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Made in a Trailer Park I remember the broken years you lived in that rumpled land submarine someone else had run aground at the park behind the drive-in. The faded green trim. The once upon a time white, a wind-buffed shade of bone. I remember how we would make up stories of all the lives given to it, lost to it, as if that dented trailer were a ship night-mangled on a reef of failed dreams, again and again, over the years before you and your mom pieced it together for your own doomed voyage, which seemed destined to leave you stranded there. I remember the way your mom rigged up that shower out back. Those three shivery buckets. The way you squealed from the cold, even in summertime. I remember the way she would rinse between double features. The glow from the giant screen filtered through the two small windows of your home, brightening her shoulders as if she did have stardust, as if she might have been a washed up, washed out, shooting star. I remember all those movies. The hollow sound of the tin roof beneath our feet as if the world might swallow us whole. The day that hail storm pinned you down for hours, as if trying to break through, trying to break you. I remember how you swore you’d get out. You’d wash your hands of that place, of that life. Here it is all these years later, someone else catching sight of you from that not quite collapsed abode. A girl, maybe, on the one-eared rocking horse you left behind, corralled in the stony yard. A mom, or dad, or aunt, maybe, looking up from a feeble kitchen chair plunked by the new water hookup, watching your massive face, that long ago ache in your eyes something you have turned to gold. No one even noticing the rotted corner of the big screen. Peeling layers of paint. All they see is the tear you have trained to run down your right cheek. As if you have channeled some part of you that never got out, that never truly got away. by Lafayette Wattles Video by Meg Willing
If I had ever thought of the challenges of middle school, the problem I faced would have never come to mind. My first period class, including me, had been informed of the school writing contest. This was a chance to show your true talent. Our quirky English teacher had told our class, hoping to resurrect our dead spirits towards the assignment. I was hooked at the idea, for writing stories is one of my great pastimes. But, for once, I felt as if I was trying to bake a cake with no ingredients. I didn’t know how to start my story. To avoid my constant habit of procrastination, I decided to take a short walk down the hallway. As I entered the long corridor, I was greeted by the brisk, glacier-like air clearing my mind. In a serene state, I stretched out my hand to the paper-white brick wall. It was as if my hand was an oar and my body was a boat, sailing through an ocean of air. Could I possibly be entering a state of enlightenment and inspiration? Nearing the end of the corridor, I felt my hand brush over something rough. The texture was drastically different from the smooth surface of the wall. The wood-like area of the wall was an indent in the hallway, making up a mere tier in an unknown cake of wall. I was surprised that I had never noticed this disembodiment while transporting myself through the corridor. Moving my hand in several full revolutions, I came to discover that the region I was touching moved slightly at its top. This must be a door, I thought to myself. The door must have a purpose, but what was it? Thoughts of childish excitement bombarded into my head like an extra neutron in an uranium atom. This nuclear fission overcame me. Could it be a pipeline of ductwork that led to every classroom in the building? Or was it a portal to another dimension with rainbows and unicorns and clouds made of fluffy cotton candy? Filled with curiosity, I got on my hands and knees, while I prepared to open the door knowing whatever lay behind it would amaze me. Checking the hallway to see if anyone was occupying the space, I decided to proceed, pass go, and collect two-hundred dollars. Well, maybe not the two-hundred dollars part, but something amazing, I hoped. I gave a gentle push on the door. The small board moved through the air like a stealth boat on dead calm water. I crawled through the small entrance, greeted by a dimly-lit room. The motion-sensor light illuminated a small portion of the room, the rest of the space was coated in inky shadows. Taking up the rest of the space were large articles. There were two chairs upside-down that were placed atop a small wooden table. On the other side of the rectangular room, a shower stall and a pinball machine lined the wall. Looking back on that day, I never truly understood how I found a storage closet so intriguing. Thinking of nothing better to do, I took down one of the chairs from the top of the table and sat in it. The cold, firm plastic sent a tickle up my spine. As my awe for the room had floated away like the graceful smoke of an extinguished candle, the thought of the story competition struck me like a snake in the grass. What was I going to do? I pondered over the issues to what felt like a great amount of time. I took a second glance at the articles in the room and several ideas came into my mind. Hmmm… I thought looking at the old, tired pinball machine. Maybe I could enter a story about a man named Ramon and how he met a girl, Stella, at an arcade or a casino, or any place that adults go to have fun. Or, peering at the shower stall, I could write about a naked lady who was murdered in her own bathtub. No, that wouldn’t work, I realized. It sounds like one of the boys in my class would say that to annoy the girls. Could I write about one of my adventures? None of these ideas seemed to work at all. Standing up from sitting at the table, I felt my chocolate wavy hair fall over my shoulders like a waterfall. Then, all of the sudden, I realized something important. Inspiration can come from you inside, not just what you see in the world. With this wisdom, I knew my story that I was going to write would be great. by Sophia McMaster  Photograph & installation by Chris Walters
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66 OURS - Collaborative Writing ProjectStarting with Phase 1, writers had 66 days to base their writing on 1 anonymous person & 1 vignette, dutifully and judiciously assigned to each writer by Amelia. Photos given to the writersEach writer was given a combination of 1 person + 1 vignette from the following:
Person 1
Person 2
Person 3
Vignette 1
Vignette 2
Vignette 3
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