Nyssa Jo Wallace
Literary Memoir

When my brother and I first started going to Sunday school, I wanted to show everyone that I know the Bible stories. I don’t remember learning the Bible stories, but I know them. They’re forever written in my memory. After a few lessons, Ms K banned me from answering questions anymore because other kids need to answer.
Honestly, I’m fine with that. I can hold myself back.
But that means now, instead of paying attention, I’m bored.
Tristan and Sammy sit close by, whispering excitedly. Ocarina of Time just came out for the N64. Sam owns it. Tristan doesn’t. Sam wants to tell Tristan everything about it, and Tristan wants to learn everything.
The teacher yells at them regularly to pay attention. Ms K disdains Tristan openly; she thinks he’s a bad influence on Sam, the pastor’s youngest son. She also works at our daycare. She’s one of the workers you avoid. She’s always scolding him for little things, like playing on the computer too long or rocking back and forth on the couch. She never pays attention to me, even though I’m his older sister. Fine with me!
Today we’re learning about Moses. Or we’re suppose to be learning about Moses. We all know the story of Moses. Whispers come from Tristan and Sam. No surprise there. Two girls silently sit in anti-social solidarity. Another boy’s chin rests on his fists, not quite staring at the teacher. I sit by myself as I am the only 2nd grader. Everyone else is younger.
I flip to the morning scripture. I recently learned how to find bible verses. We don’t have to read in Sunday school class; Tristan’s grade is still learning how to. But I can read, so why not look through the thick book to avoid further boredom?
At the bottom of the page with the morning verse, I notice something… a list. And oddly formatted list. Like a poem. How the words are written in a strange way. Not straight and lined up, but curving around the page.
Cool.
And so I read it. The words are symbols strung together that must mean something to adults but not me. That doesn’t matter though. The way it waved back and forth across the thin column is mesmerizing.
But the words themselves don’t interest me. Just the way they flow on the page.
“Shut that Bible!” Ms K leans over me, slamming the book’s cover over. She picks it up to lay it on her desk, shut and out of reach. “Now, as I was saying…”
I don’t understand. I know the Moses story. I’m not talking to anyone? Why does it matter if I’m reading something else? It’s still the Bible. It’s still on topic.
Right?
Apparently, reading ahead for a class with no grades is not allowed.

Literary Memoir
by Nyssa Jo Wallace

I stand under the dropped ceiling, staring up at the little black, fuzzy creature hanging from the metal lattice. It sleeps with wings wrapped around itself, two long ears hanging down. They kinda reminded me of cat ears.
I want a cat. Recently, I told my parents I would get one as soon as I moved out. But that would be after college, and I still have three years left.
I set up the wooden step stool that resembles a mini ladder. I have one like it at home or at least used to. Not sure where it went. I walk up the stairs, plate and bowl in hand. Slap. The bowl covers the bat. Slowly, the plate slips between the ceiling and rim, nudging the bat off its perch. I feel it land in the bowl, bumping the sides of its makeshift cage to escape. I’d hate to be disturbed from my sleep like this, but I’m paid to do a job, and part of that job is bat removal.
Up the stairs to the ground floor, I use an elbow to push open the back door leading to the pastor’s yard, the keys attached to my belt loop jingling while I move. The summer sun had yet to turn the air into a muggy swelter. I take the bowl to a covered area of bushes and pine trees to deposit the bat. It sits there, sniffing around before using its wings to crawl further under the bush.
I leave it be and return to the church to begin the real chores.

By the time I get home, I smell like lemons and bleach, and all I want is a shower and nap.
The summer brings with it a break from school, and since I’m over the age of 18, Dad expects me to have a job. Luckily, Mom works two jobs, as a nurse at the local hospital and a custodian at our church. The pastor pays under that table, so I took over when summer break came. Sort of. Mom still helps out, mostly with cleaning the sanctuary that requires squeezing an over-sized vacuum between pews to reach the carpet. Today was bathroom day, when I scrub the toilets, sinks, and floors or the church’s four restrooms. The men’s room is always the worst as the younger boys try to use the lone urinal and miss half the time. Bathroom day is a me-only job.
I make about $70 a week. Dad thinks that will pay my college bills. It’s not even going to cover my meal plan.
Every Sunday, I see things I normally wouldn’t, but now I see it clearly. Any piece of trash, each dirty shoe, every dropped crumb I notice because I’m going to have to clean it.
It isn’t all bad. My favorite part of the job is counting the bats that have broken in during the night. It confuses me that the pastor never takes care of the ones in the hall outside his office. He always arrives before me. I think he’s scared of them, but I don’t understand why. They’re always asleep by morning.
Then again, that means I get to release them myself, giving me a bit of joy.
Keys rattle as I unlock the front door, pushing into it. I prop the door open to create a breeze. The keys hanging from my fingers continue to sing along with the charms on my bag, little video game characters in acrylic.
I trudge into the dining room, tossing the keys on the dining room table, skidding across the hardwood. I should walk them to the kitchen and hang them where they belong, but I’m tired. I can’t be bothered to walk the extra distance to the hooks when the stairs that lead to a warm shower and soft bed are closer.
My bag continues to jingle, as I kick off my sneakers, flicking them off my heels and under my designated chair in the dinning room. They should go where they belong, in a neat pile with everyone else’s. But I was never known to follow that rule, so I can’t blame my tiredness for that. I dump the bag onto the table.
My side continues to jingle.
I look to my side where the bag had been sitting for anything still hanging from my belt loop.
…
… … …
Why is there a cat in the house?
Did my parents leave the back door open? Did it wander in from outside? It can’t be a stray; it wears a collar.
I bend a knee. It looks up at me with light brown eyes. It doesn’t meow, but it purrs, bumping my outstretched hand.
He’s so soft.
It sinks in what has happened and I’m on the floor, petting the cat as he paces in front of me, directing my grasping, shaking hands. He jumps onto my knee, his tiny claws digging slightly through my jeans. I wrap my hands around him and bring him to my chest. With a small paw against my shoulder, he rubs his head against my cheek, purring intensely.
How could something so small purr so loudly?
It’s a half hour before the rest of my family comes home from their jobs. Mom is done at the hospital. Dad is done at the office. My brother is done at the factory. I’m still on the floor, holding the reverberating bundle of fur to my chest, him playing with my fingers.

Like many my age, my favorite holiday is Halloween. At this point, its cliché to love Halloween, but it won’t stop me from enjoying it. I love spooky things, and art inspires me, so I’ve gathered some of my favorite spooky paintings to show you.
Warning: this post contains art.
Trigger Warnings: depictions of death, bone, blood, body horror

Literary Memoir
​Nyssa Jo Wallace

I have three housemates. One is a boy my age. The other two are retired. We all share the same last name.
It’s midday during the work week when Dad asks, “Why do you think you’ve disappointed us?”
“Have you seen me?” I joke, propping my crossed leg against the Forester’s dashboard. It’s a common joke for me. Out of the two of us, I’m a much bigger mess than my brother.
“Nyssa I’m serious.”
I slumped down in the leather seat, watching familiar houses pass by. One more year to be in my 20s but I still live with my parents. And there is my mental health, diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder. Sometimes, I can’t be left alone for days at a time because I stop taking care of myself.
Usually, when I’m in a slump and I clearly look distressed, my father will ask “What’s wrong, sweetie?” and I will reply, “Everything.” He will roll his eyes, make some joke about how good my life actually is, and that will be the end of it. Now, he’s adapting to my avoidance.
“Does it ever embarrass you that I still live at home?”
“No,” he says. “Should it?”
“I don’t know.” I stare at the textured plastic of the door. “I am. Sometimes. I mean, I’m college educated and in my 20s but I still live at home with my parents. It’s kinda embarrassing.”
“Why’s that?”
He does that, questions things that should have obvious answers to see that his children think critically. One thing  he didn’t raise is cogs in a machine.
“I always figured I’d be on my own by now,” I reply. “That I would have a decent job and a house. Maybe not a husband and 2.5 kids, but at least out there, being a member of society. Instead… I’m just… here.”
It’s not that I don’t want to move out. I do. But on top of my depression, how am I supposed to move out? How can I afford it? I can’t hold down a job. When a future in a company looks promising, I’m laid off. Am I supposed to hold my breath and jump?
My friends did. Most of them moved out of their parents homes. Some have significant others. Most live in apartments. Some plan to buy a house.
Why can’t I be there?
“Is that what you think our expectations are?”
I look over at him. He lines up the car, preparing to back into our driveway. “Yes.”
“They aren’t.” He starts backing the car up.
“Oh.” I swivel my glance to the backup camera. Dad doesn’t use it, opting for the mirrors. I do that too, but I watch the monitor when in the passenger seat.
“My expectations for you is that you should be happy.”
Pinpricks form in the corner of my eyes as heat builds in the tip of my nose. My period is probably going to start soon. I stopped regulating it when I lost my health insurance. The screen on the dashboard gets blurry.
“I like having you around,” Dad continues. “Besides, it’s not like you mooch off me.”
“True.” I pay rent and my portion of groceries and utilities. I alternate cooking days with my mother. I vacuum and dust when needed. “Still…”
“I don’t see it as you living with your parents.” He presses the button that turns the engine off, the screen in front of me going blank. “It’s more like a Multi-Generational Household. We just happen to be related.”
I wipe the tears away. Yeah… I could work with that.

"If a writer wrote merely for his time, I would have to break my pen and throw it away." -Victor Hugo (1802-1885), author of works such as The Hunchback of Notre-Dame and Les Misérables.

"I was working on the proof of one of my poems all the morning, and took out a comma. In the afternoon I put it back again." -Oscar Wilde (1854-1900), author of works such as The Picture of Dorian Gray and The Importance of Being Earnest.

"A classic is classic not because it conforms to certain structural rules, or fits certain definitions (of which its author had quite probably never heard). It is classic because of a certain eternal and irrepressible freshness." -Edith Wharton (1862-1937), author of works such as The Age of Innocents.

"Literature is an occupation in which you have to keep proving your talent to people who have none." -Jules Renard (1864-1910)

​"No passion in the world is equal to the passion to alter someone else's draft." -H. G. Wells (1866-1946), author of works such as The Time Machine and War of the Worlds.

"A writer is a person for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people." -Thomas Mann (1875-1955), author of works such as The Magic Mountain and Doctor Faustus.

"Prose is architecture, not interior decoration." -Ernest Hemingway (1999-1961), author of works such as The Old Man and the Sea and For Whom the Bell Tolls.

"Writing is not necessarily something to be ashamed of, but do it in private and wash your hands afterwards." -Robert Heinlein (1907-1988), author of works such as Stranger in a Strange Land and Starship Troopers.

"You have to know how to accept rejection and reject acceptance." -Ray Bradbury (1920-2012), author of works such as Fahrenheit 451 and The Martian Chronicles.

"I believe more in the scissors than I do in the pencil." -Truman Capote (1924-1984), author of works such as Breakfast at Tiffany's.