Collaborative Awesome Writing

Gimme, gimme, gimme a ham after midnight.

Party rock is in the ham tonight.

I’m just a hunka hunka burnin’ ham.

Ham.

I knew the pathway like the back of my ham.

It doesn’t matter if you love ham, or capital H-a-m.

You and I, you take my ham, leaving me breathless.

Take a bite of my ham tonight.

Take me for what I ham!

Who ham I? 24601!

Ham lives in you. Ham lives in me. Ham watches over everything we see.

It’s just you and your ham tonight.

She said, “Give me that ham please, that itch you can’t control.”

And all that ham!

This is how it must feel to have a ham.

I’m not gonna teach ham how to dance with you.

They both reached for the ham.

Baby you’re not alone, cause ham’s here with you.

All of the ham you’ve been throwing my way, it ain’t so hard to take.

Let you put your hams on me in my skin-tight jeans, be your teenage dream tonight.

I wanna hold your ham.

What if ham was one of us?

Stop! In the name of ham!

It’s raining ham, hallelujah!

Cause my life before I met ham was unreasonably mundane.

And out there, strolling by the ham…

There is a brotherhood of ham!

I’m alive, I’m alive, I am so alive, and I feed on the ham that’s behind your eyes.

Portrait of a ham…

And I love ham, I love ham, I love ham like never before.

And I wish you all the ham in the world, but most of all I wish it for myself.

And you don’t know why, but you’re dying to try… you wanna kiss the ham.

for any willing to read it… I wrote a longer story based off of that photo response I did below.

            It was December 24^th, 1989. A small child played in the corner, twisting a doll curiously between chubby fingers. Gold ringlets framed her face, reflecting the bright flecks in her emerald eyes.

The girl’s mother crept over to her quietly. She also had golden hair, but her personality was nothing like that of her daughter. At the tender age of four, Aspen was already independent and intelligent. Like others in her age group, she adored her mother and tried to please her. Still, Rowena got the distinct impression that her girl did not need her as was the norm for one who had spent such a small amount of time on this planet.

“Aspen,” she called, and instantly received the smiling gaze of the youth. Aspen snuggled into her arms and thanked her for the doll. Rowena stroked the blue checkerboard fabric along her daughter’s back and ducked her head to kiss the girl’s naturally pink cheek.

It was at times like this when life felt too good to be true. She could remember her own mother telling her to “hope for the best, but prepare for the worst.” Rowena hoped to have a long, happy, healthy life in which she could impart some of the guidance and skills that she’d picked up over the years to her daughter. Yet she feared that something would get in the way of such a bright future.

Years later, Aspen would search through her family history in a fervent need to connect with her family, even those who had passed away. She only learned of one person: Annette Costello, her great-grandmother. Annette was a famous fortune teller of her time. She had passed away –at a ripe old age, one might add– a successful and rich woman.

It is said that some abilities are passed down from generation to generation: artistic capacities, culinary talents, musical aptitudes, or even psychic abilities. In this case, it seems very likely that a certain talent was passed down from Annette to Rowena.

Because, just as Annette had strong hunches about upcoming misfortunes, Rowena unconsciously predicted that the good times were not to last much longer.

            On January 17^th, 1990, Rowena went out for a drive. She had to pick up some essentials from the nearby grocery store. It was snowy, and large tufts of the seemingly harmless fluff had started to grace the roads.

            The truck came from nowhere. It greedily ate up both sides of the road and blinded all in its path.

            No time for last-minute prayers or even an exclamation. Wordless anxiety coursed through Rowena’s mind, pure and all-encompassing.

And so it was that young Aspen lost her mother due to the after-effects of three shots of whiskey.

*                                                          *                                                          *

It was February 9^th, 1993. A golden-haired girl sat on the cold leather chair of her therapist’s office. She was small for her age, and rather frail. Her wide eyes said little, though her posture spoke volumes.

“Please, Aspen. Won’t you talk to me? Maybe you can tell me how you feel about your father.”

Aspen cringed inwardly at the mention of her father. The hulking man with the unfriendly red beard had come to sweep her away the morning after she lost the single most important person in her world.

He didn’t understand children at all, which was presumably why he had never filed for joint custody of his daughter. Various maids took pity on the girl and purchased her clothing fit for one of her age. The cook modified his meals slightly to make them more child-friendly. There was no doubt that the staff all loved the small lass, despite her apparent inability to return the feeling. They all mused about how the poor thing had been hardened too early in life, having lost the irreplaceable warmth of a mother.

“Aspen? How about a friend? Would you like to talk about a friend you have?” Dr. Lesmad tried again.

This time, Aspen thought of Mark. He had kind blue eyes reminiscent of her mother’s, and was already a hard worker, at the age of thirteen. The butler’s son, he followed his father all day, helping to complete this chore and that one.

Maybe Mark wasn’t her friend, exactly. But Aspen found him to be interesting. In the hours when she was not studying under Mrs. Barnes, she would let Mark blabber to her about bands he’d heard, places he wished to travel, and skills he had yet to acquire. He didn’t seem to mind that Aspen merely nodded along when he talked with passion, painting vivid pictures with his words and his exaggerated hand gestures.

Dr. Lesmad sighed quietly. She had made no progress with the girl since her father had brought her in two months ago. She knew that the girl had suffered through the trauma of losing a parent, but this reluctance to speak at all was simply too much. Perhaps the direct approach would be necessary. “Aspen, would you like to talk about your mother?”

            At this, the girl’s eyes suddenly sharpened onto the therapist. “No,” she stated simply.

            Dr. Lesmad straightened in surprise. “Does it hurt to talk about her? To remember her?” she pressed, eager to make any sort of connection with the tiny blonde.

“Yes,” Aspen answered quietly. Lies came easy to her by now. “I’m okay,” and “Nothing’s wrong” were two of her favorites. They made people go away, just as she hoped the woman would lean away from this particular subject and carry on with her blather.

No such luck. Aspen suffered through the rest of the hour by spouting one-word answers at the eager therapist.

That night back at the house, Mark snuck into Aspen’s room. He found the girl reading in the corner, lithe limbs all jumbled together.

“Aspen.” He called to her, causing her to startle. Aspen gazed up at him; her eyes made him ache in a strange way. He wanted to make all the pain in them go away. Luckily, he had a way.

Mark pulled out a small glass and a bottle of his father’s whiskey. “Would you like some?”

Aspen wasn’t completely oblivious; she knew what alcohol was and she knew that it had some bad side effects (she’d seen enough drunken women traipse around her father’s house; they all acted foolishly and were always gone before morning). Still, she also knew that it made people feel better about their lives; made them forget their worries and hurts.

Aspen acquiesced and held a hand out for a shot.

And so it was that young Aspen lost her innocence due to two shots of whiskey.

*                                                          *                                                          *

It was March 4^th, 2001. Aspen had grown into a troubled young woman, albeit her obvious beauty on the outside. She spoke little, and only made true friends between the pages of black ink between which she liked to bury her head.

When she did choose to speak, it was usually to Mark. The poor boy had fallen for the broken girl somewhere along the line, and could do nothing but offer advice when possible and comfort when it was accepted.

The closest he’d ever gotten to really connecting with Aspen was on a cold winter night about two months ago.

“What happened to your mother, Mark?” Aspen had questioned softly.

Mark startled, unused to hearing her say his name. He found it almost amusing that, for one of the very few times that she did choose to talk, she asked such a personal question.

“I don’t really know. She left my dad when I was three, never to be seen again.” Mark smiled a soft, encouraging smile at her.

Aspen started at his lips, her eyebrows pulling together. “And you’re okay with that?” she questioned. She didn’t understand the smile; didn’t see how it fit in with the context of what he was saying.

“Well, I’ve learned to deal with it over the years. My mom wrote to me once, explaining why she had to leave. And though I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive her, I did find some closure.”

“Closure?” Aspen echoed.

The light suddenly dawned upon Mark. He realized why Aspen was asking these questions right now (he remembered that today marked the anniversary of the day Aspen had come to live with her father), and what was preventing her from wholly getting over her mother’s death.

“Yes; closure is what happens when you finally come to terms with something that has happened. That sense of finality is really cathartic.” And then, quieter, “You never had that with your mother, did you?”

“No,” the girl replied stiffly. She turned from Mark slowly, and he could practically see her retreating back into herself.

“Well,” he said hurriedly, “I’m here when you want to talk.”

She nodded at him, and he could see that she was trying, she really was; it was just too hard.

Aspen hadn’t spoken to Mark since then, other than small greetings in passing. But this evening was it. Mind made up, Aspen crept into his bedroom, reminiscing about when he had come into her room that night so long ago. Her first –and only– experiment with alcohol had been disconcerting enough that she’d stayed away from it since then.

“Mark,” she whispered into the still blackness.

The boy jolted awake, eyes betraying him as they took longer to adjust to his awakened state. Finally, he saw her thin silhouette perched on the edge of his bed. “Aspen?” he asked, confused.

“I need to talk to you. I need help.”

Mark shook his head in wonder. Aspen said little, but when she chose to speak she certainly didn’t beat around the bush.

“My help… with getting closure?” Mark clarified, trying desperately to catch up. His mind was still slightly foggy from sleep.

“Yes. What do I do?”

“Well, have you tried… talking to your mother?”

Aspen raised her eyebrows incredulously. “Talking to her?”

“I have a friend who lost his wife last year,” explained Mark, swallowing slowly. “Every month he goes to her grave to talk to her. He says it helps him; makes him feel like he’s still connected to her in some way. He was in pretty bad shape for a while there; he was worried he would forget her. This way, he can go on living his life while still honoring her memory.”

This idea was the first that made any sense to Aspen in a long time. Her therapist seemed to think it apt to mainly go about spouting long, complicated words. And yet, what the esteemed Dr. Lesmad had failed to do in several years, Mark had done in a few sentences. His earnest words had reached through her defenses, and she suddenly felt entirely grateful to this boy.

“I’ll have to try that, then.” Aspen said, her eyes connecting with Mark’s.          

Mark took a breath, glanced to the side and took a swig from something off of his bedside table. This was it, he’d decided. It was now or never.

Emboldened, he drew the girl into his arms. He paused, waiting to see her reaction. When Aspen merely buried her head in his shoulder, he chanced a kiss on her forehead.

A tiny smile formed on her lips.

With the softest expression upon his face, Mark leaned down to kiss that tiny smile.

That was all it took.

And so it was that Aspen gave her heart to the one who revealed how he felt due to a surge of emotion that came from the soul, rather than from the after-effects of one shot of whiskey.

*                                                          *                                                          *

It was January 17^th, 2003. Aspen was officially an adult. She was better; in part this was due to Mark and his remarkable patience, though much of it was also due to her genuine attempt to try. She made an effort because she found a new passion in life. Reading all of those books as a child had given her quite the vocabulary, and a fair imagination. Aspen wrote every day, and was slowly admitting to herself that she had a talent for it.

After the newfound closeness in her relationship with Mark, Aspen realized that she needn’t continue the pointless therapy. She wasn’t some ruined soul that needed to be fixed. She had been independent enough to grow up basically on her own, but she was still just a human who needed to be loved.

One unfortunate consequence of Mark’s advances toward Aspen was that it completely overshadowed the girl’s breakthrough, which had led to her healthy resolution to find some closure. To talk to the mother she hadn’t seen since she was four, but who still cropped up in nightmares.

The only reason Aspen now made the journey to visit a mother whose memory had long been neglected was because of one of these nightmares.

The previous night, Aspen awoke sobbing. It wasn’t an entirely unusual thing; she usually had dreams in which she was caught back up in the trauma of losing her mother. These dreams were extremely fuzzy, as her memories of that day had become disfigured over the years.

In these dreams, terror always reigned. The settings varied from a snowy forest to a rickety bridge to a dark highway, most likely due to the fact that Aspen had never been told where her mother died. This left her mind to create the surroundings, which was, incidentally, worse than just telling the girl some facts. The imagination can be a great thing, but can also be a powerful weapon when a masochistic mind turns on itself.

This particular dream involved a woman desperate to get out of her car… she had to get back to her daughter at home, but the car had broken down and locked her in. Suddenly, a man appeared outside the car with a knife, intentions clear.

Aspen’s still-sleeping figure mumbled loudly enough to rouse a worried Mark from his bed. He shook his head sadly. Another bad dream.

Mark carefully slid himself behind his beloved and held her close. Aspen awoke with a gasp and took deep shuddering breaths, tears still spilling from her eyes.

“You need to talk to her,” Mark had stated. He hated seeing her like this.

“I know,” Aspen whispered.

So now the small blonde’s cautious footsteps were sounding amidst the silent snow and apathetic trees. She hesitated for a moment, almost unwilling to disturb the pristine grounds with her mud-covered combat boots. She quietly reminded herself as to why she was here, and moved ahead softly, her figure sliding through the fog.

In silent dread, Aspen had anticipated this day. The date itself seemed a vile thing. She knew the nightmares always worsened closer to the anniversary, which she could never seem to forget.

The notion of love itself sometimes seemed a vile thing, Aspen mused pessimistically. In this moment that Mark was not with her, the world around her seemed all the darker. Did love not cause just as much (if not more) pain as happiness? What was the point? For an emotion often so short-lived, it certainly received much hype.

The snow was whipped into the air as it felt the cold edge of her frustration and anger. But the anger also hurt. She did not like it. Her mother had once warned her of the effects of anger. Clutching her daughter’s tiny fist, she preached about the wonders of a smile. In that simpler time, it had made perfect sense.

Aspen finally reached her destination. Here, the silence was absolute. No wind to carry away the sounds of grief threatening to crawl up her throat.

In a flash of emotion, she fell to her knees. “I miss you,” she professed. The sob, a traitor, broke through into her voice. “I still want you, and I need you.”

With each word leaving her mouth, Aspen felt the subsiding of the pain that had been clenched inside her heart for so long.

But these things, really, were easy to spill out. Lies were always the easiest. Especially compared to what she knew must be said next. 

“I don’t remember you.” Aspen finally confessed, droplets falling fast from her dark green eyes. “I don’t remember what you smelled like, or how you laughed. I don’t remember your voice; not even how your arms felt around me.”

These words escaping her mouth for the first time brought about an unexpected new thought; a new perspective. “But I do know I adored you. I know you made me laugh. I know you told me stories. I know you hugged me.”

She stood, a small lick of fire burning in her eyes for the first time in years. “We did love each other, for however short a time. It was still real.”

Frozen fingertips gently glided over the cold stone engraving of her mother’s name. Her lips parted just enough to whisper: “And maybe that’s enough for me.”

I must admit

   Before we kissed

   There was always someting

There

At the time

   You became mine

   A song of old

Fair

Was it true

   Or simply misconstrued

   Once upon that midnight

Clear?

Hold me tight

   In your mind

   Guard me from this

Fear

‘Fraid ‘tis so

   You should know

   It’s too much to

Bear

Take me not

   From immortal clasps

   Soon shall we be

Near

A Poem.

The weight of Winter’s invisible hand

Has shriveled the Earth upon which I stand.

But I know that the sun will rise in the morning,

And Spring will arrive without any warning.