KATIE WALKER

Fiction

Katie has scrawled her bio one too many times before and can’t possibly understand why others might want to read it unless conducting a social experiment, in which case Katie counts herself a less than prime subject. She is devoted to English and intrigued by all its facets. In school she currently attempts to complete her TESOL certificate, her pre-credential, to maintain her zealous passion for creative writing, all while endeavoring to scale indoor rock walls.  If you aim to captivate Katie’s literary interests, create works progressive and maybe even surreal. Your writing of course may be practical and cemented in whats ‘real,’ but life in and of itself is not one-dimensional. Employ texture and depth into your work by organic, original, characterization—or better yet!—have no characters whatsoever and focus us merely on your eerie setting depicted by heightened, harrowing sensations alone. Whichever masterpiece you choose to compose, let it be as Wordsworth said of poetry, (but not limited to) “the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings.”

Excerpt from "Electro Therapy and Peaches": 
Reading too many fictitious accounts from psychiatric patients had me convinced that while at South Plymouth, my mother was hard-pressed under the weighty whip of a slave-driving nurse. In reality she returned from their psyche unit as if it had been one of her quarterly home-and-garden shows. She moved about the house fresher than thinly sliced cucumber wheels and beamed brighter than the lemons on our back-yard tree. At times I myself even questioned whether her ‘stay,’ as she preferred to call it, had not been a very long pampering session at an all inclusive day-spa in lieu of the rehabilitating treatment she received at the mental ward.
One might think having a debilitating mental breakdown after so much major depression would enable oneself from wanting to hear the words, ‘ward’ or anything having to do with ‘psychiatric,’ but my mother didn’t seem to notice my delicacy in side-stepping such phrases; if anything, her submission to the ward and its care only seemed to liberate her exponentially. The treatment transformed her from one of those toy wooden ships that spends its entire life plugged inside a glass bottle to one whose cork has just loosened, allowing her to voyage away on the waters that gushed freely from her mouth in unrestraint confession—nothing that happened in the belly of those staunch, eggshell walls was secret.

 

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