JAKE

The Small Worlds Miniature Forms: Textual Dollhouse

With this assignment, we were given the aim to delve inside of our minds and conjure a memory that stands out more prevalently than the rest. During its initial creation, we were asked to think - What does the dollhouse look like? What objects and other details are included therein? What significance does it have on our lives?

Everyone's story sits in a separate section of the house - each area having a momentous effect on our lives. Our bedrooms hold our hopes and joys along with our sorrow-filled tears. The basement is not just an area of safety but one of an overwhelming claustrophobic feeling. Our nursery is a place of youth and purity as well as the fears of getting older. Each room holds a complexity not often explored when alone. Together we culminated in a dollhouse that reflects our hopes and fears, our most fond memories, and our tragedy.

Together, as a class, we expose our hidden stories in order to not only grow as writers but as people.

The past is hung on the wall like art in a gallery.
Hundreds of eyes from every direction you can imagine.
A few more pictures printed out and they’re going to have to be nailed to the ceiling,
a hammer tap tap tapping away as bits of popcorn ceiling sprinkle the carpet like a blanket
of freshly fallen snow, filling the empty ashtray.
The white rug is stained red with merlot.
Mom’s silver ring is gleaming among the white fibers and popping suds of the chemical cleaner.
The tip of my pinky nail breaks as I delicately lift the jewelry out of the mess,
and my half-hearted cursing starts up just as light flashes green on the washing machine,
“fuck” and the heartbeat of the laundry collide in the air, as the ring falls small small smaller smallest back where it began.

there’s pleather booth seating all around the perimeter in front of windows that all somehow face the ocean.
there’s a picture drawn in crayon on the butcher paper covering the glass table.
the 39 others are draped in linen, faux-flicker candles, empty glasses, forks, and sharp knives.
left untouched. the ceiling forms a point in the center, a pentagon of brown support beams that stretch to the red tile floor.
the other 119 chairs made of reclaimed wood.
from this vantage, you can see the narrow back hallway the chessboard figures moving left to right.
looking in to the side room, gathering booklets, enrobed in shadow.
odd chatter, a phone ringing.
it’s quick and still.
the floor there is milkwhite, lined with rubber pads.
one looks down at the floor.
one hoists a pail of ice above her head.
quotation marks and squiggles in the center of white frames.
that side room, which is all white and grime and silver, ventilated upwards in cubicle rows.
a burst of air, now and then.
the same black rubber padding, the same milkwhite tile, the same chessboard figures in reverse.

I am minimized to the size of an ant in proportion to the monstrous houses. They are grand, overpowering, and all at once menacing. Every single one of them, a spectacle in their own right. Each house feels like a facade, each feels like it has something to hide if only I had the key.

a ringing phone is a thrilling event
when home is only a memory
three times removed
from the scene

and we all want memory after death
none of this cement
just a hole in the ground, dust to dust
dried paper-thin skin swarming with maggots

I point to the ground and say

“That’s my house—I live there.”

The hydrangeas are beautiful this year, the yard looks like a sunset melted onto the petals, bright pinks fading into a rich violet that bleeds over into the soft blue. Even the leaves of the plant are lush and full and green. Probably from all of the rain that's assorted itself into puddles along the path from the driveway. The old truck is just sitting there, taking up space in the driveway. His sunglasses are on the dashboard next to a Dunkin’ napkin. The cup holder is still in charge of an abandoned styrofoam cup.

It can mean that your outfits are always a bit wrong, and that you learn to live with being the kid whose clothes are never quite right,
or your first proper winter jacket in two years even though you live in the middle of the mountains closer to Canada than a Walmart is given to you in an empty hallway lined with navy metal lockers by your physics teacher in mid-January because we’re doing an outdoor activity next week and a sweatshirt won’t cut it anymore,
or going to prom once in a dress you thrifted for twenty bucks and refusing to go to your senior one because of the embarrassment of not being able to get another and also maybe realizing you’re transgender and can’t stand wearing another goddamn dress,
or the people who treat you like a trinket will tell you which thrift store they just donated all of their really cool clothes to so you should go check it out this weekend and make another terrible attempt to camouflage yourself.
It can mean a lot of things, or
(if you’re lucky)
it can mean nothing at all.

Positioned in one precise location all of the time
Sans one
Chestnut curls and paper-thin frames

I move him - but every room is too small
Three bedrooms, a bathroom, a kitchen, and a living room in this house
Never enough room

He is seated in the living room, surrounded by photographs
His family smiles down upon his torment
Quick jabs inflicting cuts everywhere throughout his body

A humming comes from the house
Words harmonizing, first as a faint buzzing, then as a siren reverberating
Uncovering their deepest intentions and hidden truths

The house grows on my desk consuming everything in its path
My art supplies are scattered across the bedroom floor
Coloring the grey rug with scarlets, cyans, and honey

Three dolls sit in the living room
Two have grown, while one has withered
I reach out to graze his skin as if to reassure him that he isn't alone

His once rosy cheeks have sunk and become pallid
The hair that his mother loved so much has grown untamed
His eyes, which once shone with promise, are now lifeless

The other two disperse across the house
The taste of comfortability is granted to him
His desire was to be minuscule - separated from the rest of the world

white walls turned
beige by time and
forgotten arguments
boiling water turned
listless as the cicadas
scream because they
know too much moldy
bread and untouched
spoons suspended in
static kitchen daymares
till the pasta water starts
to boil, screaming for
a return

My first memory entails of abandonment. A single light bulb, unlit, hovering over my soft skull. Dust particles, spider webs, dirt caked from months of neglect. Unable to see what I know is there. I want to go home I learn from a young age that things you cannot see can still exist. Yet I am fantastic for seeing things that aren’t there. The invisible possess far more power than anything tangible. My mother won me from a claw machine. I caught her blindsided. Surprise! An object providing short-term happiness. Born out of a desire for experience. Plenty of time for games but no time for play. Why am I here? I am her child but she is not my mother. Forcibly turned flexible. Back against the wall, a brief moment. To breath and break away from the nightmare of a first memory

The evening creates shadows out of everything. The golden frames holding up Polaroids stretch into long rectangles upon the white wall. The m&ms in the glass bowl polka dot the maple wood table. The recliner’s shadow fills half the wall, a black block that takes up the left side, but when you stare too long you can see the missing silhouette. It’s weird how a life can be laid out in front of you on papers from the computer desk drawers. Weird combinations of letters and numbers tracking everything you do. Birth dates, last names, bank routing, social security, job titles, physical descriptors (eyes: blu hair:brw height: 5’5”). The window is full of stained glass, sunlight streaming through blue, red, and green. Little suction cups hold up flying cardinals, swimming turtles, a blue bird perched upon a branch. Similar animals decorate the industrial sized refrigerator as magnets, holding up scraps of paper scribbled with numbers of hospitals and dates of appointments and the correct dosage amount and the name of that one doctor from Yale and the email of the kind lady from hospice. There was a cross hung above the bed even though he wasn’t religious, adorned with a rosary that’d earlier been clutched in white knuckles. His blue shirt is hung atop the oxygen tank like an ornament. Glasses, dentures, and a tv remote remain so untouched on the side table they’ve started to collect dust. Mom cries when she sees the ice cream sandwich wrapper in the trash bin. I cry when I see the vial of morphine.

They go up to the top floor, so high up in the sky that no one can see, can hear.
The older sister is young but feels the shift, the inversion.
The men go up and down the elevator, the sister sees them enacting relocation.
She sees the men but does not see her mother.
They are intruders, they invade without consulting.
The men cage those who can speak.
There are too many people in the room and it's hot, too hot.
The men, they bind.
They bind wrists, the wrists of the father and the maid.
Her hands are damp, they are crimson.
They move frantically, it's hot and it burns.
The men suffocate them momentarily.
Their glass eyes don't see color properly.
Her hands are unbound red, they are tacit.
There is a dark room in a corner with a man and a mother.
With his invisible hand he points the gun to her head, she feels it.
She feels the cold steel outlining the empty conduct.
The mother awaits for that space to be filled with something other than silence.
The man insinuates violently, with translucent force.
The man sees what he wants, wants to abuse.
The man is hot, my mother is cold.

carpet stained carmine sagging
from the burden of merlot this
noisy static
of slurred laughter and
empty stomachs
lost between
blinks
caught between
regret
basement dreams
turned stale
rotting quietly
until morning comes
on repeat
2503 n. racine
heaven facade of muted footsteps and that AC smell
on blast while the mothers work and the child cries
over spilled spaghetti-o’s and lost time. stuck in the
blues of motion, this slow motion, two-five-oh-three.

Along but not really alone we stare at his face for a while in the dim lights, his pierced
nose, his drooping eyes, his lack of a smile that haunts us. There is everything to know
about him through his face how can we tell what’s real and what’s to form a vague
Persona.
Along and no longer alone he pops open a 7 ounce can of beer, a disgusting kind that
lingers in the back of your throat every time we swallow, paints our tongue with its taste
and makes us wish we declined but we can’t really decline because he’s here and he’s
watching, anticipating.
Alone we go wondering why he slumped to the floor, eyes fixed on the blue carpet with
his blue skin, blue lips sputtering something we can’t really understand. We stumble and
drool our way to the stairs like a baby. We hear his whimpers and cries as we try to
balance on the steps but how can you balance when it looks like they're leading to
nowhere. We find the doorknob in a haze and wade in the bright lights and bass drums
until we scream our words over the crowd.

Exterior (Yard)

Bedroom

Hallway

Basement

Living Room

Kitchen

Nursery/Closet

Dining Room

Specs of dried red paint cover the left leg of her tattered jeans
Small sheets of paper consume the telephone pole - each vying for attention
Like a bird that has taken flight - a small pink post-it note flies through the air
An alcove sits in the center, creating a safe haven for those who wish to be miniatures
Pulled petals litter the floor in an act of ‘does he love me, does he not’
Shredded assignments infiltrate the overflowing trash can full of dying dreams
In the quiet sits an ant who desires a piece of meat from the clueless student above
Freshly tattooed skin under gauzes and bandages provides flashbacks to the majority
Leaves fall on the ignorant who unknowingly provide the fallen an escape from reality
Laughter fills the air as a couple in the far distance enjoys their weekly escapade
A butterfly with a broken wing - pushing itself to fly but never leaving the ground
Tiny blades of grass are stalks for those who inhabit the land
A bottle of Jack Daniels drips its remnants into the dirtbed inebriating Mother Earth
Light flickers in the building above mimicking a lighthouse drawing in boats lost at sea
Cans of spray paint tucked away during the day only to force on them in the night
A crumpled dollar sits in the lobby - begging for someone to claim it - to own it
Loose nails scratch my thighs as my nails scratch my face wiping away falling tears
Consuming groups hint at one thing or another but each says the same: I’m alone
Webs in front of the bodega - backlit by the sparked yellow light - bathed in glory
This long-winded stretch of splattered pavement adds realism to my hidden desires
A dying ant - stepped on by those who deem it less than, never to be remembered
Small white clouds devour the sky, minimizing the sun and its harsh realities
Red light, green light, one swipe and all that previously held me washes away
Smiles of a missed opportunity slowly fades into nothingness the closer they become
Smeared words of a never sent letter poison the water of the fresh-faced lovers
Under the tent sits a rose, gifted to someone in a heat of passion and thrown the same
A green landscape overtakes my vision as I lay on the ground one last time
The sun no longer exists in my world, shrunken to nothing but a pesky nightlight
My AirPods create a parallel universe in which I am unabashedly happy
His text promising another night together can only lead to one thing - heartbreak