How to Write like Paige

I know you all want to emulate me, so I've taken an inventory of my style and come up with the following:

1. Use "as if" a lot and "seemed" a lot.

2. Metaphors, similies, and personification most often involving nature are a must.

3. Insert one biblical and/or Mormon reference 

4. Make the Mormon references so obscure and specific, that one would need the author's explanation to understand them (Hint: "Dairy Queen" is about Mormon culture, specific to the South Davis County area). 

5. Insert one word everyone will have to look up. But only one. 

6. Poetry is all about you, but none of the prose is. 

7. Make references to pop culture, most often in the title of a piece. 

8. Make this pop culture reference obscure in case you don't want anyone to know what's going on. 

9. You must have equal parts shallow to balance out deep--but not necessarily within a piece. 

10. You're only sincere once.

11. Take heavily from personal experience. 

12. Fall in love with and understand your male characters better than your female ones. 

13. Complexly present the simple. 

Part 2

The scented smoke curls tugged her fingertips and pulled her with child-like enthusiasm into her memories. 

She was eleven again. Her hair was long and fine and a free-of-chemical-color-additions mousy brown. She wore it in a lazy ponytail, whisps of hair coming out at the crown and catching her eyelashes. She sat curled up in a rocking chair on the porch, her white-and-blue polka-dot dress contrasting her earthy tanned skin, rough from too many days in noon-high summer sun. She pulled her spindly brown legs up to her chest and curled her arms around her shins, resting her head on her arm while situating her dress around her to preserve her modesty. She sat very still and watched and listened for the earth to move around her. 

She felt small and unnoticed in her chair on the giant, covered wrap-around porch. If it weren't for her nut-brown skin and blue polka-dots, she would have faded into the white railings and posts and clapboard surrounding her. She felt like just another of the many potted plants and ornamental trees scattered along the porch: sedentary, expectant, accesory. This was her unexpected hiding place. She could sit here all day, in full view, and escape the notice of the many people coming and going--their heavy footsteps echoing across the boards of the porch as they continually ascended and descended the steps all day long, their hats in hand--their movements and their business muffled and distorted through the windows and lace curtains that separated them. She knew the ladies would politely ask "Where is Mary Elizabeth?" without wanting any real answer. The men would awkwardly shuffle their feet, unaware she existed. 

She liked the porch. It kept her from being savage. Her shy, almost feral antisocial tendencies kept her in trees all day. The porch made her civil. 

She looked out across the sprawling lawn and old, heavy trees dutifully extending their arms without wavering. She squinted as the sun commenced its descent, its frappant rose-colored light escaping past the baldachin to hit the wall of windows behind her, bathing her in a glittering reflection--John's sea of glass mingled with fire. She watched calmly while the sun paved everything in amber, cloaking the trees and the clouds and the lawn in a warm glow of kisses. She breathed the fearsome kingdom as the peepers began their greetings. 

He came with the peepers. She'd hear the latch on the door and his slow, heavy feet on the porch planks. She  imagined his finely-polished brown shoes like her skin against the sterile white. He came and stood beside the open chair next to her, enjoying the peepers. He would reach into his light-colored jacket and remove his pipe and tin, pinching a small amount of tobacco and setting it in the bowl, before returning the tin again. He'd strike a match and flick it away. One puff... two--one to greet the night and another to bid farewell. He'd sit down in the rocking chair, unhooking the button from his jacket so he could sit comfortably. Together they would watch the sun give her last caresses through the trees before winking away. 

Wary

I know now why I am wary of you,

why I'm careful about what I say and do:

It's because I'm afraid to leave pieces of

myself with someone else--

pieces, like old photographs, they stuff in a box

and put on a shelf.

I'm afraid of having no part of you

to carry with me when we're gone;

or that I may have too much with me,

that the missing may be long.

I'm afraid I may get used to seeing you

at the same times every day, 

so much that I cannot move on

when you've gone away. 

I've put my heart too much in you--

I've stitched yours in with mine.

I fear the parting hole won't heal--

no needle and thread with time.

So I try to cut my ties with you

before they're strongly made; 

I'll pretend it never happened,

force the memories to fade. 

I try and want and cannot do

--that I'm still wary is true-- 

but it is because I find I care too much for you. 

 

Weeping Without

I know how those widows go without--

why they do not weep for their beloveds 

or grieve overly long,

why when the shock of a new silence leaves 

their lives they find a new peace in days without sound--

they go without because they know 

the going will not be long;

and yet I weep because I know you are already gone

and will be forever. 

I am already without you though I do not want to be so. 

Somehow the pearls of Peter's gate will not shine,

if I must pass through without you.

Nor will angelic choirs sing so sweetly as your own voice

softly saying my name with more praise than 

any alleluia chorus. 

The ennui of saintly wisdom would envelope me,

only because it would seem less wise than your own words--

with succinct sentences edifying the heart better

than any of their tomes--

you explicate "love" and "faith" and "hope" with 

greater understanding than their own authors. 

I think only weeds would grow in an Eden without you--

or else the petals of all those paradisiacal flowers would 

wither and brown in the drought of your presence, the sun

not rising if you will not help it. 

Though I'd inhabit marbled palaces, they would

be only mud and pitch in your absence. 

 

Even God's glory is dim without your light. 

This is not the peace and rest the preacher told me.

The widows do not weep because they are not always without.

I weep because I am already without you for always. 

Mon Cher Aza or Zilia Renamed: II

She remembered when he found out she’d be going away to college—his response, though wordless, said more than anything they’d ever said to one another. They’d been sitting in the only class they ever had together for all of high school. Unusually for that day, he sat in front of her. As the students all went around and said where they were going to school, what they were doing with their lives after graduation, she remembered his reaction when the teacher got to here. She’d held off telling him personally, waiting for the right moment; but she never got up the courage, and then it was her turn and she had to say it, with him sitting right there.

 

She saw his back tense and then relax with defeat when she said it. And then he was still with the shock of it. He didn’t turn to look at her the rest of class. They didn’t joke or make cynical comments to one another. They didn’t try to make the other break out laughing at inappropriate times, casually fall asleep on the other one’s desk. Today was not a day to play with his unnaturally moldable hair, which she often did until he looked like he’d been in a bad fight—a fight he’d won, at least. His body language asked her why she’d chosen to go away. It asked why she hadn’t told him before, why she hadn’t consulted him before making this decision like he’d wanted to do with her.  And she knew she was right because he said as much to her later—on the night when she went home a cried, confused at what she’d done.

Here under the tree, she felt his arm around her and she knew he remembered too. This gesture forgave her.

Together they walked on—the trees lights distilling drops of forgiveness and healing, whispering promises for a future of many similar walks together. She settled into his side with a sigh as they turned a corner. She saw their figures looking back at her in the reflecting pool—strangely distorted by the floating orbs of light that crossed the surface. They stared at one another in the reflection and her throat caught and fear seized in her stomach. “Ella…,” he began, concerned.

She pulled away, still looking at his reflection only. “In one of my classes,” she began, “we read about a Peruvian woman taken from her home during the 18^th century. She went to live in France and her betrothed—separated from her—lived in Spain. She remained faithful to him, writing him letters and standing constant in the faith they shared. When she found him again the languages and cultures they adopted separated them. They were too different.”  She always did this, saying but not saying what she meant. She only did it with him, because he understood.

“Are you sure,” he asked, his voice failing a little.

“I’m sorry. I’ve made my decision. I don’t understand it, but I’ve made it just the same.”

“I guess I just thought, even after three years…”

“I’m not coming back here when I’m done.”

“And I’m not leaving again.”

“I got sick of missing you too soon. I had to find my way without you.”

“I never did.”

“You will now. I’ll help you”

Mon Cher Aza or Zilia Renamed: I

It seemed like High School all over again. She ran out the door as soon as he pulled into the drive, so he didn’t have to talk to her father or brothers. She sailed over the front porch step and landed with a bounce on the fresh snow.  She got to the car just as he stepped out and shut the door behind him. Standing there, shoulders set at an angle with his back to the car, he looked down at her. For several moments they stood, inches from one another, not saying anything—just staring—taking each other in for the first time in what seemed like too long. Finally, he broke into the first honest smile he’d had in a long time. “Well,” he said, “Are we gonna go or not?” She shook out of the moment and skipped to the other side of the car, but he got there before her and opened the door—“Since you wouldn’t let me come up the porch properly,” he explained. 

It’d been over three years since they’d been for a drive like this; yet it seemed as natural as if they did it every day. Off into the darkness, cocooned in the stillness of fresh snow and the silence of a night when people opted to remain in their houses, they drove. And talked. They talked like they were trying to find their voices again after having been mute for three years. She recited all about college while he diligently asked about her classes—requesting details of every semester, every class, wanting to know about professors and papers. He asked her about parties and her friends. What had happened to the roommate with whom she hadn’t gotten along sophomore year? Had they reconciled—yes, yes, she’d answered, they’d slowly reconciled; they were civil now, at least. What was the East like, he’d asked her. He’d only ever been to New York and not liked it. What was the town like where she lived?  She chattered on about everything as if they owned time. She asked him about his life on the West coast. What was it like working there? What sort of people did he encounter? She prompted him to tell her stories about his adventures. He could tell stories so well, he’d carve out of her emotions she hadn’t even known existed. With him around, she never wanted for entertainment. She understood entire paragraphs from his tone and inflection, such that she could always get out of his stories so much more meaning than anyone else could—though they felt it. It was as if he painted a landscape with his pitch and she was the only one who could see how all the colors fit together.

They talked until they felt hoarse, opting to miss their dinner reservation because eating took too much time away from talking. Instead they drove down streets they never knew existed though they both grew up in this town.  They continued until the lake extinguished the sun and darkness closed them in. Soon they sat in silence, quietly watching the headlights illuminate their next steps.

“I can’t drive around like this forever, you know,” he said.

“Yeah yeah, well, I’m not the one who planned this.”

He laughed. “Very true. Alright, I know what we’ll do.”

He wound his way with purpose through suburban streets until they got onto the freeway. “Where’re we going?”

 “You can’t wait ten minutes to find out?”

She started to clear her throat to lecture him about how she loathed surprises, but he cut her off, “I know, you always want to know what’s going on—but I’m not going to tell you. I’m sure you can guess. We don’t keep things from one another very well.”

They parked downtown away from the office buildings. As she reached for her door-handle he chastised “HEY!” and she immediately put her hands in a fist in her lap, trying to look demure. As he opened her door he sheepishly took her hand and said, “ I didn’t want you getting out onto the ice by yourself. What if you fell?” 

He kept her hand firmly in his as they walked past the houses pressed up against the life of the city. “Mm, I like that one,” she pointed to a brick house with a pitched roof and a sloping yard. “It’s small,” he commented.

“I like small.”

“It’s old.”

“I’ll bet it has beautiful hardwood-floors. Besides, it’s not about how a house looks, but how it feels. You think those houses you see in home-shows with their great rooms and home-theaters feel like home?”

He squeezed her hand, “You’re right. I agree.”

They walked until they got to the heart of downtown, where there were so many Christmas lights you had to look up to remind yourself it wasn’t the middle of the day. They walked around, observing the Nativity scenes from different countries and commenting on the lights.  As they walked past one of the fountains, he looked at her and frowned. “What?”

“Your ears are bright red.”

“Yes, did you know it’s winter? I hear it gets cold this time of year.”

“I just wasn’t thinking about you being cold. I’m sorry. We should go back.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I have a hood.” She reached behind her head with her free hand to try and get it, but only looked silly, flailing her arm in many failed attempts. He laughed and took both his hands and situated the fur-trimmed hood around her head, which made him laugh harder.

“Stop. Why are you laughing?”

“Because you look… you just look… so…”

“So what?”

“You’re just this little pixie of a thing in a huge down coat and fur-lined boots and this little head peeking out underneath your furry hood. You look like an Eskimo.”

“That’s incredibly racist of you. I’m horribly affronted.”

He chuckled and grabbed her hand again, walking away, “Come on.” Yet she continued to stand there. “No. How do you know I’m not really upset? You just made fun of me. And the Eskimos!”

“How do I know,” he repeated, looking back at her—defiance detailing her features, “How do I ever know anything about you? How do you know anything about me? It’s not like I’m just reading a book. It’s like reading a book I wrote. I know all the rhetorical devices, all the particulars of the diction, all the secrets of punctuation. It’s always been that way. Even when our only mode of contact was letters I could understand even what you weren’t saying by your penmanship. Vocal inflection isn’t any different.”

“That’s annoying. I don’t want you to know everything.”

“That’s why you’re the same way about me. It makes us even.”  She took it as an acceptable answer and walked on with him, closer than they’d been before.

They stopped under a giant chestnut tree covered in warm orange lights. They looked above them at the web of spindly arms forming a glowing canopy beyond their heads. Looking up at the infinity of lights, she thought about what he’d said, about her being able to understand him the same way. It was true, she thought. She thought of all the sorts of animals that communicated using only sound-radar, and how they were almost the same way. Even then, when they didn’t say anything or when she couldn’t hear his voice, she knew exactly what he was thinking.

 

Part I

She'd grown accustomed to the sights and sounds and smells of the alleyway leading to her apartment--so much so that she thought nothing of them as she found that narrow opening between the two buildings--the kind so slim you'd need someone to point it out before you'd know it was there. The smell of the bakery mixing with the coffee shop below, the familiar grating of gravel beneath her feet, the clanging of pans from the restaurant next-door--all filled her with a familiarity akin to neglect. Only when she'd been gone for a few days and come back did she notice them, as if their absence had somehow made them more pronounced. The acclimatization with the scene left her listless, languid matched with the lull and ease of her day, always the same. 

Today walking through the alley, she passed the open door of the coffee shop's very back room, the one only regulars knew existed. Through the darkness of the back room, silent tendrils of  smoke whispered out to her, tugging her clothes and pushing the small of her back towards the open door. Instantly her throat burned and her eyes misted with Pavlovian memory. Years along, she'd never forgotten that smell--the way muscles remember how to form words or preserve posture. Standing shaded against the brick wall her breath drew heavy and reluctant as her conscious memory joined her hidden one.

She'd never liked a man with a propensity for a pipe. Then again, she'd never known too many men who had such a one. When she did, however, the vehemency with which she abhorred burned her like a hell within her heart. She supposed it still did; but she couldn't walk away from the smell of the pipe seducing her through the open door, settling itself in the crevices of her gray-matter, masochistically burning her esophagus. 

It was a finer tobacco--this she discerned and this she preferred. It wasn't the cheap cherry-infused sort that smelled of cough syrup and latex, it contained none of the false sweetness of  vanilla bean, or the foppishness of rosehip. No, this tobacco was finer than that--this tobacco carried a story in it's smoke, like the aromas caught in the droplets of a fog; it's history so deep, one could have divined the fates of nations down to dates in its ashes. Every puff was a paragraph from its story--the steel that broke the soil, the man who planted the seed, the hand that plucked its leaves--each puff another tale to sustain a princess hoping tonight wouldn't be her last in this Arabian court. It reminisced about its old friend the bowl and gave praises to the bend while delighting fondly in its schoolmate the stem. 

Yet that is not why she stopped, tethered to the product of disintegration's chaos. She did not stop because of the song it sang of itself, but because of the song it played within her--note by note, slowly now. Its fingers dusted off books hiding in the shelves of  her bones. It found old photographs in the trunk of her attic mind. It unearthed old letters stuffed away in the pockets of her heart. The dark, woodsy, rich scent held out its arm like the perfect gentleman it was and gave her a dashing, gentle smile before proposing a saunter by the lake, its ripples forming new memory-scenes across its surface.