EMERGING & ESTABLISHED WRITERS & BOOKS
Chicagoland & International AUTHORS & BOOKS
Vigoré welcomes amateur and professional writers.
Authors & Books is a scheduled feature in Vigoré.
Writers (amateur and professional ) can submit non-published and published works for consideration to appear in Vigoré and highlighted in subsequent issues. For submissions visit www.vmagchicago.com
Chicagoland & International AUTHORS & BOOKS
Vigoré welcomes amateur and professional writers.
Authors & Books is a scheduled feature in Vigoré.
Writers (amateur and professional ) can submit non-published and published works for consideration to appear in Vigoré and highlighted in subsequent issues. For submissions visit www.vmagchicago.com
Three authors came forward to Vigoré. One author is a lady who writes fiction, the second author a middle aged man who writes nonfiction, and the third was an older wise man who writes science fiction. The first writer said the writings were like fiction because they were not all truth, because some of the concepts had not become a reality. The second writer said the writings are nonfiction because they are reality. The third writer said the writings are like science fiction because they are the future.
Tracing my fingertips along the plastic covering of a kitchen table, my eyes surveyed a sea of powdery grain. I sat at my grandmother’s side as she separated a bag of rice into two bowls, a large one for herself and a smaller one for me. Together we sifted through the rice, scanning for the discolored grains our fingers would eagerly pluck. Although I could not understand why, my grandmother stressed that this process was necessary to preparing any meal properly. While seated, we would talk about many things: music, cartoons, caribbean cuisines, and—undoubtedly my grandmother's favorite topic--hair. She reminisced of her younger days, describing both the pain and pride her long locks bestowed upon her. “You are my only granddaughter to have the beautiful curly hair that I once had; ”she would remind me, “always remember that what is on your head is special.” As I grew older, I found that my grandmother’s words proved themselves to be true: the charmingly chaotic, ferociously frizzy, and wondrously winded hair that breathed life upon my head would serve as the foundation of many fond memories within my life. Through all of its twists and turns, my love for my hair grew.
I discovered at a young age that managing my curly hair was a lot like singling out grains of rice: it was a long and painstaking process. Product usage, drying methods, sleep patterns, and even weather forecasts, were all powerful forces that dictated how the curls on my head fell. Ignoring these factors, I would often roll out of bed with a tangled mess and furiously pat down my hair with water in an attempt to tame it; this practice, however, quickly backfired in what is one of my favorite stories to tell.
One peaceful summer morning as I was rushing to head outside, my mother stopped me at the door. Motioning to the clusters of twisted coils that not-so-neatly framed my face, she suggested that I tie up my hair before heading out. Being around five years old, I naively believed that I would be fine and I attempted to assure her so. As I opened the door, my mother left me with one last thought; her exact words, of which I will never forget, were: “I hope you know, your hair looks like a bee’s nest.” I stepped outside and began to walk down the steps of my house, when suddenly I heard a violent buzzing directly in my ear. At first, I believed my mother’s words were simply manifesting themselves into my imagination, but, as I lowered my hands to touch my head, I knew. An actual bee was stuck in my hair. The buzzing noise was soon drowned out by my frightened screams and my mother quickly emerged from the front door. While I swung my arms above my head, my mother calmly unstrapped her shoe and instructed me to stand still. As she swatted my head with her sandal I realized two things: one, I was never going to disregard her words again, and two, I desperately needed to figure out how to control my hair.
In the months after this event, the unpredictability of my curls led me on numerous adventures in which I explored the many paths to managing them. Through these efforts, I recognized the true value and importance my curls held within my life. They became something more than just hair: they stood as a beautiful display of my culture and a powerful form of self expression. I then understood why my grandmother and I would carry out the meticulous process of singling out grains of rice. Any effort of love--big or small--could make something seemingly ordinary transform into something truly extraordinary.
In the night as I sit upon my bedroom floor carefully brushing the damp curls that lay atop my head, I am reminded the most of what they mean to me. Within the intimate moments of untangling each strand, I come face to face with the beautifully stubborn and erratic monstrosity that is my curly hair, and I know that I wouldn’t have it be any other way. Giving me stories to tell, lessons to learn from, and memories to forever cherish, I have come to love my hair for everything it is--bee’s nest and all.
Written By Nicole Pagan
I discovered at a young age that managing my curly hair was a lot like singling out grains of rice: it was a long and painstaking process. Product usage, drying methods, sleep patterns, and even weather forecasts, were all powerful forces that dictated how the curls on my head fell. Ignoring these factors, I would often roll out of bed with a tangled mess and furiously pat down my hair with water in an attempt to tame it; this practice, however, quickly backfired in what is one of my favorite stories to tell.
One peaceful summer morning as I was rushing to head outside, my mother stopped me at the door. Motioning to the clusters of twisted coils that not-so-neatly framed my face, she suggested that I tie up my hair before heading out. Being around five years old, I naively believed that I would be fine and I attempted to assure her so. As I opened the door, my mother left me with one last thought; her exact words, of which I will never forget, were: “I hope you know, your hair looks like a bee’s nest.” I stepped outside and began to walk down the steps of my house, when suddenly I heard a violent buzzing directly in my ear. At first, I believed my mother’s words were simply manifesting themselves into my imagination, but, as I lowered my hands to touch my head, I knew. An actual bee was stuck in my hair. The buzzing noise was soon drowned out by my frightened screams and my mother quickly emerged from the front door. While I swung my arms above my head, my mother calmly unstrapped her shoe and instructed me to stand still. As she swatted my head with her sandal I realized two things: one, I was never going to disregard her words again, and two, I desperately needed to figure out how to control my hair.
In the months after this event, the unpredictability of my curls led me on numerous adventures in which I explored the many paths to managing them. Through these efforts, I recognized the true value and importance my curls held within my life. They became something more than just hair: they stood as a beautiful display of my culture and a powerful form of self expression. I then understood why my grandmother and I would carry out the meticulous process of singling out grains of rice. Any effort of love--big or small--could make something seemingly ordinary transform into something truly extraordinary.
In the night as I sit upon my bedroom floor carefully brushing the damp curls that lay atop my head, I am reminded the most of what they mean to me. Within the intimate moments of untangling each strand, I come face to face with the beautifully stubborn and erratic monstrosity that is my curly hair, and I know that I wouldn’t have it be any other way. Giving me stories to tell, lessons to learn from, and memories to forever cherish, I have come to love my hair for everything it is--bee’s nest and all.
Written By Nicole Pagan
Placing the burden that was once mine to carry upon the shoulders of another, I prepared to speak the all-powerful words of condemnation that were feared amongst all who set foot in Butterfly Park: “Tag, you’re it.” As the words escaped from my lips I floated; free of my obligations, I ran with such a purpose that the world around me transformed into a watercolor painting. I found refuge behind the slabs of concrete barriers that surrounded the park and folded myself into the smallest shape I could imagine. Intently watching the flames of each new carrier grow, my heart swelled with a feeling of great fear that I would be discovered, and, soon enough, I was. I locked eyes with the playground’s common foe and my legs began to chase after one another, swiftly carrying my body across the canvas’ rugged terrain. Their efforts, however, proved to be in vain as my enemy closed the distance between us, ripping through each cloud with hungry, fiery eyes. Her outstretched talons grasped for my shoulder and I thought of nothing else other than escaping with the freedom I had--but as I felt a set of sharp nails engrave a dreaded fate across my back, my legs began to lose balance and I knew that the worst had befallen me. “Tag, you’re it.” My head violently kissed the concrete slab that jutted out before me and in a daze I brought myself to my feet. Attempting to assume my rightful role, I tried to move but I found that it was nearly impossible. Heavy drops of pain plummeted from above, seeping into the cracks of my skin and rippling throughout my bones; it was as if the burden of being “it” weighed down upon my soul. My classmates began to point at my face with twisted expressions of fear and as my first grade teacher ran to me in a panic, I noticed the deep red paint that fell down my face. Staring at my nose with a troubled look, she turned to her fellow colleagues and spoke. “Oh God, she broke it.”
I sat in the main office of my school with braided strands of paper towels adorning my nose. A cacophonous symphony of dial tones and anxiety-ridden reassurances of my mother’s arrival accompanied me, pulling at my ears and whispering down my spine. When she finally arrived, I noticed a dark wooden mask covered her face. In a curious way, it seemed familiar; it was shaped to capture her every feature beautifully and tied in such a way that I almost could not tell if it really was my mother’s true face. Delicately carved within the grooved textures of the wood was the faintest glimpse of complete terror in her eyes, however, with one blink the wood shifted--vanishing the look entirely. Gently grabbing me by the hand, she patted down my hair and spoke with a voice of pure tranquility. “She’ll be fine; don’t worry.” As we drove to the hospital I noticed the sticky beads of sap that formed upon my mother’s brow and how her hands nervously fidgeted amongst themselves; yet, all the while, she smiled softly down upon me--a silent promise that everything would be okay. Upon arriving to the hospital my mother was handed a clipboard and I, a bag of ice. Filling out the information that pertained to my visit, she asked me numerous questions about my injury. “On a scale of one to ten,” my mother began, “ten being the worst, how bad is the pain?” The pain was horrific; tiny needles stabbed at the bridge of my nose, tattooing an everlasting mark of agony that penetrated through my skull and set fire to my brain. It was unlike anything I had ever experienced before. The honest answer was a solid-lined seven, but, not wanting to make my mother worry, I responded with a wavered but thoughtful confidence. “A two.”
I sat in the main office of my school with braided strands of paper towels adorning my nose. A cacophonous symphony of dial tones and anxiety-ridden reassurances of my mother’s arrival accompanied me, pulling at my ears and whispering down my spine. When she finally arrived, I noticed a dark wooden mask covered her face. In a curious way, it seemed familiar; it was shaped to capture her every feature beautifully and tied in such a way that I almost could not tell if it really was my mother’s true face. Delicately carved within the grooved textures of the wood was the faintest glimpse of complete terror in her eyes, however, with one blink the wood shifted--vanishing the look entirely. Gently grabbing me by the hand, she patted down my hair and spoke with a voice of pure tranquility. “She’ll be fine; don’t worry.” As we drove to the hospital I noticed the sticky beads of sap that formed upon my mother’s brow and how her hands nervously fidgeted amongst themselves; yet, all the while, she smiled softly down upon me--a silent promise that everything would be okay. Upon arriving to the hospital my mother was handed a clipboard and I, a bag of ice. Filling out the information that pertained to my visit, she asked me numerous questions about my injury. “On a scale of one to ten,” my mother began, “ten being the worst, how bad is the pain?” The pain was horrific; tiny needles stabbed at the bridge of my nose, tattooing an everlasting mark of agony that penetrated through my skull and set fire to my brain. It was unlike anything I had ever experienced before. The honest answer was a solid-lined seven, but, not wanting to make my mother worry, I responded with a wavered but thoughtful confidence. “A two.”
I remember the process being somewhat exciting. I stepped on a scale, swallowed a pill, and, for the first time in my life, I saw stars. There beneath the surface of my skin was an electric ocean of sapphire, surging throughout my bones and illuminating my soul. Each wave told an ancient story that filled the crevices of my body with a vibrant light that I knew was not my own. Pointing to a cluster of constellations that glistened upon the greatest mountain within me, the doctor told my mother and I that I was extremely lucky. I had merely sustained a surface-level injury upon my nose. It was then that I witnessed the taut strings that held my mother’s wooden mask snap away, revealing a genuine smile and look of relief. The mask disappeared as it collided with the ground, leaving behind a hollow echo of dissonance as the earth swallowed it whole. My mother then brought me into her arms, running her fingertips along the roots of my hair and pressing her soft cheek against mine; a comforting warmth enveloped my spirit and calmed the storm that raged within my bones. As I closed my eyes, I heard a soft “thank you” whisper into the sky.
My mother decided that to commemorate my first visit to the hospital we would go to Build-A-Bear Workshop. As I excitedly picked out the perfect bear to take home, I proudly presented it to the woman who worked at the stuffing station. Undoubtedly noticing my blood-stained uniform, bandaged nose, and the heavy black moons that hung around my eyes, she smiled at me with a tender look. Delicately placing the heart of the bear in my hands she spoke, “Hold the heart close, spin around, and make a wish.” Placing the beating vessel atop my own, I began to spin with all of the strength I could muster. I thought of the best possible wish I could ever ask for and sealed it within the stuffed crimson shape. Mom, I wish to be as strong as you are.
Written By Nicole Pagan
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