This piece is by Amy Pechukas, a student at Juiceboxartists writing workshops.
The prompt was to write a piece about something you memorized in your youth.
The armchairs at the Pensione Seguso ooze dust and mold when you sit on them. Sometimes they squish slightly. They are made of old, brown leather and they smell like the canals that rise and fall outside the iron-grated windows of the sitting room. Every winter the bottom floor of this hotel floods and the armchairs never seem to lose some of that water. Even in the summer, the bottom floor of the Pensione Seguso feels and smells dank and dark like the bottom of a canal. In the tiny wooden desk in one corner of the room, there is a guest book that goes back many years, back to the first time we came here when I was four years old. Two of my mother’s students, Sam and Gibbs, artists, cartoonists and practical jokers, have a two-page entry from 1984 full of illustrations, one of a woman trying to eat Venetian bread and losing teeth and others that I don’t remember. I don’t remember Sam and Gibbs exactly, but I remember the feeling of them. READ MORE