I recently finished The House On Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros, my first assigned reading of the school year. It was a really interesting novel to discuss, and I wrote several vignettes of my own for the writing portion of the unit. 

Vignette 1:

When I was small, I bought a fake candle. She was made of real wax, but her flame was only plastic and an LED light. But she comforted me in the suffocating dark, and, most important of all, she understood my hunger for words in the dead of night. So she agreed, with a flicker of false flame, to light my illicit reading. So long as she could read too. It was the only way she could feel real, standing amongst the other true candles I was never allowed to light in my cluttered room. She devoured words because she could not find the words to describe how out of place she felt. But she did not understand that I loved her so much more than the real candles. Because she would never try to burn my pages or set aflame my precious words. Because she was a gentle being, who wouldn’t even if she could. My parents never understood this, I think. They would take her away when they found us reading together by her light, and not return her the next night. Those were the nights I read by the moon. But her light was cold and she was inconstant, tossing her long, impossibly dark hair over her shoulder to obscure herself. She never cared to read with me. But my candle did. Her light was warm and comforting and safe. She wouldn’t hide her light from me. Not by choice. One night, when we were giggling softly over a poem, she went out. And her batteries were replaced, but she was not. She didn’t recognize me. She was as cold and callous as the moon to me, and when my family moved, I left her behind. But at least I remember her. I think I always will.  

Vignette 2:

When you step in through the front door, your shoes joining the neat row of mine, you’ll notice the tiled walls. You’ll trace your hand along the colorful flowers hand painted on the smooth tiles and walk into the kitchen, lured in by a tantalizing smell. Pumpkin muffins are in the oven and an apple cider candle burns on the tabletop, which is set with a tastefully eclectic mix of plates and mugs picked up from my thrifting addiction. The chairs are the only things in the room that aren’t mismatched. They were my grandmother’s, then my mother’s, then mine. Made from walnut, they’re sturdy and comfortable. But before sitting in one, you catch a melody coming from…the attic? My house is small, but it is also old, and there is a secretive little staircase up to the loft. That is the room I am proudest of. It is just tall enough for me to stand comfortably, and so, you climb the stairs. Careful on the steps! I’ve tripped quite a few times, but you’ll get the hang of it, I have no doubt. The moment you open the small door, you’re transported to another land. The clouds on the ceiling twinkle with cleverly placed twinkle lights, and the book nook in the corner looks out over my garden, lush with ripe fruit. The room is dark with the oncoming dusk, but a small lantern hanging from the corner of the book nook fills the space with a warm glow. A plate of gingerbread, straight out of a medieval cookbook, is on the small table in the corner of the attic. You look around for the source of the music, and find a small record player in the corner, playing softly nostalgic jazz. Settling into the nook, you pull a book from the many custom-made shelves lining the walls. Ooh, Juniper and Thorn! One of my favorites. Such a perfect book for autumn. I’ll leave you to your reading. Stay for as long as you’d like. My door will always be open to you.