Conversations With a Friend on a Starry Summer Night

This is my FINAL draft, along with comments that people left on it.

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Conversations with a Friend on a Starry Summer Night

Part I: Father and Son

When you were a boy in Turkiye, your father would pick you up, his great hands embracing yours, still young. He would wrap his fingers securely around your wrists and begin his tumultuous cycle, spinning in circles like a carousel, the world a blur surrounding you with his laughing face the only clarity before you.

“You,” your father encouraged, “are going to fly someday,” and you believed him.

Those days were always sunny. Because you lived close to the sea, you reveled in being able to run free, shoeless and shirtless, basking in the warmth, soil clinging to the soles of your feet. Your gaze never turned away from the clouds.

As you grew older and nobler, your line of sight shifted from the sky to the sea, and you grew quiet, inquisitive. When your father noticed, he asked, “What’s wrong?”

“I want to sail,” you replied, a visionary glaze coating your coffee eyes.

He stood beside you, his hand lightly squeezing your shoulder, overlooking the cerulean waves. “Then you will sail,” he affirmed.

He never twirled you around again, and you were perfectly fine with that.

Part II: Plumeria

When you were fifteen, your parents moved you to California and you had to put your shoes back on. Even though you lived within walking distance of the Pacific, the steaming asphalt scalded your feet and the water was dirty and the guffawing of seagulls frustrated you.

Once, you dared to lay your head to the ground to listen for a healthy, thrumming heartbeat below the surface. You began to notice how your soft breathing rustled the blades of grass, and when you blew harder they rocked like palm trees in a hurricane. For a moment, you were omnipotent, ferocious.

But then you closed your eyes. Took a deep breath. Listened.

Nothing.

The rush of traffic and the chattering of people on cell phones was all that reverberated in your ears. Everything was ragged and uneven and ugly.

“California is a death trap—an asthma attack!” you thundered, and you ripped a clump of grass out with your fist and sobbed until you were hoarse.

But one day, after you had become accustomed to the static and monochromatic concrete city, you witnessed a miracle. From the withering palm bush in your front yard, a dying creature you never deemed revivable, bloomed a kaleidoscope plumeria—

and you realized there was still Hope.

Part III: Kissed by the Sun

Your father used to pluck dandelions and rub them under your chin. Once, as he performed this ritual, as the petal’s playful nipping teeth tickled your neck, a grin broke across your face like a burning sunrise on the golden savanna. His eyes softened as he smiled and inquired,

“Do you love her, son?”

to which you responded, “I love the idea of her.”

It was May—a May of celebrating independence and growing your hair out and sleeping beneath a patchwork quilt on your back porch—the May the birds returned and you earned your sea legs. That was the May you held your head high, chin tilted toward the lens of your father’s camera, declaring, “I do not fear today nor tomorrow.”

That summer, your father set your bearings for Home, and the caress of Turkish sunshine on your skin was the same as in California.

Part IV: Rebirth of the Phoenix

Poised solitary, barefoot on the seaside cliff, you gazed toward the Mediterranean horizon. You plucked a wish flower from the ground and proclaimed, “My only real motivation in life is that everything has the potential to be beautiful,” before a tempest rushed from your lips, scattering the feather-fingered seeds like newborn spiders parachuting into the world.

Part V: Tenthousand Princes

Leaning nonchalantly against a light post, waiting for the traffic signal to flash to green, you suddenly panicked, throwing your hand up to your mouth, eyes darting back and forth suspiciously. It was too late though. I had seen it. You had coughed and a monarch had escaped your lips and fluttered away. “What just happened?” I asked, eyebrows arching, but you protested,

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” coyly wiggling your way out of the predicament.

But I understand. I know what you are composed of:

Ten thousand butterflies. Ten thousand princes of the soil and sun. Each unique. Each distinct from his brothers, but all singing joyously the same philosophy:

The Earth is my Mother; the Sky is my Father.

But the light turned green before I could say anything more, and you disappeared smiling into the crowds of phone-babblers and chit-chatters.

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1.) This piece was styled different with an awesome Part I-V system, I'm not sure if that was due to the prompt. Nonetheless, it was touching with its basis of a child's relationship with their father. Every line virtually paints a vivid image. This work had me entered into it with its diction, such lines as "you had become accustomed to the static and monochromatic concrete city". Also, it has a sense of mystery to it so that not everything you read-you quickly understand. The contrast of the two locations of California and Turkiye, shows the universal struggle people have when coming somewhere new. Also, the word choice is poetic and I really enjoyed the idea of having it divided into parts. This piece inspired me to write something similar; it also made me wish to rewrite my project into such a manner, but I hadn't thought of this formation before.

2.) I absolutely loved this story, although loved is abstract. It was special because of its cleaver imagery that made me think twice, also with its witty lines such as “do you love her” … “I love the idea of her.” When reading this, you have to be careful to read slowly because there is so much to take in at every sentence. The story coming together in the end was great because it ties everything in to the girl. I liked how the story started off with the background info of the writer, got more complex as the story progresses on his background info then all of a sudden there is happiness to where he lives now due to the glimpse of the girl. I found it interesting how the writer broke up the structure into parts with titles – it made the story seem like a written play

3.) I thought this was the best piece because it was written so eloquently, and it came across as a beautiful poem. I like the fact that it was written differently, and so it kept my attention throughout the piece. The descriptions that came from each stanza was rich in detail, which was interesting to read. This was a piece that I had to read more than once because it was not only interesting, but it made me think. I also wanted to read it more than once, so I could grasp the meanings it held. One line that resonated very well within the poem, was when she described kneeling, and crying within the grass. It brought a direct image to my mind. Overall I felt this poem was written in a very artistic way which made it interesting to read.

4.) Love it. Love how she wrote it, outside of the box, trying a new approach that no one else did. Loved how it was broken into different parts, made it easy to read and understand. Loved the lifetime it covered even with the tight word limit. Love the images that connected to each age, ex no shoes when younger, having to wear them once the boy grew. I loved all of the quotations in it especially, ““My only real motivation in life is that everything has the potential to be beautiful,” . The imagery throughout it was so beautiful. When it ended, I felt sad, like I had lost something. I don’t know a 100% what the author was trying to convey though.

5.) This entire piece breathes sunshine. From Turkish beaches to the very different California sun to Monarch butterflies, it’s a teleportation to someplace brighter. Along with the visual clarity is a very honest voice, the sensation of all laid bare. The aspects of magical realism and the vignette format are compelling together, letting the scenes flow like a daydream.