Creative Writing Samples
This page contains various creative writing samples. Some of the examples are excerpts from longer pieces.
Failed Buddhist
The knife. I have to get the knife away from him.
Henry the Buddhist and I sit across from each other in the oversized booths at Hacienda restaurant. A mariachi trio plays loudly in the corner. I take a swig of my margarita for liquid courage, and grip my knife in my fist. What I have to say could puncture his inner peace, and I have to be ready.
“Henry, we need to talk. Umm can I see your knife first?”
“Sure honey,” he says, giving me a peaceful smile.“You know I would give you anything,” he says. He leans over the table to squeeze my hand.
Give me a break.
I slowly pull my hand away. Both of the knives are on my side of the table. Time to tell him.
“I’m just going to slide over and sit next to you, Tigger.”
Who thinks his girlfriend wants to be called Tigger?
“Please stay over there,” I tell him. “I need to tell you something.”
“Wait, let me go first. Age before beauty, right?”
AAAAGGGGHHHH.
He laughs. That’s his joke. He is 33. I am 23. We’ve been dating for nearly a year, and I’ve begun to feel the relationship is suffocating me. If I don’t extricate myself from it, I’ll choke. Or possibly choke him.
“I was going to wait to tell you this, but I can’t wait any longer,” he says. “Besides, this is a romantic place.”
What? I look at the mural of Mexico against the back wall flecked with a salsa stain north of Oaxaca. Is he serious? I fiddle with the saltshaker on the table that looks like a miniature cactus. The knives gleam up at me from the table, solid and reassuring.
“I’ve been looking at rings!” His smile is so wide I can see all the way back to his molars. A flash of silver from a filling winks at me.
Rings. What in the hell is he talking about? Oh no. Are you kidding me? Say something inspirational. Say something that says I’m not the right person for you, but she may be here in the restaurant.
“Why?” I blurt. Maybe a little too harsh.
His smile fades, but only a little.
“Why do you think?” he asks.
I say the only thing that comes into my mind.
“Who are you going to ask to marry you?”
It can’t be me. Hopefully there is someone on the side. Maybe this is his way of telling me that he’s in love with someone else. I swivel around and check out the woman sitting behind me. She’s calmly chewing a gigantic burrito. There is a drippy layer of something on her chin. Maybe that’s her.
“Jennifer, I thought you’d be happy. Aren’t you?”
His long face crumples and green eyes blur with tears. When we first started dating, I appreciated his sensitivity. He told me about his failed marriage, and how he became a Buddhist to get away from the cycle of anger his wife had caused. He created a shrine in his bedroom to Shiva or something as a reminder that anger didn’t solve anything. I’m the first person he's dated since she ran away with her yoga teacher, the first person he's trusted since her. Lucky me.
We met on Halloween. Some people might think that is an auspicious time to meet. I err on the side of black cats and superstitions, and should’ve realized the relationship was doomed from the beginning. I had been ready to leave the party, but walked past a tall thin man with a sharp nose and long hair wearing small tinted sunglasses. I had to say it.
“Do you know you look like John Lennon?” I asked.
I gave him my phone number, and he called the next afternoon. Our first date was at an Indian restaurant. Henry wore a gray sweater frayed to the point of tearing at the elbows. I thought he was interesting for these reasons:
1. He was older.
2. He resembled John Lennon.
3. He was a biologist.
4. He practiced Buddhism.
I reflect back on the list in the silence following his ring announcement. I’ve realized that just because he’s older doesn’t mean he’s more mature, and the resemblance to my hero, John Lennon has faded. Plus, I’m not interested in biology. That only left Buddhism in his favor.
“I understand you aren’t ready to talk about a ring yet.”
What a brilliant maneuver on his part.
I slump back, defeated. Henry takes this as a sign to scoot over to my side of the booth, and drapes his long arms over me like a coat on a department store mannequin. The knives lay harmless and unused on the table.
“I’m looking forward to Lara’s wedding,” he says, squeezing my shoulder. I try to smile and wonder how soon etiquette says you can break up with someone after they mention an engagement.
Henry wears one of his father’s old dark mothball scented suits with a long skinny tie to my friend Lara’s wedding, a couple of days after the restaurant fiasco. During the reception, Lara sends cute groomsmen over to ask me to dance, her not so subtle way of reminding me to break up with him. She had told me the best wedding gift I could give to her would be to end the relationship with “too sensitive” guy.
“She’s with me, man,” Henry tells the guy with a suit made in this decade.
“Sorry,” the guy says looking at me.
The next time, Henry stands up. “She’s mine, all right?”
That’s it.
“Henry let’s go outside and talk,” I tell him. “Bring your coat.”
“Okay,” he says happily and trails along behind me like a dog going for a car ride.
My heels make angry tapping sounds on the pavement. I don’t know how I’m going to say it, but his comment gives me strength.
“Henry, this isn’t working,” I say in a rush, balancing on my heels in the deserted parking lot. “You’re ready for a serious commitment, and I’m not. Besides, I can’t believe you told that guy I’m yours. I’m not your property, all right?”
“Tigger,” he says, stepping forward.
“Stop calling me that,” I say. “I’ve always hated that. Do you think I’m a cartoon?”
“I understand,” he says, face crumpling in tears. “You’re leaving me too. No one wants to be with me.”
“Get it together,” I blurt out and begin walking away from him. I turn back around when I hear a noise. Henry furiously kicks at the left rear tire of his Jeep. When that isn’t enough, he starts hitting the unresponsive vehicle with his fists over and over.
Back inside, I tell Lara what happened. “Sounds like Buddhism isn’t working for him,” she says.
