. Frank Donnal. I called and he came to my rescue. I slept at his house that night, neither of us speaking much. If I know anything about him it is that he is shyer then a school boy with a crush on his teacher, or maybe it’s just around me he is so silent and unsure of himself. I had a blood test today, and it’s true. Ha, I have a dad. Well, not really, he still hasn’t explained why he suddenly showed up out of the blue after sixteen years of…well…nothing. I don’t know what I’m going to do now

Katie swirling down the drain
June 30/06 Wednesday

Dear paper platypus

All I could remember, or what kept repeating in my head was jarred, he was one of the guys from that night. The way he touched my hair and said he loved the color…the length…the feel of it. I cut my hair again, really short so that I can spike it. I dyed it too, pitch black with a white strip down the middle. My nick name is skunk, sometimes mistakenly called skank, even though I still cover my body with full length baggy clothes. Chris likes my hair, always reaching up to touch my spikes until I jab him in the side and tell him not to do it again. I lived with my Mom still, after what happened, only for awhile though. My Dad (he wanted me to call him dad…I don’t know), well he started trouble for my mom, with lawyers and such…talking to me about talking to someone else. Well I guess it pushed her over the edge…finally drove her utterly fucking insane. She STOLE everything…every last dollar of my years and years worth of savings. Ruth had opened the bank account when I was young, packing away small amounts from each pay check every month….for me. It was for me to get out of here, when I was old enough, back up money incase anything serious really did happen. She disappeared for a few days, like she sometimes does. But then I noticed that most of her clothes were missing when I did the laundry…and her make up…along with her tooth brush. When I went to put some money in my account…that’s when I knew. She was gone…and so was my money, my future…my life. Who would pay the house mortgage, wait no what was going to happen to me…family services?? Millions of life consuming thoughts rushed past in less then a second. It was all gone…everything had finally abandoned me, left me to die…to Kill myself. To save myself from all the fucked up misery that always hooked into my life. I crashed. Racking sobs bellowed out and loud making people turn their heads. I crumpled to my knees then into a little ball on the floor…crying like a little girl. I stayed there for a while, my eyes stuck closed, scared to open. After what seemed like an hour but had really only been 20 minutes I opened my eyes and got up, walking out as if nothing had happened. I wiped away my tears, stiffly guiding myself back to all I knew…the place lived. I sat on the kitchen floor, allowing myself to focus on the picture of that tiny zero on the bank screen…I sat there for a day…a night…drinking milk out of the carton and eating a bucket of strawberry ice-cream. I didn’t turn on the light when the sun went down and scared myself shitless with thoughts about what was in the dark…someone with a knife about to gag and strip me.

Tiny person Katie…lost in the sewer…
July 11/06, Saturday

Dear imaginary friend.

This will be my last letter…my last journal entry. Did that last thing catch you off guard? I never sent any letters…to anyone. I made you out of my head. I needed you…and the whole pen pal project gave me the idea of…well…you. This invisible thing that listened…and just…let me say whatever. I am writing one last time to say good bye. I plan on burning this…and all my letters after I finish writing. I’ll let ya know something before I go though. I live with my Dad in a two bedroom apartment, I won’t go into detail or give any explanation or anything, that would just take way too long and I don’t really feel like writing it all out. Chris told his Dad about…well how he felt about guys. I still can’t quit understand why he told him…but he did. He came to school the next day with bruises all along his arm and down his legs…with a couple of gashes here and there, black and red holes. I have no idea what is going to happen with Chris but I can tell that if he doesn’t get help he is going to run away soon. I’m thinking twice now about the promise I made to him…that I would never tell anyone…or call the cops. I guess that should be something to talk about with my new therapist…eh?? Ya I forgot to mention…my Dad thought it would be a good idea to talk to someone that could…sort out my ugly past, my bizarre brain so I don’t like turn into some crazed killing bitch that takes a gun to school and shoots everyone on sight. I love you my paper platypus…and I hope you love me as well…even though I am leaving you.

Goodbye my dear friend…I’m sure your listening ears are needed somewhere else…ill be sure to write if I ever crack one of these days.
Tohru is offline   Reply With Quote
Old 10-11-06, 08:46 PM   #2
Join Date: Sep 2006
Posts: 9

Hi there - Was this a long term project (IE was it in effect a journal kept over time?) Or is this a piece of creative writing, done in the style of a jornal?
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Old 10-11-06, 11:46 PM   #3
Join Date: Aug 2006
Posts: 240

Creative Writing
Tohru is offline   Reply With Quote

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