there was an accident here
CAITLIN UPSHALL
I
There is a joke among authors that no one will ever find themselves on a plane during an emergency and yell out, “Is there a writer here?”
There is no string of prose that can replace an IV drip. Punctuation, while strong, does not supplant the need for chest compressions. We know this.
II
When I tell my mother that I need to switch my major to creative writing, I present her with a list of all the things that I could reasonably study. I underline CREATIVE WRITING four times. I tell her that marine biology doesn’t make sense because I’m not a strong swimmer. I don’t tell her that I skip biology class to write stories. She knows.
III
God has become too difficult to barter with, so I make deals with my characters. On my bad days, I promise not to give in to my depression until a story is finished. When the story is close to the end, I start a new one. When I can’t think of a new one, I read a poem that someone else has written and pretend they wrote it to me.
IV
The day of my violin recital, I am on the ground, knees scraping against the pavement, screaming, “Is there a doctor here?”
There is none and the medics are long minutes away, so I squeeze the motorcyclist's hand. I shout at him to keep his eyes open and focus on me. And he tries to keep his eyes open and focus on me between gasps and trembles. I think about the words that have kept me alive and what poems I could possibly give him.
V
I break through my writer’s block ten minutes before my wartime literature class. I email the professor and tell her that I will be using my one absence that day because I have to write. She replies that she understands and wishes me the best of luck. In class the next day, she glares at me. A lot.
VI
If the world were run by writers, there would be a handwritten poem at the intersection where it all happened. It would begin with, “there was an accident here and this is what came afterwards.”
VII
I include VIOLIN on the list of potential majors. Approaching the conversation as a business meeting, I carry with me a list of counterarguments against every major besides writing. I don’t tell my mom. She knows.
VIII
The motorcyclist survives. He becomes paralyzed from the shoulders down, something that no doctor could have prevented. This phrase is repeated on the news, as though we should all be blaming ourselves for underlining a different major. When I see his story on the news littered with poor prose and misshapen punctuation & interred with his casts and braces, I write a poem because I have to write and when I’m close to the end, I start a new one.
Caitlin Upshall was born and raised in Tacoma, WA. She holds a B.A. in English from Western Washington University, where she spent too much time literally getting lost in the woods. Her writing has been published in The Yellow Chair Review, The Sweet Tree Review, and Entropy. In her spare time, she enjoys writing music and reading peer-reviewed articles about the Great Emu War.