Figment Challenge 4 and other stuff

Today, I had a lovely time with Alyssa and Marie. We made a delicious dish of chocolate pecan brownies with fried banana and caramel sprinkled on top. Yum!

It was great to just sit around and chat and I hope we can do it again later on this week.

Awkward story time: So, for the past months, my mom and her sister haven't been talking. Some things went down in Vietnam, and they didn't turn out so well. I felt like half the family was torn apart, and sometimes it saddens me to think about what could have been. Well, my cousin, daughter of that aunt, bought Christmas presents for my sister and I. To get them, we had to go to Waterbury to our aunt's house.

It was quiet strange--being in a house that you've been to a lot of times and feeling like a stranger. I talked to my aunt and I could see that she was starting to tear up--I know that she misses my mom and my mom misses her. They're sisters--they're bonded by blood. It's impossible not to miss your other half.

It felt good to see her. We didn't talk about my mom, but she was on our minds the whole time.

A few minutes ago, we called our cousin to say thank you for our gifts--I got a pair of leather gloves--and I talked for a few minutes with her. I never got along with her--not that we hated each other, it's just that we never had anything in common. But as I was speaking to her over the phone, I felt, I don't know, longing. I liked hearing her voice again.

This just reminds me how family is not something you can forget...

Anyways, I was also inspired to write another short story with a Figment prompt I received today. Here it is:

Using third person, write about a moment when a character who usually feels (and perhaps is) painfully awkward temporarily feels singularly beautiful, handsome, sexy, and at ease.

Contrary to popular belief, the cafeteria was not a complete animal kingdom. Each table kept to itself. All conversations were focused at the tables. Girls gossiped about the latest celebrity news--something about Beyonce and her baby. Guys talked about various sports and arguments would erupt from opposing sides.

Ben didn't fit into any conversation. He had little care for the celebrity world and sports world. Not to mention that he was relatively unknown to anyone. He wasn't particularly smart, maybe average. He couldn't play sports for his life. He dressed like any teenage boy with his t-shirt, sweater, and jeans.

It wasn't that he was a victim to any social injustice. He just...didn't seem to exist. There was always someone like that. People never glanced at him. Teachers glossed over his name during attendance, without meaning to. He also tended to stumble over his words when reading out loud in literature classes. Add that to his list of problems.

Ben was used to it. In fact, he was sure he'd have to deal with the same thing all his life. His parents always discouraged his pessimistic thinking, but Ben didn't think it would help to fool himself. A realist, he called himself.

Ben sighed as he pushed around chili with his fork. Even the food at his high school couldn't hold his attention. He decided his appetite was done, so he gathered his tray to stand and head over to the trashcans--

--then he heard a crash, and he, startled, emerged from his self-imposed silent bubble.

At the same moment, all talk stopped. Heads turned to see what the sudden commotion was all about. Someone had tripped and her tray had toppled out of her hand and mixes of fruit juice, chili and dessert crumbs crashed to the floor. To make things worse, the girl looked like she had landed in the pile.

The girl's name was Sara.

Sara was the girl that everyone knew. With her bright eyes, easy fashion sense and involvement in various extracurricular clubs, she was well-liked. Even Ben knew her--and that's saying something. Ben didn't like to keep up with profiles of his classmates. Sara was in his U.S. History class and sat in the middle and occasionally answered questions the teacher would ask.

The only thing Ben puzzled over were her friends. They didn't mesh with Sara; they always seemed to look at her for leadership, but she seemed adamant to not be anything like that. When she wasn't around, her friends were ravenous and soul-sucking fiends. They liked to target the weak.

Ben heard the girls would steal other girls' boyfriends without remorse. They'd shoplift for fun. They'd make a meek girl cry for entertainment. Ben hated girls like that. It made Ben feel thankful that he was invisible. Yet, Sara seemed oblivious or maybe she knew about these incidences but didn't want to do anything.

Ben wondered why an accidental fall and the sound of a cup clattering across the floor always garnered extreme reactions.

The cafeteria roared in laughter. Some boys at the next table yelled, "Nice!" They started to clap their hands like imbeciles. Ben thought they sounded like pigs.

Sara glanced around the room and probably saw what he saw every day--the mocking, the amused and the curious--and she quickly ducked her head. She began gathering her tray together, but Ben know she was probably more worried about her dignity then the mess on the floor.  He couldn't believe there was no one to help her--not even her friends. He didn't think her "friends" would be so callous to leave her there, since they always were desperate for her attention.

With only a minute of hesitation, he left his seat and his sneakers squeaked as he trekked over the food pile. Ben bent down, taking the tray from a blushing and embarrassed Sara. He carried it over to his table, mindful of the stares he was receiving.

Ben unzipped his sweater, half sure he might be rejected for his next move. In a moment of silence between the two, he offered her his sweater. Sara glanced down at it, her mouth dropping open slightly.

When she didn't move, he pressed forward again.

Sara reached over to take it. "Thanks," she said, gazing up at him in wonder. She slid her arms through the holes and zipped it up. The sweater was unfortunately white before the incident. However, her jeans were still covered with lunch food.

With a hand behind his neck, Ben shrugged modestly. He had plenty of sweaters at home, and didn't think he'd miss that one.

Behind him, he heard the snickers of guys and girls--Ben has a crush on Sara!--but he was used to it and ignored it. At least he did something, rather than sit there while she was only a few feet from his table.

Something else--maybe a fart or an undignified burp--took the attention away from the pair, and as quickly as it started, Ben and Sara's moment was over. The bell rung. Backpacks swung across backs, seats were pushed into various directions and chatters rose to the maximum decibel.

Ben, feeling like he had to say something, turned to Sara, who still stood with her hands clasped in front of her, and said, "Well, bye." After that eloquent response and with reasons unbeknownst to him, Ben turned once more and nearly jogged out of the lunch room.

The next day, the incident had left his mind.

It was towards the end of the day. Ben wasn't in a good mood, because he just left his history class where they had a test. He didn't study, obviously, and knew his parents wouldn't like the grade that was coming. At his lockers, Ben was gathering his books into his bookbag, and as he was searching for his Chemistry book, someone tapped him on his shoulder.

He turned and saw Sara there. She gave a little wave, to which he returned with his own awkward one.

"Hey, Ben."

He tried to hide his surprise at her knowing his name and somehow, he answered, "Hey."

Sara pushed something towards him, and with one look, Ben saw it was his maroon sweater that he gave to her yesterday.

"Thanks for this, you know." Ben noticed she had an accent, but it was quiet--like a whisper. He thought it was nice to hear it in her voice, and he missed it yesterday. "Some of the stuff on my shirt got on it...so I washed it."

"Oh," Ben said. He smiled slightly, noting how she had folded his sweater in the same way his mom would. "You didn't have to."

"Yeah, well," Sara giggled nervously. "I mean, it was the least I could do." She glanced behind Ben, at his locker, then they locked eyes again. "You're in my history class, right." It wasn't a question.

"Um, yeah," Ben answered. He then thought it was pathetic how he could even hesitate in such answer. He closed his locker, shouldering his backpack. "So...what'd you think of that test we just had?"

Sara's eyes widened, and suddenly, Ben realized how easy it was to talk to someone.

Before he knew it, Sara was talking about her fears of failing the class, and there he was, listening attentively, walking beside her down the hallway, the sweater tucked under his arms.

I liked this piece, it was easy to write. Until next time!

I'm back. But instead of a post, I shall summarize through creative writing...

Yearning

Nonfiction (except for one part which had happened but not from this trip)

You will miss the days of wondering when you’d finally succumb to a permanent food coma. You'll yearn for the feel of the steam from a nice, big bowl of phở. The taste of the boiled chicken broth that spills pieces of bò and ga, instantly cooking them, will tantalize you. You will always feel the crunch of fresh bean sprouts, paired with soft noodles and lettuce and hoisin sauce; the symphony of textures only brings you closer to that nirvana your Buddhist parents always talk about. And you will believe it, even though you're Agnostic. And you'll always savor the moments where you sat back and held your stomach (Look, I’m pregnant) because you ate too much and wanted throw up. Funny—because you know that you would eat another bowl of phở within 20 minutes.

You will miss the sugary, cold slurps of sugar cane juice that was freshly squeezed in front of your eyes, and the coolness of coconut water from a young coconut that had just fallen off the tree in your backyard. You will miss, unbelievably, the bitter taste of Tiger beers, which you had the liberty to try since Vietnam holds no drinking age limit (but no more mango daiquiris).

You will miss the beach of Nha Trang, how the shoreline stretches miles and miles and how the ocean is so blue and clear that even as you swim deeper, you can still see your legs. You will miss the bamboo umbrellas which shielded you from the unforgiving sun. And yes, you will even miss the pesky but convincing women who roamed the sands (Hello, Madame, you like to buy?), carrying bamboo baskets filled with bracelets and trinkets that—let's face it—you'll never need in your life.

You will miss the boat rides which took you from one island to the next. You’ll remember the sunsets that led your dreams for most of the vacation. You’ll want to go back to that time when you stopped your boat in the middle of nothing but gorgeous scenery and purple and pink, and jumped right into the bay.

You will miss the mixture of fear and excitement that coursed through you when you rode on the back of your non-English speaking, but still endearing, cousin-in-law's motorcycle in the heart of Nha Trang (Slow down! Too fast! Sorry, no English, and he smirked). You'll remember the sweet, suffocating, and homely smell of gas, bún bò Huế, and fresh bread, each individual scent bombarding you at every corner you turn. You'll dream of the nights where everyone went out to have fun by the beach, where the lights of the night market stretched a mile down an already crowded street. The sights of eyesore and blinding glares of neon lights flashing "Fun Hear" (Oh look there’s fun—what?) and "Sailing Club" are now embedded in you.

You will remember the tears on your dad's face (you never saw him cry that way) as he stood in front of his mother's shrine, just one-year-old. You’ll remember the way your dad shuffled his feet like a 5-year-old instead of his 63 as he talked to his mother’s younger sister and the pain written on the face when he saw that his aunt looks almost like his mom.

You will remember that look on your mother's face when she visited the graves of her older brother and sister, both of whom died too early, both of whom she misses greatly. But her sister's death holds a greater burden, an inimical nightmare your mom has on occasion. You were there for her. You held her shoulders as she bowed down in front of her sister’s gravesite in respect, weeping. You offered your ears as she confessed that the night she and her sister were in the hospital, her sister had begged her to take her home, but the answer was "No, you need to stay and get better here until the next day.” Except...except, your mom had then said, while staring straight into your eyes, gulping her breath: She became lost. She went on (And it was my fault, my fault. If only I let her come home, your mom cried in English).

And you thought, in the back of your mind, at that very moment, that the Vietnamese also have their euphemisms, where the adjective for "lost, can't be found" is a verb for that thing you don't like to think about. You didn't know what else to do but light up three joss sticks to pay your respects. Then you lit 48 more for the other gravesites—all unkempt and strewn with weeds and questionable animal feces—and sent your prayers away.

You will remember the day you finally left home. Goodbyes weren’t given; you just told everyone you would meet them ‘later.’ Yet, ‘later’ could mean a year, two years—maybe even ten years. You took your final pictures, passing it off in playful gestures, but you secretly wanted to take photos with the people who you know will not live too long. Aunt Eight didn’t smile at the camera; instead, as you posed next to her, she whispered in Vietnamese, croaking at the age of 65, “What is that?” (Just smile, you said through your fixed smile).

And then, as you drove away in your taxi, you resisted the urge to climb over the piles of baggage to glance at the family house one last time. So, you sat in the front seat and closed your eyes, and before you could even comprehend it, you were at Nha Trang airport, ears full of English and Vietnamese.

And now?

Now, you’re ‘home’ in the suburbs (doesn’t feel like ‘home’ just yet), sitting on your bed, thinking that Vietnam shouldn’t have become a memory so soon.