Dec 09
jessie.daigle's picture

My Old Kentucky Home

Oddly enough, the place I feel most at home in this cataclysmic world of ours is one thousand miles from small town Bradford, Vermont. It takes sixteen hours, five states, and about six bathroom stops to get there. My other home, far away from my real home, sits in a pretty average neighborhood in Louisville, Kentucky.  

    This average house in Louisville belongs to my grandmother and grandfather, and is also the home which my mom grew up in, nearly fifty years ago. Thus, we take the journey down every summer, allowing us to celebrate the Fourth of July with our extended family, something we cherish doing.

    And, after fifteen summers of doing this, we practically have it down to a science.
Dec 02
fiction 0 comments challenge: Fear
jessie.daigle's picture

Shark Week

When I was younger, maybe seven or eight, I made the lackadaisical mistake of watching Shark Week, which aired in the heart of summer. The temperature was always well above eighty degrees, and I was permanently sticky, sweaty, and uncomfortable. The only way to escape the heat was to swim- to feel even a second of that cold euphoria of lake water, that was paradise.

But, aforementioned, I watched Shark Week with my older brother, unaware of the consequences to come. I remember sitting on our sweaty, damp, smelly couch; the pitiful air conditioner, failing at it’s job of keep us cool; my eyes glued to the TV, which played episode after episode of shark attacks and survivor tales. I remember hiding under my blankets at night, telling myself that sharks didn’t live anywhere near Vermont.
Nov 15
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Waiting

The floorboards are dust covered. I am long forgotten. The dust has made its way onto the curves of my wood, covering the elegant designs. My once plush seat now sags, a constant reminder of those who have previously used me. My old wooden handles are now splintered. The grooves in my armrests are crammed with dirt- years and years worth of dirt and filth. It has been years and years since I’ve been used. Since I’ve been out of this dank storage unit.
Nov 10
poem 0 comments challenge: World
jessie.daigle's picture

In This World

In this world,
the rain never stops.
The sky is permanently gray,
dark clouds always looming over
the dreary and empty towns.
No one goes out anymore, and
everything is perpetually wet.
Everyone is sad,
and even the town seems to frown.

In my world,
the grass is green
and the sky is blue,
and full of dreams and kites
and birds.
Kids are always playing, and
people are always out,
soaking up the sunlight,
and smiles are always plastered on their face.

In this world,
crime litters the streets.
Sirens are heard,
instead of laughter.
The newspaper loaded with only bad news,
and no one goes out.
Shops are closed, the owners
fear looters and robbers.
And, still, the rain never stops.

In my world,
everyone gets along.
People litter the streets,
holding hands and singing songs.
The moon sings to earth,
Nov 04
jessie.daigle's picture

An Ode to Breakfast

There is no doubt in my mind,
that breakfast is the best meal of the day.
Start with some coffee, but not the grinds,
and have some waffles, I pray.

Because, obviously, waffles are the best,
so add some blueberries or chocolate chips.
Get the syrup and forget the rest,
free the liquid gold from the bottle, let it drip.

Cereal’s pretty good too, I have to say.
Cheerios and Frosted Flakes and Froot Loops.
I would eat it all the time if I may.
Seriously, cereal’s probably my favorite food group.

Don’t even get me started on French Toast.
Homemade French Toast is divine.
Almost as good as waffles- almost,
but it’s delicious anyways, so I won’t whine.

As you can see, breakfast is the best part of the day,
Nutritious and delicious, and in no way pernicious.
Breakfast is here to stay,
because, unlike lunch meat, there’s no way it’s malicious.

 
Oct 28
jessie.daigle's picture

Lights in the Night

The train was moving exceptionally slow tonight, which makes me ponder

is train traffic a thing?

I sigh

and lean my head against the window.

I look

up a million miles into the vastly empty sky.

I reflect

on astronomy class and space.

I wish

that I was a million miles away from this tawdry town.

I close

my eyes and let my mind wander.

I wonder

if there’s something going on in the city.

I realize

that I’ll find out soon enough.

I shut

my eyes again, pushing the past behind me.

I know

there’s always a light at the end of the tunnel, literally and figuratively.

I giggle

to myself, as we pass through a tunnel, coincidentally, and enter the outskirts of the city.

I let

my thoughts take over my brain.

I let
Oct 21
jessie.daigle's picture

Christmas Trees & Trains


More often than not, after a grand snowfall, the little girl from down the street would wander into town. Of course, this was after her mother bundled her up in layers upon layers of thermal underwear, jackets, and countless pairs of socks, so it seemed. Finally, after pulling a hat over her ears, her mother would send her out to play.

The first time the small girl left the comforts of her yard, there were no neighborhood children out. So she decided to take a risk, by herself. She zipped up her coat a little more, as if it would keep the courage in as well as it was keeping the cold out. And she stepped onto the snow-covered sidewalk, slipping on the hidden ice. She took a deep breath, but continued on, determined.
Oct 13
jessie.daigle's picture

Underdogs

Sometimes, I think, emotions are hard to capture in words. We pour out our feelings through actions, or tears, or what we say. But, in writing, I can never accurately describe how I felt. Especially in sports. I can never illustrate the emotion of the team. Like that feeling you get, after a big win, riding back on the bus. The whole team is on the same page. Every athlete knows that moment. Myself included.

    It was the last week of October, 2015. Soccer season was winding down. November was right around the corner, bringing basketball and winter with it, leaving all traces of fall in the past. All we had was now.

    I remember the day clearly. October 28th. Wednesday. I remember waking up, nervous and excited. I could hardly eat breakfast. A million thoughts raced through my head.
Sep 29
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Don't Be Late

I step off the bus, my legs stiff. I stifle a yawn. My watch is buried in the bottom of my suitcase, rendering itself useless. I have no idea of the time. I rub my eyes, forcing myself to wake up. I can sleep later. I pull out the map he gave me. It’s wrinkled, faded, and torn, making the blue ink of his pen appear to be almost glowing on the page. He’s marked an intersection on the outskirts of the city. The street names are faded, but he specifically wrote the address on the back of the map, along with a note: Meet me on Providence and Redstone @ midnight. Don’t be late. I swallow hard, then head north, towards Providence. I’m in the worst part of town. The bus driver refused to bring me past the brink of the slums, dropping me off in the business district instead. The clock tower reads 11:22.
Sep 23
jessie.daigle's picture

A Place to Get Used To

I was bought from a small store in a small town in Northern Vermont. I was your average souvenir-y knicknack: a small stuffed moose. On my stomach was a green heart, bearing the letters VT. There were various sizes of moose like me. I was the smallest. The larger ones typically went first, so I was pleasantly surprised when I was taken from my spot on the shelf.

    A small girl picked me up and showed me to her mother. I smiled, wanting so badly to be taken home with this family. The mother was on her phone, chatting away with a friend, maybe. She doesn’t pay much attention to her daughter, just glancing at her and giving her a fake smile that doesn’t travel to her eyes. It makes me sad.

    The girl looks down, frowning. I half expect her to burst into tears, or start throwing a fit. Instead, she walks back to the shelf and sets me down. Now I feel like bursting into tears.

    I watch the girl, who is watching her mother. The girl sits on a bench, studying her mother. They have many similar features: the same long, brown, curly hair; the same shade of blue eyes; the same hooked nose. I wonder what the father looks like.

    After a few minutes, the girl gets bored and stands up. Her mother is still talking on the phone, paying no attention at all. The girl looks around the store, looks back at her mom, and then slips out the front door. Her mom is leaning over a jewelry case, marveling over the necklaces and rings and bracelets that she’ll never own. Her daughter is narrowly crossing the busy street.

I push myself forwards, using every ounce of stuffing inside me. I’m able to push myself off the shelf and fall onto a stack of bells. The mom jumps, and looks around, finally realizing that her daughter is gone.

“Rosie?” she calls, looking at me. I’ve managed to land pointing in the direction of the door. Rosie had already made it across the road and entered a different store. The mom threw her phone into her purse and rushed across the street. I can’t help but wonder if I’ll see either of them again. That thought makes me incredibly doleful.

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