WRITING SAMPLES

You Should Really Know Your Neighbors.

“You’re okay creekie,” I say as I delicately wrap a miniature red collar around my slowly-decaying nineteen-year-old dog’s neck. Creekie is short for Cricket - a small chihuahua-dachshund mix who’s been in my life since I was eight. She’s going blind and deaf. I think she only lives for her daily walk around the block. I grab a few bright blue doggy bags and we set off on our journey. Outside, I look up at the purple-pink sky, take a deep breath in, and watch the birds rhythmically soar past one another. I smile as thoughts of gratitude and peace fill my head. How sweet is this life? What a beautiful day. How lucky am I that I get to–

“Excuse me?” 

I’m thrown off guard by the female voice that trails out of a silver Nissan Sedan. The car is parked a few feet ahead of me and in the middle of the court. 

“Yes?” I say in a curious, polite tone. 

I approach the car and look into the rolled-down window of the passenger seat to find a woman who looks to be in her mid-forties behind the wheel. She wears rectangular glasses with red rims and a checkered blazer. I take note of her appearance just in case I’m about to be kidnapped, though she looks far from threatening. 

“I can’t seem to find the address I’m looking for, can you tell me what number that address is,” she points at the house across the street and continues, “I am looking for the one that ends in six-zero.” Her cadence is quick. I squint over at the almost entirely faded numbers on the sidewalk.

“That’s six-eight.” 

“Oh shoot.” She says. 

“Sorry,” I reply, although I am unsure what I’m apologizing for. 

I always feel so grateful when people help me in situations like that, but I genuinely have no clue where Six-zero was andI had to get Creekie around the block before she starts limping from the pressure on her warn-out legs. I turn away from the car to keep walking. 

“Well, maybe you can help me,” she says in a matter-of-fact tone.

I turn around and my customer service voice was somehow triggered. 

“Sure,” I respond in a tone three octaves higher than my normal one. 

“Do you know where Amy Snider lives?” 

Apologetic, I reply “No, I don’t know who that is. I’m sorry.” 

“You don’t know your neighbors?” She half-laughs in confusion. 

Naturally, I feel defensive. Pfft. Of course I know my neighbors. Did she ever stop to think she was in the wrong neighborhood? How arrogant. 

I have lived in this same neighborhood since I was ten years old. Granted, I went away to college for years and some new people have moved in, but I feel pretty confident that I at least know first names. 

I wish her good luck and walk around the block with Creekie, listening to the delicate sound of her paws against the cement. I notice the numbers six-zero on a house around the corner and assume this is what she was looking for. I’ll tell her I found if she’s still parked in the court when I’m back, I think to myself. I chuckle as I walk, she dared to question my knowledge when she’s on the wrong street?Some people.

After finishing our walk fifteen minutes later, I enter the court to face the duplex I live in. My eyes naturally fall on my side of the house, the left side. But my eyes dart to the right side as, much to my surprise, the checkered blazer lady’s Nissan Sedan is parked there. 

“No way,” I say out loud as I tilt my head. On the right side of the duplex lives Laura, her two kids, her husband, and her mother. They have only lived there for just under a year, and I really don’t see any of them often. I look up at the duplex, Laura’s address ends in 60, just what the woman was looking for. 

In my defense, my address is 58, and I just assumed hers would either be 57 or 59. Plus, I never look at the other side of the house.  At that moment, I realized that Amy, who the woman was looking for, must be Laura’s mother. 

I hurriedly run towards my driveway, begging Creekie to pick up the pace. 

“Creekie please.” 

Just as Creekie decides to take a break and aimlessly look around, fifteen feet from the front door, the owner of the Nissan Sedan walks out of Laura’s house. I keep my head down to try and shut out the complete embarrassment I’m feeling.  

“I found it!” she says triumphantly. 

“Yay!” I reply cheerfully. There goes my customer service voice again. 

I gently tug on Creekie’s leash to head inside, and though she’s old, she’s sturdy as a rock. 

“Oh my god!” The woman says, laughing sarcastically, followed by “You live next door?!” 

“Yes,” I say sheepishly. 

“You didn’t even know she was next door? Wow.” 

I laugh uncomfortably. She continues. 

“You should really get to know your neighbors.” she laughs as she gets into her car. 

I sigh with defeat, “Yes, I guess I should.”

Magda Sheridan once described herself as cheerful, courageous, and charismatic. Her genuine confidence was admirable. She loved to be seen. She got into parties without an invite. She walked into every room with calm eyes and a smile on her face, always overjoyed to simply be alive. 

All of that changed after one stormy night and a restless sleep, Magda woke to the sight of a big blue suitcase at her bedside. Startled, she glanced around her room apprehensively, waiting for someone to pop out of her closet and A) kill her, or B) explain the joke she clearly didn’t get. Magda rubbed her eyes, swiftly pulled the bed sheets off her body, and got up. She turned the suitcase on its side and anxiously unzipped the bag. To her surprise, the suitcase was empty. Did I put this here? She wondered. No, I couldn’t have. I’ve never seen this before. 

Madga rezipped the bag and rolled it to the dumpsters outside her apartment complex. She went about her day and tried to ignore the troubling feeling that loomed over her. When she returned home, she was horror-stricken to find the suitcase waiting in her bedroom. She screamed, immediately brought the suitcase into the street, and set it on fire. 

This has to be a nightmare, she thought. She ran back into her home, locked the door, and took an ice-cold shower to wake herself up. When she came out of the bathroom, it was back, good as new. After several days of this same occurrence, Magda realized that day after day, no matter what she tried, the suitcase always returned. 

So, she continued her life normally as best as she could, though the suitcase unfailingly followed her everywhere. It would move on its own. This terrified any passerby, so eventually, Magda grabbed the handle and rolled it herself. 

Each day, she found herself increasingly furious with the circumstances. Magda would snap at the barista who got her drink order wrong, honk at the old woman who was crossing the street a little too slow, and tell the restaurant waiter he was a waste of space when she found a hair in her lunch.

After approximately six weeks of trying to ignore the four-wheeled object that followed her relentlessly, she realized she couldn’t fight the truth any longer; it had disrupted her internal peace, wrecked her sanity, and changed her entire being. She stopped taking the knitting classes that she loved so dearly. She suddenly hated being in crowds. She could barely find the energy to pull herself out of bed because the thought of the suitcase following her around all day was simply too great to handle. Slowly then all at once, Magda had become a shell of herself. 

One Tuesday, she willed herself to the laundry mat to clean the stenchy untouched laundry in her bin. While she waited for her delicates to finish drying, an elderly woman sat beside her. Magda noticed the woman staring at her. 

“Yes I know, it’s bizarre.” Magda sighed as she frustratingly motioned to the suitcase. 

“Huh?” The older woman raised her eyebrows. 

“This wretched suitcase. It’s embarrassing, I already know, you don’t need to stare.” 

The elderly woman chuckled at Magda. 

“Sweetheart. I was admiring your beauty. Honestly wondering why someone so stunning was looking so insecure. I didn’t even notice the bag.” 

“Oh.” Magda whispered. 

“And you know honey, more people are carrying bags than you think. They’re just a little better at hiding them,” the woman said. 

It was like a switch flipped inside Magda’s head. After ten long months, this was the first time she realized she wasn’t alone. From then on, she focused on acceptance. It didn’t happen overnight, but she started treating the suitcase like a friend, even calling it by its name: Big Blue. 

Magda started small, by purposefully taking Big Blue to her appointments, parties, and the pool. She moved with pride instead of shame, and the confidence only grew from there. She went to Disneyland for her 28th birthday and took Big Blue on all the rides. They both agreed that Space Mountain was their favorite. On airplanes, she would pay for an extra seat just to put Big Blue into. 

“Ma’am you need to check that bag, that’s greater than the carry-on measurements,” the flight attendants would say. 

“Oh no,” Madga laughed and waved it off, “It has its own seat.” 

Her friends happily made space for Big Blue in all their plans, they were just glad to have Magda around again. She even started dating too. Most men she dated couldn’t get past the bag, they felt it was too much. That is until Alexander came along. Alexander loved Magda in a way she had never known before. It was as if her journal entries that daydreamed about her future partner grew legs and came to life. He loved her for all her flaws - suitcase included. 

After what felt like ages, Magda was a new version of herself. She would never be the same as she was before, but she was happy again. Eventually, she would even realize that she could leave Big Blue at home and it wouldn’t follow anymore. Magda would think about Big Blue every day, but no longer centered her life around it. Now and then, she would tend to Big Blue by taking it out with her for an ice cream, reflecting on her complicated love for the bag and the way it changed her.