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Most recently published stories in Confessions.
French Lessons
French Lessons By E.H.Kupinsky My Mother has a friend who married a French man. She has two kids that can speak French. My Mother insists I take French lessons the Summer I turn 7. No one in my family speaks French. My Mother will drop me off three days a week, early in the morning, on the lawn leading to a bungalow on the California State University Northridge Campus. When I was in Kindergarten I convinced my new Best friend that our school Sucked, that our Teacher was Stupid, and we belonged in College. I swiped two Three ringed binders so we would look like College kids and together we ditched class to make our way to the University Art department where I felt certain I belonged. My Mother was still angry two years later. We stared at each other before I exited the car, her smiling, me silently annoyed at our unspoken inside joke about Kindergarten. She says, hand casually gesturing to all that awaits outside the car, “Go on, you like it here,remember?” I say nothing as I exit the car and walk myself to the bungalow as she drives away. I knock even though I know I have arrived too early. I sit on the lawn all alone feeling very small and tickle the palms of my hands on the grass waiting. I come to understand as I watch all the other kids arrive for this class, I am the youngest and the smallest. I hope for the millionth time, that my size will not make me a target for any bullies and my mouth will not get me into trouble. I am surprised to find that I like French and find it musical in my mouth. It’s incredibly satisfying to boldly mimic the Teacher’s accent loud and dramatically. After class, I watch my new cool older friends get picked up by loving parents. A week ago, my Mother took me to a Sandwich shop 3 blocks away from the CSUN campus on Reseda Boulevard and let me pick a sandwich. She spoke while I ate, informing me of her intentions and made me repeat her instructions back to confirm my understanding. It is to this sandwich shop that I must return, as it is now my new designated pick up point. She has given me exactly the amount of money required to eat the same sandwich while I wait for her for an incredibly long time. I don’t mind. I enjoy people watching and making up stories in my head: That old man is a widow and never stutters except when he admits to loving Soup and then produces a very large ornate spoon from his breast pocket. That tired lady keeps chickens like my Uncle but only for the eggs. She has named them all with funny German names and last night she walked outside barefoot to sing with them in the moonlight. I can’t help being the weird little kid high up on a barstool, legs dangling, staring at everyone while they eat. I have decided to like French almost as much as I like Roast beef sandwiches. One day, weeks later, the nice man who makes my beloved Roast beef sandwiches leans over the counter, sighs and says, “ I know what your Mother is doing and it’s not ok. You tell her I said so.”My heart sinks. I know he isn’t my babysitter and he resents my Mother trying to turn him into one. I eat what remains of my sandwich silently crying knowing I will probably never have the privilege of eating here again and going over the least offensive speech I will deliver to my Mother who will no doubt be furious. She yelled at me the whole way home, as usual, saying I must have done something wrong for him to so rudely ban me from returning. She had a way of seeing hidden meaning in everything. All of it resulting in me disappointing her along with the world conspiring against her. When it was finally time to show me off to her friend, She lied and said I was fluent in French. This friend of my Mother, kneeling in front of me, proceeded to ask a series of questions in French. I answered what my name was, where I lived, and who with. She spoke a bit faster and I found myself confused and unable to respond so I cried, offending and embarrassing my Mother. Slowly now, she repeated her question while I struggled to answer. My mother threw her hands up saying “I give up! There goes more money down the drain!”She stormed out of the room when I finally responded in French quietly, still crying, “I don’t understand because I only speak French a little bit.”
By Emily Kupinsky5 years ago in Confessions
Good Hands
I was supposed to be a ballerina. I was dancing at four. Seriously. As a backup my mother enrolled me in art lessons, also at four, also serious. I was, then, an only child. I was never very good with the pirouettes, but I loved drawing Humpty Dumpties. By the time I was eight I was pushing back on ballet class, but was happily drawing chalk designs on the sidewalk. At about this same time my maternal grandmother taught me to sew. We spent hours together sitting at her black Singer sewing machine, designing and stitching clothing for Madam Alexander and Tony dolls. (I am old.) At sixteen I reached the height of my ballet success as a Snowflake "understudy" in the Ballet West production of The Nutcracker. Yep, an understudy, after years and years of "under achievement" and self-inflicted foot pain. I neglected to mention that I am "thick" of body...not lithe, thin, willowly...or any of those words used to describe those who made up the actual Snowflake Corps de Ballet. I was an awkward cygnet who would not transform into a dancing swan ever. Anyway, at that same time, I was loving my high school art classes. OK, so here is what happened. I quit ballet. As it turned out, my hands worked so much better than my feet. If we had just figured that out earlier. I loved art. I loved craft.
By Vicki Bluth5 years ago in Confessions
Puppy Love
I have always been a dog lover. It’s something about those cute floppy ears & the way they wag their tail to signify just how much they love you. Their love is unconditional, & I’ve often found myself saying that we don’t deserve dogs. (Side note: it always confused me when men are referred to as dogs because the love & loyalty of dogs is unmatched).
By Stephy Ellsworth5 years ago in Confessions
Your Story is My Favourite Story
I’ve always felt my age to be an indescribably liminal thing. If I were to be completely unfiltered about it, I’d say it’s like I’m 5 and 60 years old at the same time: both pressed by the weight of responsibility and maturity of someone twice my age (my life required me to grow up pretty quickly) and then seemingly in the next breath or day dream a rambunctious hyper little kid that wants to do and be everything and seize all that life has to offer in one firestorm of a moment. Or one firestorm of a sentence.
By Ella Olga5 years ago in Confessions
Worthy Exhaustion
Pulling an all-nighter upholstering a chair and forcing my scissors to cut through napped fabric has left me with man hands this morning. I hold both of my thumbs up side by side. The left has a perfect curve. I rub my finger down my right thumb, hitting a hard dip. Is this my bone? I feel my left thumb again and compare it to my right. Pinching the skin and pulling... it's just callus. Goodness, I was starting to think I permanently deformed my thumb. I've never taken the time to look at my hands before, but today they are aching something fierce. This must be coming from years of choosing the hard plastic all-purpose scissors that cost $12.99 instead of the $50 shears with the comfortable grip.
By Alicia Acosta5 years ago in Confessions
Freedom in Happiness
I find freedom. In the process of collecting my aggression and frustration, processing it to the expression of choices I make while I produce something, relevant or irrelevant, the piece is simply the product of my identity. Creativity is a bridge to addressing the issue, capturing a feeling. In a state similar to what some refer to as “free-flowing” creative expression; swift, mindless cuts to a stencil and strokes of a brush. Still, with a balance of intricate and precise placement that I blame on a grip, that is usually choking my emotions. This is the basis.
By Nicolas Linsalata5 years ago in Confessions
Laughter is the best medicine.
Ever since I was a little girl. People would say. " You're funny." So I made it my mission to delight people with jokes, singing, laughter dance. I was enrolled in every dance class morning, noon and night. I had such a hard time in school paying attention. And it was not until my third grade teacher read my short comedic story about someone trying to finish a race and falling face first in the mud infront of the class that I realized I delighted in making others laugh. I knew that it was my calling. Finally I had done something right. Every since then I have delighted in the idea of writing a sketch comedy show. Every chance I get I work on it and I mention it to everyone in passing. I have not had a chance to create it in full just bits here and there. But when I write I am always surprised to see what comes out. I had heard that Beethoven channeled his music though dreams. I channel my improv through pretending to be characters with friends. And long walks to funk music. I am now twenty six. I have attended theatre school, sang at broadway workshops ( Shaking in my boots) I must add infront of broadway singers during the Newsies and Matilda tour, done Shakespeare and musicals, toured schools. But still I have not created my own show.
By Milan Shultz5 years ago in Confessions
That Time I Cheated
This has been more than twenty years in the making. I cheated, it was once, but it was big. My boyfriend and I had been dating off and on for years. He asked me to marry him when I was seventeen. I said no. As you can imagine we broke up after that.
By J.B. Miller5 years ago in Confessions
What Really Matters
My mother taught me the importance of a good pair of scissors. Our livelihood depended on them. Not long after my mom and dad met, my father bought a new set of golf clubs, which came with some scraggly-looking yarn club covers. He decided he could make better ones, and said to my mom, “these could make a good business. Sew me up one.” Of course, my father didn’t know how to sew.
By Echo Roben5 years ago in Confessions
