internship, is currently supposed to be
writing five hours every day, but she spends
the majority of it thinking about eating, going
to the kitchen, walking back, returning, sitting
back down with food and then typing a
sentence or two about betrayal and such.
She has been published at Barfing Frog,
Cherry Bleeds, Verbsap, Chick Flicks, Laura
Hird and some others. Her website can be
found at www.jamielin.net.
by Jamie Lin
Bee Soup
She tried too hard and it made me feel bad, standing next to her, wobbling
my fat kneecaps and eating nail polish chips for amusement. She was the
round, shiny apple. I was the rotten tomato with too many weaknesses.
“Lazy ass, lazy ass,” chanted a bee from within my right ear. It’d sting me in
the middle of the night for no reason. I tried to drown it one morning but I
ended up drowning my nose instead. A while ago, I met someone who was
content with himself and I felt superficial. Superficiality in others made me
want to commit suicide. I remembered hearing buzzes from my mother’s ear
before the irritating invasion. It made me suspect she was the origin. I
stopped walking near her. “What is wrong with you,” she said one
afternoon, stirring soup in an oval, caramel-colored pot. “Nothing,” I said.
“Want some?” “No.” “What’s wrong with you.” “Your soup always taste
bland and there are bees in it.” “Don’t be ridiculous. They are flies,” she
said, "and they are dead. Don't you know the difference?"
The Strawberry-Smoothie Dress
I went to the one-floor clothing department store next to the bowling alley
with my best friend to look for a prom dress for next month. I had forty
minutes before it was due to close. I picked as many dresses of the right
size as I could before I flew across the polished floor into the dressing
room. One of the dresses was a strawberry-smoothie color, but without the
clumps of dark red. I tried it on. I liked the lacey, tutu skirt that flew a bit like
an overturned plastic bag. The fan overhead made noise like a helicopter,
spitting dust and little pieces of plastic onto my hair. My friend shook her
head rapidly. I frowned at her. The eyeliner melted a bit around my eyes,
causing skinny, muddy trails to descend toward my cheeks like an
advanced agricultural system. "But I have always wanted to look like a
princess." I imagined my face was porcelain instead of three different
shades of olive brown, my eyes big instead of squinted and my hair like a
mane instead of a tail. "You look like a fucked up Barbie," she said. "Barbie
sacrifice," I said and wondered if I should have made that statement. She
shook her head again; she was very conservative. "No, no, no," she said.
She exited the dressing shed in disgust. I looked in the mirror and
whispered princess to myself. I giggled and took it off. The dress tripped
me and tried to smash my head against the mirror.
A Lot to Give
I really wanted a guinea pig. The girl I babysat twice a week had one. She
kept it in a metal cage across from her bed. Last Friday, she had her finger
up her nose so far, she started bleeding. I stared at the blood red against
the pure white of the tissues and winced. She kept touching her nose even
when I told her to stop. After her mother assured me over the phone that it
was natural, she started touching my sleeves with her stained fingers
asking me if I could play with her. I wanted to say no, grab her guinea pig
and go home. I wanted a guinea pig so he could sit on top of the toilet and
watch me brush my teeth. I wanted one to come home to instead of always
being greeted by dirty laundry and dirty dishes. His squeaks would melt
away any frustration I had piled up during the day. Also, I wanted to put a
zebra print leash around its neck and lead it around my dining table with
the $10 teal table cloth, showing him all the places I had spilled rice,
cracker, and juice. I knew my mother hated animals. I told her I hated little
children but I still would baby-sit for them whenever I was asked. She told
me not to be ridiculous; then she said, “You can have a fish. Maybe two if
you‘re good and stop bothering me.“
Suburban Haven
They say art expresses sides of you that you are not aware of normally. I
made a big collage during my senior year as the last project before school
ended. I cut massive, beautiful houses out of housewife magazines and
random pieces of gardens. I painted the lower half seven shades of green
grass and the top half two shades of blue sky. I created a pathway made of
orange tissue and a pile of stones and firewood out of circular brown and
black construction paper. I felt incredibly proud after I was done. I stood
back and stared at it till the sun came down and the clock struck eight. The
janitors began coming in with mops and brooms. The hallways echoed with
the sounds of their eager gossips and wet slaps from their slow cleaning of
the floors. I looked at it, at the picture of three boys with curly hair smiling
joyously and I thought of the color black. All I wanted to do was dip my
hand into thick paint and punch the right corner of the piece. Then, I
wanted to point at it and say black hole really loudly. Remember to
pronounce like so. Look into people’s eyes when you have something
important to say. Talk slowly so they can absorb every letter. I knew my art
teacher wouldn’t appreciate it so I didn’t. And a part of me knew I’d regret it
the minute the action lost its novelty, the minute the taste of rebellion
evaporated from my tongue to flow into my eyes and make them burn with
guilt and jealousy.
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